Stories

The week of rain transformed into sunny days. Throughout this week, playful June had demonstrated its entire collection of rain; from gloomy drizzles to pouring thunderstorms. Finally, the last drop fell, and nature relaxed, just like a person after running.
Most important, finally, Dennis is riding to the park! In his hands is a cup full with strawberries, deeply sprinkled with sugar. The boy slowly takes his spoon and pulls out the red hearts out of the sweet snow. He chews each heart for a long time, to make the pleasure last longer.
Dennis is in a perfect mood, and he notices that everything that he rides past is also very happy. The last puddles are drying on the sidewalk and if you look into the distance, the pavement looks like a spotted, thick-skinned animal. The windows of the trolleys shatter, blind from the sun. Wasps circle around the sweet strawberries, and Dennis always has to shoo them away. And the people! Children play tag on the park alleys. A girl in a green dress, running from a fat boy in shorts, trips and, “Bam!” falls onto a flower bush. Her mother hurries to her, instantly losing a purple slipper, and with one bare foot flies over to her daughter. “Lida, did you hurt yourself?” Lida whimpers and clings to her mom’s leg. The woman returns for her slipper, and the small girl, forgetting about her injury, runs to join the game again. Mother sits onto a bench and reads a book, gazing at Lida’s game.
A small African-American rides in front of Dennis on his tricycle. His father whispers something to him, and he returns and stops next to Dennis.
“ Here!” He gives Dennis a chocolate cookie.
“ Here!” Dennis gives the boy a spoon with a huge strawberry.
Both are happy with their trade. The African-American keeps riding, so does Dennis. Their parents’ glance at each other, and as Dennis looks back, he sees how the boy’s father shakes his head and sighs.
“ Do you want some ice cream?” Dennis’s mom asks.
“ I haven’t finished with my strawberries yet,” Dennis replies. “Let’s ride to the carousel!”
The parents reluctantly agree. Dennis and them never agree here; the boy loves to watch the people riding on the carousel, and for some reason mom and dad do not. But it’s very interesting; first all the horses, deer, and tigers, with a small child sitting on each one, start slowly revolving. Then, they gain speed, turning into strips like those you cut out of paper. In the end, they freeze, waiting for new people to get on. And at this moment there are unwilling tears on Dennis’s face. He doesn’t know why. It seems like someone is sitting in his eyes and wringing a damp cloth from water. Maybe it's because of this that his parents don’t like carousels.
“ Airplane! Airplane!” the children cry. All the children lean their heads back and look at the white pencil in the sky.
“ Look at the marks it leaves!”
“ Wow, so straight!”
“ It’s going to fade now!”
“ Oh, it faded. That's so sad.”
No matter how long you take to eat something good, it still ends. The last strawberry is eaten, and the blue cup with white dots dives into mom’s purse.
“ Now I can eat ice cream!” states Dennis.
The ice cream is strawberry; nothing else will do today. The taste of this berry will never be displeasing; the boy doesn’t like anything more than strawberries!
It’s time to go home. No one wants to ride away from the aroma of flowers, from the buzzing of rides, from the happy faces. Sometimes there are those days when you feel like there are no bad things in life.
You won’t believe what kind of dreams come to you at night after a stroll like this. Of course, strawberry dreams! They’re very silly! It seems like Dennis’s heart hops out and rolls down the sidewalk. Dennis gets up- and runs after it! And suddenly it turns into the girl in the green dress, and he plays tag. And then it turns into a tricycle and Dennis rides on it. Then, it turns into a deer on the carousel, and then; can you imagine it? It turns into a real airplane with soft seats and a strawberry cocktail.

In the morning, Dennis talks about his dreams with mom, and she doesn’t smile. It even seems that a few small tears sparkle in her eyes as she washes his wheelchair. Maybe, inside mom, someone has also wringed out some damp towels.

I still remember his face. Sort of dark, with a beard, with a birthmark on the end of his nose. His eyes were deep, two small houses. I forgot the color. Can you believe it? I totally forgot the color of his eyes! Maybe, brown… A lot of time has passed.
I just remember a few fragments of my life with him. There are just four; spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Interesting, isn’t it?
April. Is it time yet? The first warmth is quick, with a feel of cold. The breeze tells me to run in a dress, without a coat, but then I’d get the flu. We go to the movies together. The movie is not good, and I don’t really understand it, but we like it. We sit together, he puts his arm around my shoulders. His beard smells of smoke and deodorant. I love these smells. I know that they’ll be with me for the rest of my life. I am not afraid to say that he was the only man who I still trust to this day. My love to him never faded over the years, it was never knocked out by time, my short marriage, and who I am today. His face, his hazel (definitely hazel!) eyes, his half circle beard. He is still loved!
July. Crimea. The sea lazily splashes the cliffs. We lay in the sun for hours, not even thinking about the problems the sun can cause. We feel safe. I turned into chocolate, and he could be easily confused with an African. We tease the lifeguards and swim past the permitted area. He taught me to swim last summer, but sometimes I’m tired. Then, I hold his shoulders and ride on him. It was simple. Nothing original. Now, the September rain is outside the window and I want warmth. But old love never fades! Believe me, believe me, believe me!
November. He took me to the place where he works. It’s very unusual and mysterious there. Papers, folders, everything well organized and numbered. Everything is silent, just the thrashing of paper. There was a rainstorm outside the window that day. You’re allowed to talk loudly, but no one does. He always jokes about something; I don’t remember what, but probably about everything in the world. We forgot the umbrella that day and got soaked. Mother blamed me and frowned. Right now, no one blames me for anything; less than a year ago she died of cancer. Now there are just two of us; me and that tanned face- there, in the past.
January. The forest. For New Years he gave me…skis! What was he thinking? I never in my life walked in skis. But he patiently taught me, and I learned. He was such a good teacher that I would agree to learn how to talk in Papuan from him. Maybe for a second I can envision his blue eyes (so they’re blue?), and his beard, and him yelling “Good girl!”
The rain is pouring. It washes away the birthmark on his nose, his beard, gray eyes… I am sitting at the edge of the sofa in a foreign room, next to me, my carefully shaved boyfriend naps. He’s nice, cares about me, he loves me, and I care about him, but he’s a stranger. And my old husband was a stranger. And even my mom sometimes used to be one. And my son doesn’t really think about me now. But he, he was always close to me. Always, understand? And he still is.

But I still don’t understand one thing; why didn’t he say good-bye? He went on a business trip and never returned. They talked it over with mom, not to tell me so I wouldn’t worry right away. After all, I was just thirteen years old. But, I forgave my father. A person must have something light in their life, even if it’s just a shadow from the sun on the wall…

Burying the woman you loved is easier in the winter. If Sveta had died in the spring or summer, then I wouldn’t have been able to handle it. But now, her soul has disappeared in this white, low masterpiece-- blended in with it. Nothing is blooming, nothing is green, nothing reminds her about the wonderfulness of life.
My mind is full of small details that I can’t really remember. They press against my eyes and heart. I cry.
…Swift, gray eyes wander around the room.
“ Oh, what’s this thingy?!” Sveta notices my souvenir on the desk. It is a colorful, rubber, squeaky parrot. She collected these childish things, I brought them back for her from every place imaginable. The parrot and I get quick kisses.
Here’s the grave. For her. Yurik squeezes my shoulder, Vera whispers, “Keep steady. Hold up.” They’re right, I can’t hold myself up right. I am weary, tired, helpless.
Except for the parrot, I can’t put any fragments together. Just moments.
She’s cooking bean soup. She puts on black, shiny dress shoes. I’m working at a table, she sneaks up and bites me on the ear… Finally! A whole episode of our life! The old record player. Strauss. “Artist’s Life”. Sveta and I waltz between the closet and crib, and our little son stares from the baby chair. Suddenly, he climbs out, stands next to me and repeats all my movements. Sveta stops, presses her body close to me (she’s wearing a light green robe with pictures of grape vines and purple slippers with little bells on them), we laugh, our son the loudest.
She died young. She always hated February, she shivered and was sad. So of course it all ended on February second for her.
…I’m kissing my wife on the forehead …
This is it. Three gravediggers, for whom dead Sveta is just a way to earn money, lower the coffin. I know that this isn’t the end. She’ll be waiting for me, there. But right now, that’s not making me feel any better. I’m saying good-bye only to a body, a small cloud. But oh, how I loved it.
It’s her. In the background is the pounding of the ground against the coffin, but it’s her. A small smile. Sturdy balls of breasts. I touch my lips to her shoulders and they tremble, like scared birds.
Small fragments again. She takes our son for a sled ride. She puts butter on bread. She frowns. She swings her beach bag with a picture of the sun on it and big letters that say “Evpatoria”.
Now, this is definitely it. A small hill. Flowers. A man-made sign that reads: Svetlana Selezneva. 9.04.1913 - 2.02.1992.
Two young ladies pass by: bright red nails with sparkles, purple lips, light coats. They stop. Read the sign. One of them says, “ Old woman didn’t live one year to eighty. Lucky.”
“Nah,” the other one smirks, ”We’ll die at 30 for sure.”
Yurik frowns, but I calm him down. They’ll leave soon enough. I sit down on a bench next to the neighboring grave and sob. No one tries to stop me. Everyone understands. Old woman? Wrinkled hands? Yurik and Vera’s wedding, granddaughter, milk porridge, and abandoned squeaky toys? No, no, I see it. Swift look, the wrinkles tighten around her eyes and lips. Sveta takes me by the hand and winks, “I haven’t cooked bean soup in such a long time, Boris!” You stupid women! She died young, my Sveta…she just hid herself from the February cold.
“Get up, Boris Pavlovich. You’ll get cold!”
“Dad, let’s go.”
But who is sitting on this cold bench? It’s not me. If it was, I wouldn’t be able to see Sveta. Young, in that green robe with grapevine print. She has her hand behind her back. “Boris, guess what I have?” I don’t know. Then, she triumphantly squeaks the rubber parrot in my ear.