Unfortunately, I don’t know what happened to Lizzie’s drawings. They might have been burnt or handed over to her parents, or maybe they are still resting in that shrivelled bedside table by her bed. We kept the only one she forgot in our room; in the top right corner of it there is an inscription: “The Tawpies”. I guess Lizzie didn’t even manage to finish it, like all the other deeds in her life, but we thought it was the most beautiful thing we had ever seen. In effect, everything she did was beautiful and amazing… However, if you wish to live a long and peaceful life, you shouldn’t be like Lizzie.
2. ORDER NUMBERS_
A low minibus with a red cross on the door was waiting for us at the exit. A youngish woman with a ponderous face, an employee of the boarding school, accompanied us to the car. The sun rolled up over the horizon, foretelling a nice clear day, and swallows twittered their good-byes to us. A tall, middle-aged man with an inexpressive face was hanging about near the car. He was wearing trousers soiled with fuel oil and a leather jacket, although it was a warm September day. At the sight of us he gave a whistle and drew himself up to his full height. Very impressive he was.
“Blimey!” he exclaimed. “I saw all kinds of stuff here, but this is really something,” and spat on the ground amply, accidentally smearing his sleeve.
The employee accompanying us rapidly handed him some papers and a satchel with our belongings and uttered:
“You are going to have a really jolly trip. I personally could never get used to these two,” and she nodded towards us. “They are not so bad because they’re striplings, but when they grow up they will turn into haggish toads. So what time do you finish today?”
“First I’m gonna deliver ‘em to the address and then drop in to the repair shop; the suspension is kinda giving me pain again.”
“Well, should I wait for you today or not?” the broad-faced woman insisted.
“I guess you should,” he said uncertainly. “If I’ve got time, I’ll pick you up at seven and then we’re off to my place. So get prepared for a feat of arms, Stakhanovite (Stakhanovite – a worker of the socialism era achieving the highest labor productivity, the most effective use of equipment and overachievement of production plans in a Soviet-style workplace competition by overcoming of old technical norms and the existing design capacities).”
We stood nearby, literally a stone’s throw away from them, with a strange feeling that we were ghosts — neglected, abandoned, lost. At last the tall fellow in a shabby jacket gave a firm hug to his “army wife” with both his hands and, grabbing the curvy bottom of her back, finally dropped with significance:
“Well, wait, wait, maybe.”
The broad-faced woman gave us a last look and weakly waved, barely containing her disgust.
The fellow helped us to get into the back seat of the minibus, took the driver’s seat, and we hastily shot off, rushed outside the fencing as if we were running away from invisible pursuers.
For a while we rode in silence; we were afraid he was embarrassed, and he probably felt the same as us. However, he must have been suffering from the silence that had emerged, so he started asking us the kinds of questions that we were used to being asked. He took interest in virtually everything: where we were born, what we did in the boarding school, if we had gone to school before that, if we could swim and dance. But one thing that was bothering him the most was whether both of us or only one of us presumably had to obtain a driver’s license and how we would be able to drive if we got a license? “Who decides which one of you is going to push the throttle pedal and which one’s to pull the brake?” he exclaimed, shuddering with horror, but received no answer, after which he laughed kindly for no reason and changed the subject.
What a surprise it was for us to find out that our “lengthy” driver took more interest in science books than in his Stakhanovite. But it is what it is; people are inquisitive creatures. Hurrying to show his knowledge, he started talking hastily and disconnectedly about the fact that time is essentially relative, and passes with a different speed for different people; however, this difference is insignificant and therefore not so obvious. But there are exceptions. He scratched the back of his head thoughtfully and added: “I mean, my sister’s two years older than me but looks about ten years younger. So she gets older much more slowly than me. Dat is one heck of a thing, and you’re telling me ‘t can’t be true.” Actually we hadn’t said a word, but he was listening only to himself. Having blown his nose loudly on a sleeve of his jacket, he continued with excitement: “An’ let’s say if one of you suddenly started growin’ old much more swiftly than the other one, well, some twenty years later you wouldn’t be looking so much alike. An’ people watchin’ you would think dat one of you is a mother and the other one’s a daughter,” he concluded yawning expressively. I tried to imagine that, but the very thought of it made me shiver. Living with insuperable, individual differences would be a real nightmare to me. It only makes sense when we grow together and gain experience at the same time. But the big fellow quickly comforted us, “Don’t you worry, nothing of dat kind will probably happen to you. Not for everyone time’s speedin’ up dat much as for me. Actually, it’s a very big rarity. Besides, you have already had really tough luck, and lightning never strikes twice in the same place.” He spat again and smiled showing black and yellow teeth.
A really weird man, I have to admit, but I still liked him. All the way to the foster-home he was smiling, joking, trying to teach us how to drive, patiently explaining how we should hold a steering-wheel, and was being particularly well-wishing.
The road to the foster-home was passing through countryside. You could look out of the window, enthusiastically viewing herds of cows or old ladies with buckets drawing water from wells. I instantly perceived your tranquility and all the landscapes in your head arose in mine, too.
Our trip lasted for several hours. As we approached the foster home I became anxious and took you by the hand. Thoughts of our new dwelling frightened us, causing agitation because every time we knew for sure no one there would be glad to see us. Heavy rain with hail started and small pea-sized pieces of ice tapped on the windshield. Our lanky driver turned on screen-wipers. Soon a dim, lustrous light from the windows of an old, wooden hovel appeared ahead. As we approached, we saw a sleepy watchman who reluctantly looked out at the sight of our headlights. Without unnecessary questions he opened the gate, and we drove deep into an oak alley. In a minute, our voyage full of disturbing thoughts came to an end. We had arrived. The building of the foster home was exactly like I had imagined it: rather old, several storeys, white brick walls, grids on the ground-floor windows; and I also noticed several similar-looking buildings in the distance. The rain turned into a thin drizzle and the hail stopped. Our driver rummaged under a seat next to his, extracted an old, sloppy sheet and handed it to us.
“Well, perhaps you should cover yourself.”
A middle-aged woman in a white robe with folds on her neck, a huge bust and sadness in her eyes came out of the building and, after a breezy conversation with the driver, asked for our papers, which he gave her.
“Follow me,” she ordered in a monotonous, expressionless voice, glancing at our side without a shadow of curiosity. We flung a sheet on our shoulders, took our satchel and got out of the car.