“You come to me,” I replied.
I stood up in the bath, scattering foam from my hands on to the floor, and reached for the latch. Marysya stood by the door and looked at me with merry eyes.
For an hour we forgot about the puppies. I thought with surprise that we had been together for seven months, and every time — and we had probably done this several hundred times now — every time it was better than the last. Although the last time it seemed that it couldn’t be better.
What can this be? I thought, moving my hand across her back, which incredibly narrowed at the waist and merged into a white magnificence, just left by me. It was covered with pink spots, I had rumpled it so thoroughly.
My hand became limp, although a minute ago it had been firm, and had tenaciously, painfully clutched the cheekbones of my darling’s face — when I was behind her, I loved looking at her — and I turned her face towards me: to see what was there in her eyes, to look at her lips…
We were coming back from the shop almost two weeks later — we had probably buried them in our minds during this time, although we didn’t talk about it out loud — and they reappeared. The puppies, as though nothing had happened, flew out to meet us and immediately scratched up the beautiful legs of my darling and left traces of their cheerful paws on my beige jeans.
“Guys! You’re alive!” I shouted, lifting them all up in turn and looking into the puppies’ foolish eyes.
Last of all, I tried to take Grenlan into my arms, but as usual she immediately rolled on to her back, revealing her stomach, and puffed herself up either out of fear or happiness, or out of endless respect for us.
“Give them something!” Marysenka ordered.
I couldn’t give them raw, frozen dumplings, and so I opened the yoghurt, pouring the pink substance right on to the crumpled asphalt. They licked it all up and started running around us in circles, around Marysya and me, and every time they circled they rubbed their noses in the dark marks left by the yoghurt that had instantly vanished.
“Give them some more!” Marysya said, smiling with her eyes.
We fed the puppies four yoghurts and went home happily, talking about where the puppies had vanished for so long. We didn’t work it out, of course.
The puppies settled into our yard again.
Summer came to a full boil outside, steaming and trembling, and when we opened the window in the morning, we could call out to the puppies, who ran around in circles, unsure who was calling them, but very happy about the chicken bones that fell from the sky.
The days were important — every day. Nothing happened, but everything was very important. The lightness and weightlessness were so important and full that you could whip up enormous, heavy featherbeds out of them. Lively yelping could be heard outside the window every day.
“Maybe they were killed, suffocated, drowned… and they returned from the other world? So we wouldn’t be upset?” Marysenka said one night.
Her voice seemed to ring softly like a bell, and the words were so tangible that if you squinted in the darkness, you could probably see them fluttering, and falling lightly, swaying in the air. And the next day you could find them on books, or under the bed, or somewhere else — to the touch, they would probably resemble the wings of a dried-up insect, which would disintegrate as soon as you picked them up.
“Can you imagine?” she asked. “They came back to life, that’s it. Because we can’t be upset this summer. Because one like this is never going to happen again.”
I didn’t want to talk about it. And I reminded her how Belyak constantly tried to conquer Brovkin, and how Brovkin would easily knock him over, and run off, indifferent toward the conquered puppy, and would lie on the grass once more, majestically, like a lion cub, regarding his surroundings. And also, in a hurry to speak, I recalled Yaponka, her cunning fox-like eyes and unfathomable nature. Marysenka was silent.
Then I started talking about Grenlan, about how she piddled out of fear or happiness, although my darling knew about all of this and had seen it for herself, but she joined in with my stories, adding her tenderness and her carefree laughter — first one small colorful ribbon, then another, barely noticeable. And I kept talking, not even talking, but weaving… or paddling — paddling even faster with the oars, taking my darling away in a fragile boat… or perhaps not paddling, but pedaling, taking her away on a bicycle frame, pressed against me with her hot skin… in general, leaving behind all the things you return to, no matter what you do.
“Listen, we don’t have much money. We can earn some. The newspaper editor said that he wanted an interview with Valies. But I don’t have an interview.”
“But you did interview him?” Marysya looked at me.
“I told you that he…”
“Yes, yes, I remember… So what can we do? If we had some money, we could go out. We need money to go out. To get out of the house.”
We thought in silence.
“Ring Valies. Ask him: ‘What didn’t you like?’”
“No, I won’t do that. He’ll yell at me.”
“What didn’t he like?”
“I portrayed him as an angry person. A violator of the peace, of order… But he was just gossiping. Nasty old man.”
“What’s with you? Why are you talking like that?”
“He’s a nasty old man! He called everyone names, but won’t let me print it. What’s he go to lose? Just imagine the scandal!”
“You should just print it without asking.”
“No, that’s not right… Nasty old man.”
We fell silent again. I poured Marysenka some tea. Steam rose from the cup.
“Listen,” I said. “Why don’t you interview him?”
“I can’t. How do you interview someone? I’m afraid.”
“What are you afraid of? I’ll write you a list of questions. You’ll go and read them. And he’ll reply. Turn on the Dictaphone, and that’s it. And we’ll get some money.”
I was happy with this unexpected idea, and excitedly I began trying to convince Marysenka that she had to go visit Valies and interview him. And I persuaded her in the end.
She spent a long time preparing. She found some old brochure about Valies, and learnt it all by heart, and tirelessly repeated the questions I had written out for her, as if she were getting ready for an exam.
“What if he tells me to get lost?” Marysenka kept asking. “I don’t understand anything about the theater.”
“What do you mean? Unlike me you’ve actually been to one.”
“No, I don’t understand anything.”
“But journalists don’t understand anything at all. It’s accepted. And they write about everything. That’s the main thing in journalism — to have absolutely no idea about anything and express your opinions about everything.”
“No, that’s not right. Perhaps we should go to a few plays first?”
“Marysenka, you must be mad, that won’t pay off. Go to Valies right now. Go on, ring him now, before he dies, he’s an old man.”
“Listen, you stop it. I’ve got to get ready.”
She didn’t ring him until the next day, and made me go into the other room, so that I wouldn’t hear or see her talking on the phone, and wouldn’t make silly faces at her.
Valies agreed with dignity — Marysya told me how he replied to her on the phone, and together we reached the conclusion that he was agreeing “with dignity.” I saw her to Valies’ house and waited for her to return.
I imagined them sitting there, and him smoking… Or wasn’t he smoking? I couldn’t imagine anything further: I kept getting distracted by the thought of Marysya sitting in the chair, in her dark pants, and how when she reached for the Dictaphone that was sitting on the table, to turn the cassette over, her sweater would hike up a little, baring her back, and a scrap of her knickers would be visible, just a bit at the waistband… I didn’t have the strength to think any more, and went for a walk.