As I came out of my hiding place, I thought that he had informed on Anastasia’s father with this face. That imparted strength in me. Coming here, I had feared that I would not be able to strike at the critical moment. That – in the literal sense – I could not raise my hand against him. Nothing of the sort. I took several steps in Zaretsky’s direction, sensed how nicely the statuette lay in my hand, and struck almost without swinging my arm. A dry, almost wooden, crack sounded. Zaretsky fell without turning. Without seeing me.
I leaned over him. He was lying on his back. His legs were bent at the knees and shaking very slightly. The sausage was sticking out of his unfastened trousers. Overcoming my disgust, I tore it off and tossed it into the Zhdanovka. Two ducks swam over to the splash. They watched the rippling circles with regret. And I seemed to switch off. Unhurried, I made my way up from the river and plodded off along the embankment, leaving Zaretsky amid the dirty snow and rocks.
I returned home. Anastasia and I drank tea and sat in armchairs in her room. The clock ticked; we stayed silent. It is good to stay silent to ticking. I began thinking everything that happened on the Zhdanovka was a dream. But time went on and Zaretsky was still not there. And then I realized it was not a dream. That it was the most genuine reality. Life. Or rather, death.
‘I wonder why Zaretsky’s not here,’ said Anastasia.
‘He’ll show up!’ I said, my voice cheery.
‘And what if he doesn’t?’
Anastasia smiled, barely noticeably.
If only she had known how much I hoped he would show up. Horrifying and bloodied, just so long as he came.
But he did not come.
Fire trucks started driving out on the field.
They’re lining up along one of the landing strips. Meaning that’s where they’ll land the unfortunate airplane.
A shot taken from a helicopter: a column of ambulances moving along the highway toward the airport. A half-kilometer behind is another column.
I suddenly thought: what an ancient name, ambulance. It was preserved among all the losses.
I decided to work on descriptions but turned on the TV for some reason. There’s live coverage about a plane from Munich. Now I feel on edge: Platosha could have easily ended up on it. Firemen are unwinding hoses on both sides of the landing strip. I think: those people sure do take risks! They might have to douse a burning plane.
I recall how little Platosha wanted to be a fireman, too. Danger had already captivated him back then and he was already crying then, thinking about these people’s tragicness and grandeur. About the struggle between life and death, where death takes on the contours of a blazing beam or a gunpowder magazine. Or an airplane coming in without its landing gear.
Ambulances are driving out on the landing field. Doctors get out of them; there are white stripes of lab coats under jackets they’ve thrown on. Just the sight of those stripes makes you feel faint because they remind you of the body’s suffering.
Some aviation expert is speaking on TV. He says they made a decision for a ‘belly landing’ so they’re preparing the strip now. The idle chatter of someone off-camera is irritating. If you’re so smart, then explain why the landing gear didn’t extend or – even better – make it so it does. If you can’t, then be quiet.
He’s quiet.
They show the plane. It’s already set a course for descent.
A close-up of the firemen. They’re watching where the plane should appear from, unable to look away. There are gleams on their faces, from the blinking lights. They raise the muzzles of their fire hoses on command. Foam begins spurting out of them.
Why are they showing all this?
I live with this recollection and it will remain with me until the end of my life. Inasmuch as the end might come soon, I suppose it will apparently remain after my death, too. All the events and all our recollections about them will meet there. If the soul is eternal, then I think everything connected with it will also be preserved: actions, events, and sensations. Perhaps in some other, withdrawn, form or maybe in a different sequence, but it will be preserved because I remember the inscription on the famous gate: God preserves all.
I touch my neighbor’s shoulder:
‘What do you suppose? The blow that I inflict on someone close to me – should it come before I ask forgiveness for it? Is that the sequence for these events?’
Faint surprise appears in his eyes.
‘How can they exist otherwise?’
‘Just now I thought that they can. Genuine repentance, after all, is a return to the condition before the sin, a sort of way to overcome time. The sin does not disappear, though, and it remains as a former sin and – you won’t believe this – as a relief because it was repented. It exists and is destroyed, simultaneously.’
My conversation partner places his hand over mine, which is lying on the armrest, and squeezes it firmly. There are tears in his eyes.
‘I didn’t understand a single word of what you said. But for some reason, it seems you are correct.’
The airplane has set a course to land. Innokenty, my friend, hold on.
‘Why is it you keep writing?’
‘I’m describing things, sensations. People. I write every day now, hoping to save them from oblivion.’
‘God’s world is too great to count on success with that.’
‘You know, if each person were to describe his own sliver of that world, even if it’s small… Although why, really, is it small? You can always find someone whose field of view is broad enough.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as an aviator’
What luck that Platosha’s not on that plane.
Take the statuette of Themis. It’s hard to imagine my childhood without her, she accompanied the most vivid moments. I didn’t yet know what sort of instrument I was preparing when I broke off her scales. But it turned out my childhood prank was part of a drama that unfolded years later on the bank of the Zhdanovka River. I want to say that there are no fundamental or nonfundamental events and everything is important and everything is put to use, whether for good or bad.
An artist drawing life in the minutest details understands that. No, he is not in a position to reflect certain things. When drawing a flowerbed in a southern city, he supposedly cannot convey the aroma of flowers on a July evening. And he cannot convey damp stuffiness after a rain, into which that aroma dissolves so you could drink it. But there is an amazing moment when a picture begins to smell fragrant. Because genuine art is an expression of the inexpressible, without which life is not complete. Striving for fullness of expression is striving for fullness of truth.
There is something that remains outside the bounds of words and paints. You know that it is there but you just cannot approach it: there is a depth there. You stand at the surf and realize you will need to walk differently in order to go further: you cannot rule out walking atop the water. Because, for example, when saying ‘my childhood,’ I am not explaining anything at all to my future daughter. In order to give her any notion of that at all, I will need to describe a thousand various details, otherwise she won’t understand what composed my happiness.
In that case, what awaits description? Well, of course there’s the wallpaper over the bed – I still remember its flowery pattern. My finger slides over it in the evening, in the minute before slumber. The clang of the chamber pot lid is as piercing as that of orchestral cymbals. Among sounds, a bed squeaking – at every move I make – is also memorable. A hand caresses its shiny cold railing, entwines with them, bestowing its warmth upon them. It slips down, groping at the folds of the linens and resting against the knee of my grandmother, who sits by the bed. I examine the chandelier and its spidery shadows. It is bright in the center of the ceiling but there is darkness in the corners. On the cabinet, Themis holds her scales, radiating justice. My grandmother is reading Robinson Crusoe.