Ignatiev did not know how to cry, and so he smoked. The light glowed in tiny toy flashes of summer lightning. Ignatiev lay there, depressed, tasting tobacco bitterness and knowing that in it was truth. Bitterness, smoke, a tiny oasis of light in the dark—that was the world. On the other side of the wall the plumbing rumbled. His earthy, tired, dear wife slept under a torn blanket. White Valerik was restless—thin, sickly shoot, pathetic to the point of spasms—rash, glands, dark circles under his eyes. And somewhere in the city, in one of the brightly lit windows, unfaithful, unsteady, evasive Anastasia was drinking wine with someone else. Look at me… but she just laughs and looks away.
Ignatiev turned on his side. Depression moved closer to him and flung up her ghostly sleeve—a line of ships floated up. The sailors were drinking with the locals in taverns, the captain stayed late on the governor’s veranda (cigars, liqueurs, pet parrot), the watch man left his post for a cockfight and to see the bearded woman at the motley sideshow; the painters quietly untied themselves, a night breeze came up, and the old sailing ships, creaking, left the harbor for points unknown. Sick children, small, trusting boys, sleep soundly in their berths; they snuffle, holding a toy tight in their fists; the blankets slip off, the empty decks sway, the flock of ships sails with a soft splash into the impenetrable dark, and the pointed wake smooths out on the warm black surface.
Depression waves a sleeve and spreads out a boundless stony desert—hoarfrost shining on the cold rocky plain, stars frozen indifferently, the white moon indifferently drawing circles, the steadily stepping camel’s bridle jangling sadly, a rider drawing near, wrapped in chilled striped cloth of Bukhara. Who are you, rider? Why have you dropped your reins? Why have you wrapped up your face? Let me loosen your stiff fingers. What is this, rider, are you dead?… The rider’s mouth gapes, a bottomless pit; his hair is tangled, and deep sorrowful gutters have been etched in his cheeks by tears flowing for millennia.
A flutter of the sleeve. Anastasia, floating lights over a swamp. What was that slurp in the thicket? Don’t look back. A hot flower beckons you to step on the springy brown hummocks. A thin, impatient fog moves about, sometimes lying down, sometimes hanging over the kindly beckoning moss: the red flower floats, winking through the white clumps: come here, come here. One step—that’s not scary, is it? One more step— you’re not afraid, are you? Shaggy heads stand in the moss, smiling, winking. A noisy dawn. Don’t be afraid, the sun won’t rise. Don’t be afraid, we still have the fog. Step. Step. Step. Floating, laughing, the flower flashes. Don’t look back! I think I’ll get it. I do think I’ll get it. I will. Step.
“Oo-oo-oo,” came a groan from the next room. Ignatiev pushed through the door in a bound and rushed to the crib— what’s the matter, what is it? His tangled wife jumped up and they began jerking at Valerik’s sheets and blanket, getting in each other’s way. Just to do something, to act! The little white head tossed and turned in its sleep, muttered, ba-da-da, ba-da-da. Rapidly muttering, pushing them away with his hands; then he calmed down, turned, settled down—He went off into his dreams alone, without his mother, without me, down the narrow path under the pines.
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Another fever. I’ll sleep here.”
“I’ve already brought you a blanket. I’ll get you a pillow.”
“He’ll be like that till morning. Shut the door. If you want to eat, there are some cheese pastries.”
“I’m not hungry. Get some sleep.”
Depression was waiting, lying in the wide bed; moved over, made room for Ignatiev, embraced him, put her head on his chest, on the razed gardens, the dried-up seas, the ashen cities.
But not everything was killed: toward morning, when Ignatiev slept, Life came out of the dugouts; it pulled apart the burned logs and planted small seedlings: plastic primroses, cardboard oaks; hauled building blocks to erect temporary shelter, filled the seas with a watering can, cut pink bug-eyed crabs out of oilcloth, and with an ordinary pencil drew the dark, convoluted line of the surf.
After work, Ignatiev did not go straight home, but drank beer with a friend in a little cellar bar. He always hurried to get the best spot, in the corner, but rarely succeeded. And while he hurried, avoiding puddles, speeding up, patiently waiting for the roaring rivers of cars to pass, behind him, shuffled into the crowd of people, depression hurried; here and there, her flat, dull head appeared. There was no way he could get away from her, the doorman let her into the cellar bar, too, and Ignatiev was happy if his friend also came early. Old friend, schoolmate: he waved to him from afar, nodding, smiling gaptoothed; his thinning hair curled over his old, worn jacket. His children were grown. His wife had left him a long time ago and he didn’t want to remarry. Everything was just the opposite with Ignatiev. They met joyously and parted irritated, unhappy with each other, but the next time they started all over again. And when his friend, panting, made his way through the arguing tables, and nodded to Ignatiev, then deep in Ignatiev’s chest, in his solar plexus, Life raised its head and also nodded and waved.
They ordered beer and pretzels.
“I’m in despair,” Ignatiev said. “I’m desperate. I’m confused. It’s all so complicated. My wife is a saint. She quit her job, she spends all her time with Valerik. He’s sick, he’s sick all the time. His legs don’t work well. He’s just this tiny little candle stump. Barely burning. The doctors give him shots, he’s afraid. He screams. I can’t stand hearing him scream. The most important thing for him is home care and she kills herself. She’s killing herself. But I can’t go home. Depression. My wife won’t even look me in the eye. And what’s the point? Even if I read The Old Man and the Turnip to Valerik at bedtime, it’s still depressing. And it’s a lie; if a turnip is stuck in the ground, you can’t get it out. I know. Anastasia…. I call and call, she’s never home. And if she is home, what can we talk about? Valerik? Work?… It’s bad, you know, it gets me down. Every day I promise myself: tomorrow I’ll wake up a new man, I’ll perk up, I’ll forget Anastasia, make a pile of money, take Valerik down south—Redo the apartment, start jogging in the morning…
But at night, I’m depressed.”
“I don’t understand,” his friend would say. “What are you making this into such a big deal for? We all live pretty much the same way, what’s the problem? We all manage to live somehow.”
“You don’t understand. Right here”—Ignatiev pointed to his chest—“it’s alive, and it hurts.”
“You’re such a fool,” his friend said and picked his teeth with a wooden match. “It hurts because it’s alive. What did you expect?”
“I expected it not to hurt. It’s too hard for me. Believe it or not, I’m suffering. And my wife is suffering, and so is Valerik, and Anastasia must be suffering and that’s why she unplugs the phone. And we all torment one another.”
“You’re a fool. Just don’t suffer.” I cant.
“You’re a fool. Big deal, the world-class sufferer! You just don’t want to be hale and hearty, you don’t want to be master of your life.”