It’s good fortune that these cold and terrifying worlds of Yulbash and Leningrad are far from Yuzuf. They lie in roughly the same parts of the world as the shah bird Semrug, crafty and beautiful women called peri, fire-breathing azhdakha dragons, and the gluttonous giantess, Zhalmavyz.
Not long ago, Yuzuf saw a miracle. It happened one evening in early summer, just before supper, when Achkenazi asked him to take a dish of oatmeal stew to Ikonnikov. Since starting work on his agitational art, Ikonnikov often preferred to eat in his workplace, not taking a break from production. Yuzuf was rather afraid of the sullen artist, but he obediently took the dish from the cook and trudged off with it to the clubhouse. Diligently carrying the steaming bowl in both hands, Yuzuf pushed the door with his back, squeezed through the gap, shifted from one foot to the other in the darkness of the entrance, and finally ended up inside the clubhouse, which the light of the sunset was brightly illuminating.
The hot dish burned Yuzuf’s fingers and the very delicious smell of oats boiled soft was in his nose; the oatmeal even seemed to be made with meat broth and have some fat. He needed to complete his assignment quickly and go back to the kitchen for his own portion.
The artist’s stooped back was right by the window. Yuzuf was sniffling but Ikonnikov didn’t hear; he was standing somehow crookedly, as if he were leaning forward. Yuzuf approached closer and peered over his shoulder. In front of Ikonnikov, on a lopsided triangular little house that was somehow slapped together from beams (an easel, Ilya Petrovich would explain later) was a small square of canvas that was a hand and a half wide and just as tall. On the canvas was Leningrad, where a street as wide as the Angara flowed along an austere stone expanse between metal fences and houses that were silvery in the dawn haze, and then flew over the Neva as a lace-like green bridge and disappeared on the other shore; church cupolas were concealed in greenery like flower buds and occasional people hurrying somewhere. A wave was hitting against the embankment’s gray granite, and long-winged birds hovered over the river. There was a smell of fresh foliage, wet stones, and a large body of water. A shrieking “Ee! Ee!” was distinctly audible but Yuzuf didn’t understand if that was an Angara seagull shrieking outside the window or a Leningrad seagull on the canvas. This wasn’t a painting; it was a window into Leningrad. A miracle.
His fingers were suddenly burning unbearably. The dish banged onto the floor, the spoon bounced away and rolled, clinking, and the oats spattered everywhere. Yuzuf stood, his hands extended, fingertips scalded, his mouth wide open from fear, and his chilled heart beating in his belly. Rivulets of oat stew streamed along his bare knees and large shoes, tied with string at his ankles, then flowed through the floorboards to the ground beneath.
“Huh?” Ikonnikov took his brush from the canvas and turned around. His eyes were stern, his brows shaggy, and his pendulous profile menacing.
Yuzuf’s heart – completely panic-stricken from horror – jumped into his throat. He scampered away and clattered through the door.
At the dining hall, Achkenazi later ladled out a full adult portion for Yuzuf (“Eat, helper!”), but the stew wouldn’t go down his throat. Yuzuf attempted to sneak the dish outside and take it to the clubhouse, but the ubiquitous and grumpy Gorelov blocked his path and pulled painfully at his ear. “Where’re you headed, you louse? That’s not allowed!” He had to eat the whole thing, choking down the small, carefully boiled oats and not sensing the taste. If they’d served bread, Yuzuf would have been able to hide it behind his shirt and take it out, but there wasn’t any bread that day.
A couple of hours later – after biting his fingernails and lashing a switch at all the nettles behind the infirmary – Yuzuf went to the clubhouse to face up to what he’d done. He was ready, so let the mean artist scold or punish him.
It was already darkening. The door squeaked louder and the shadows on the clubhouse’s log walls were longer and more intricate. A yellow kerosene lamp burned in the window and the finished painting was drying on the easel. Ikonnikov himself wasn’t there.
Yuzuf took the lamp and walked right up to the canvas. Warm light streamed along the bold, gooey brushstrokes and delicate strands of various colors blended and swirled in each, none repeating – everything breathed and flowed in iridescent hues. Yuzuf gently touched the Neva with the tip of a burned finger. A small, round indentation remained on the river and a cool, dark blue spot on his finger.
“And so what do you see?” Ikonnikov had entered unnoticed and was standing in the doorway, observing.
Yuzuf shuddered and hurriedly placed the kerosene lamp in its place. Nabbed! And he couldn’t escape: Ikonnikov was right by the door and would catch him.
“I’m asking you: what do you see in the painting?”
“A river,” Yuzuf forced out, then corrected himself right away. “The Neva.”
“Well? What else?”
“Stone houses.”
“And?”
“An embankment. People. Trees. Seagulls. The dawn.”
“And?”
And? Yuzuf looked despondently at the canvas. There was nothing else there.
“Fine then, go,” said Ikonnikov. “I took the dishes to the kitchen myself.”
“My supper, I wanted to give it to you… Gorelov didn’t let me…”
“Go on, now.”
Ikonnikov took a brush and neatly smoothed the mark Yuzuf’s finger had left on the waves. His eyes were warming, as if they’d been heated by the sun rising over the Neva.
“I also see it’s not cold in Leningrad,” Yuzuf said from the door.
Ikonnikov didn’t turn.
It became a habit after that: first Yuzuf brought Ilya Petrovich’s lunches and suppers, then he began stopping in for no reason, to hang around the clubhouse for days at a time. He washed out brushes, scraped palettes, and even just sat, observing Ikonnikov at work.
Ikonnikov spent a large portion of his time high up, under the ceiling. Lying on the scaffolding, he would often stab the point of a homemade brush at the plywood, mumbling something under his breath. Sometimes he came down the steps, craned his neck, and ran around in circles to inspect his labors from the entrance, from the window, and from the center of the room. An excruciated expression would appear on his face, and his large, bony hands would scratch each other incessantly. After those inspections, Ilya Petrovich either grabbed a painting knife and frantically scraped off a piece of the mural (in moments like those, Yuzuf would sit quietly, taking refuge in the corner behind the easel) or purred with satisfaction and continued painting. Yuzuf didn’t have to hide then and could climb up the scaffolding to examine the painting more closely and even ask a question or two.