2014 альманах

Antonenko Anetta Director Calvaria Publishers anetta@calvaria.org skype: calvariaorg http://www.calvaria.org Phone/fax +38-044-486-03-30 mob: +380 66Â 988 40 85 12 ap., 32-B, Gogolivska str., Kyiv, UA-01054, Ukraine

ALMANAC Calvaria Publishers

Contemporary Ukrainian Writers

2014

Contents 2 2 4 6 9

Lyubko Deresh «Peacemaker» «A Curious Story Of Stefan Lange». Fragment (English) «Peacemaker». Fragment (English) «Saint Christopher». Fragment (English) «The Last Love of Asura Maharaj» Fragment (English)

13 «Songs of Love and Eternity» Fragment (English) Oksana Forostyna 17 «Duty Free» Fragment (French) Tymofiy Havryliv 21 «Go Out and Take It» 21 Fragment (French) 24 Fragment (German) 31 «Wo ist dein Haus, Odysseus?»

Fragment (German) Eugenia Kononenko 36 «Russian Theme» 36 Fragment (French) 39 Fragment (English) 43 «The Executor» 43 «Andriy Yarylo» (English) 49 «The Ghosts’ Graveyard» (English) Oleksandr Mykhed 54 «Pontyyizm» 54 «The blood» (English)

Lyubko DERESH «Peacemaker»

Calvaria Publishers, 2014 192p.

ISBN: 978-617-719-204-5

Fragment (English) novel «A CURIOUS STORY OF STEFAN LANGE» 8-12 pp.

So, von Liebig was a courteous person. In his lectures, however contentious the issue under debate might be, he always acted with decorum when speaking of his critics, noting their strengths and praising their achievements. This completely won over Stefan Lange, who was at the time a third year student in the languages department of the University of Vienna.

It was at this brilliant, fantastic lecture, which blew his mind, that Lange first heard the name of Sebastian Stuckenheisen. As a name, it did not sound particularly distinctive; it figured in a list of anomalies of modern linguistics. Speaking of cutting edge linguistics, von Liebig, as always, thought in broad, global terms. Subjecting to criticism the study of “pidgin languages” and empirical linguistics, he formulated several provocative topics at the interface of neurolinguistics and artificial intelligence languages. One of the students asked about the theory of innate human talent for languages. It concerned the physiology of the brain and quantum theory, genetics and the theory of universal grammar. Such a combination of disciplines caused Stefan to suffer mild despair in the face of the vast extent of his own ignorance. His

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Lyubko DERESH summary became less and less coherent, with a growing number of cross-references and exclamation marks.

Finally, the professor touched on marginalised aspects of the discipline that (nevertheless) were able to throw certain fundamental philosophical questions of linguistics into particularly sharp relief. Among other eccentrics, the professor referred to Sebastian Stuckenheisen, a Galician Ukrainian linguist of German descent, originally from Dukla (Łemkowszczyzna, in present-day Poland). Perhaps something in the professor’s tone of voice made Stefan feel elated; so in the summary he underscored this name twice. And that’s all there was to it.

Then, in his fifth year, when the time came to think about a doctoral topic (Stephen intended to become a post-graduate and pursue his research further), he decided that the authority of von Liebig was sufficiently weighty to justify choosing someone he had declared to be a marginal figure in linguistics. Why not consider the problems that have been formulated on the periphery of knowledge, if they still remained unsolved?

The supervisor approved his choice. Professor Celan had not read the work of Stuckenheisen; however he had often seen references to it. Given that the subject was virtually unexplored, both Lange and his professor found the proposed research topic very interesting. Lange began enthusiastically investigating materials on the subject, but then he encountered an unexpected disappointment; apart from a dozen references to works by Stuckenheisen (who was even mentioned by Bart and Lotman) he found no other material about this scholar. The Great Austro-Hungarian Encyclopaedia gave a succinct description, stating that the scholar was born in Galicia in 1903, and that he wrote two works based on 10 languages: Degenerative Grammar and Adam’s apple: the experience of reconstruction. Eight encounters with the truth. In vain he pestered academic libraries in Vienna — no trace of Stuckenheisen.

Instead of becoming discouraged from pursuing the chosen topic, as usually happened with Lange, he felt the excitement of the chase, or pursuit. Entering this rather uncharted territory, he followed in the footsteps of the greats: Chomsky, Ferdinand de Saussure and von Liebig. With his burning desire to discover the personality of Stuckenheisen, he resolved to write a letter to the leading figure who had actually inspired him to undertake this quest. The answer was brief. Von Liebig advised him to go to Lviv and carry out an investigation on the spot.

After receiving a grant for a six-month scholarship in Ukraine, Lange felt incredibly inspired. In his life, everything suddenly seemed to be in favour of this trip: his elder sister moved in with his mother, relieving Lange of his concerns about his mother’s health. His fiancée Andrea finally found a job, so now she was occupied from the morning till the evening. Finally, his supervisor praised his initiative at a meeting of the department, presenting Lange as an example for others. Lange, though he was not particularly ambitious, felt he was on a roll. So, having packed his travelling bag, he found a cheap flight to Lviv and soon afterwards, on one fine autumn day, he drew a deep breath of the humid air at Sknyliv airport.

Fortunately for him, the German Department in Lviv gave him assistance. They helped with his accommodation and gave him a brief introduction to the history and geography of Lviv. Lange had studied Russian for three years, and before leaving he

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Lyubko DERESH had made an effort to learn Ukrainian, so he could cope with the essentials of life on his own.

He found the first days of his research in the Stefanik Library in Lviv inspiring. He realised that he was on the right track. There were many more references to Stuckenheisen here. Amongst his discoveries there was a real gem — a biography of Sebastian Stuckenheisen written by his childhood friend, I. Chyzh-Vyshensky. The biography had been published recently in Lviv in an edition of 300 copies. Lange eagerly pounced on the material he had found, devouring the book in four hours spent in the reading room.

To say that this biography had made Lange a changed man would certainly be an exaggeration. But something had changed in his heart, and apparently changed it forever. Lange sat there, overcome by an inexplicable euphoria, looking now at the glass ceiling of the reading room, now out of the windows, unsure what to do: text Andrea to share his excitement with her, phone his supervisor or re-read Stuckenheisen’s biography. However, there was no reason to write or telephone — actually, there was nothing to share apart from the young researcher’s delight at having come across really interesting material.

So what! He seemed to have stumbled across an undeveloped gold mine. “Wow!” he just kept repeating to himself, as he turned the pages of the biography. “Wow!” Actually, Stefan Lange had not yet discovered anything extraordinary at all. A first encounter had taken place with the object of his research, and as one would expect of an emotional person like Lange, it had made the impression on him that one would expect.

Translated by Patrick John Corness

Fragment (English) novel «PEACEMAKER» 74-78 pp.

In the morning, waking up in the kitchen, he felt the necessity of repenting. He took hold of his computer and immersed himself in Facebook, sending dozens of messages asking for forgiveness. Without reading the astonished responses, he set about writing a message to Andrea.

“Dear Andrea. I’m sorry I couldn’t accompany you on this path of life. Sometimes people share their lives, sometimes they don’t, and only God knows why it happens. You have chosen your own path, and I will be happy if you meet your Unique man, who you could marry and have children with, that true Mr Right. I don’t hold it against you. I forgive you; forgive me too, if things were not as they should have been. With love, Stefan.”

Finally, he phoned his mother. He was not going to go into details; he just said Mum shouldn’t worry about him, that he was all right — he was better now. He had to admit he had been really ill lately. But all was well now; he had recovered.

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Lyubko DERESH In the evening Lange, feeling a strange need to move on from his former life by taking some decisive action, kindled a fire in the stove and began to stuff into it all the notes he had made during his research on the mysterious figure of Sebastian Stuckenheisen. He wanted to keep the portraits, at least. But something told him that he should cut himself off completely so as to be able to set sail for the open sea, as it were. It must be said that he had actually kept a portrait of Stuckenheisen taken with a deer, folded into four and placed in his breast pocket. Everything else was consigned to the flames and he steeled himself to say goodbye to all that he had still wanted to do but for which he hadn’t had the time.

It was getting dark when he left the house. It was thawing and that awful Lviv wet snow was falling, but Lange felt relieved. It was the best possible weather as far as he was concerned. Walking down the street, where Stuckenheisen used to walk with his friend Chyzh-Vyshensky, he saw that everything around him — the buildings, the streets, the cobblestones — as well as being illuminated by the street-lamps, glowed with a soft light of their own. Behind them, behind the familiar street-lamps, cobblestones and houses, like the reality behind a plausible dream, something new stood out — new yet at the same time also familiar. Lange felt joy rising in his heart like sparkling wine.

At the next turning he finally saw them — two gentlemen with canes, one tall, strong and broad-shouldered, the other silken-looking, with an almost childlike physique. A strange light emanated from them, as though the figures were bathed in gold. They moved majestically and easily, as though their feet barely touched the ground. They moved like promenading kings. The gentlemen spoke quietly to one another. It seemed that the foul weather did not affect them at all.

“Wait!” he called out to them.

Lange broke into a run, chasing after the gentlemen, but for some reason they moved faster than he did, so that they were always ahead of him. Lange pursued them.

“Just a moment, Mr. Stuckenheisen, Mr. Chyzh-Vyshensky!”

Finally, at a pedestrian crossing, Lange felt that unless he violated the highway code, the gentlemen would be lost in the crowd, and he would never catch up with them. He stepped into the road, and at this moment he saw Stuckenheisen and Chyzh-Vyshenskyy turn to look at him; when the one who called himself Stuckenheisen looked at him and smiled Lange heard somewhere the screech of a braking car somewhere in the distance, then a light, virtually ethereal impact. He was surprised to see himself lying in the middle of the road, with Stuckenheisen smiling, inviting him to move on. He saw that Stuckenheisen really was as Chyzh-Vyshensky had described him. His eyes were like two mountain lakes, his forehead was like the dawn, his face was like the moon, and his smile was like a rose in bloom.

“I thought that death was a dream, but I feel as if I am awaking” These were his last thoughts, such as might somehow still appear once more in this Apple of knowledge; all the rest went beyond the existence of Adam, beyond the realms of significance, denotation and reference, just as beyond any other boldest imaginations and assumptions.

That is in fact how the amazing story of Stefan Lange ended. It would be worth pointing out that its very existence is quite paradoxical in itself. Ostensibly narrated

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Lyubko DERESH

by Stefan Lange, a postgraduate student of the University of Vienna, this story is nevertheless not reproduced from any documents that could confirm its veracity. Some of its aspects seem far-fetched, others ideologically biased; others look like a provocation deserving to be condemned by the church. Many elements of the story arouse doubt and even suspicion. In particular, Stefan Lange’s last moments are described as if there existed (or still does?) some other (second or third?) observer through whose eyes the story was seen. But there is no physical evidence of the existence of such an observer, except perhaps the story itself. And yet this story is here and now; it exists in the mind of this concerned but fairly objective person. It remains a mystery who this mysterious observer is; however, we believe that every reader of this text, one of the only passages from the unique text of infinity, has enough time to find their own answer, which will bring complete, exceptional satisfaction and peace of mind.

Translated by Patrick John Corness

Fragment (English) novel «SAINT CHRISTOPHER» 116-120 pp.

Saint Christopher demonstrated numerous miracles to the glory of Christ, in particular the multiplication of loaves and the flowering of the rod; he converted loose women and he was resistant to white-hot copper. Today Saint Christopher is accorded by the Catholic church the status of a second-rate saint. However, contrary to the commonly held view, he was not decanonised. Saint Christopher is still the patron saint of truckers, ferrymen, storms, epileptics, travellers, horticulturalists and also windsurfers.

2 “Greetings, everyone. My name is Rodion Raskatov and I am 32. My work involves my favourite activity, windsurfing, which allows me to live just as I like. I live in a place I always dreamed of and I meet interesting people. Sorted! I love my girlfriend, I have a job that will always make me a living, because there will be no shortage of people wanting to surf at the speed of the wind.

Having entered this text under his Facebook photograph, Rodion Raskatov, 32 years of age, born in Odessa, sprawled in his armchair and blissfully lit a cigarette.

He smoked pensively, unhurriedly, as though meanwhile listening to his friend Kazik from southern Poland snoring in the next room. Four of them rented this Bedouin house — he, Kazik and two Egyptians who had decided to re-invent themselves by moving from Alexandria to Sinai. They replaced their snow-white kaftans with jeans, abandoned their Muslim orderliness, cultivated dreads and surfed all day long. This was the most important of all — the fact that windsurfing became the whole purpose of their lives.

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Lyubko DERESH And so, while the two Egyptians, Kamal and Ezzi, the one from Cairo and the other from Alexandria, were walking around with their surfboards somewhere by the lagoon, Rodion took the opportunity to do some writing. It was quiet round there — it was lunch time. The locals were all in the mosque; everyone in the downshifter slums was asleep or dozing somewhere cool, if there was anywhere cool round here, in July, on the very edge of Africa, in the holy month of Ramadan.

He had only recently taken up writing. Relatively recently — previously (it was embarrassing to mention it in the company of his friends) he had tried his hand at writing — occasionally some poetry, at other times some philosophical thoughts, but all this was invariably accompanied by such feelings of shame that he could not bring himself to share them with anyone. He did not even venture to read them to the girls he seduced in droves in Odessa or here in Dahabi. He decided against reading these.

Anyway, he didn’t need to — this handsome, muscular man with hair bleached to the colour of straw — to be embarrassed at reciting, er … poetry? Rodion looked at the plaque of his friend Vanya, who had come from Lubertsy to see him. It read, in the style of the inscription on a Jack Daniels whisky label, Vanya Kravtsoff. The skull and crossbones below the name confirmed that joking with Vanya Kravtsoff could have an unfortunate outcome. No wonder — Vanya was a professional all-in wrestler who had once been in a Lubertsy street gang and fought with Khachiks*. His gangster’s tattoos could form the basis for a research project on the topic of the vagaries of criminal gangs in the Moscow region. Vanya was not around just now. He and his brother Yegor had taken up Chinese Quigong martial arts gymnastics. Another Lubertsy heavy, Kolya Velikan (Big Kolya) had got them into this. Kolya was the local guru. He initiated beginners into Tao, sticking it to them that all the other rubbish was quite useless, and that all the normal guys got into Zen when they did acid. Now, in the low season, when all the tourists have left, when all the locals whose brains are not yet totally addled by smoking the weed have fled home to Russia, Ukraine, Germany and Canada, there is no work at all. During this lull, the surfers’ sails stayed dry. All the normal guys gathered at Kolya’s, smoking to summon up the wind. In the evening they would get going. The guys would make “eight pieces of brocade”, taking up the “great tree” position in order to absorb Tzy. At the moment they are passing the time with Kolya, telling anecdotes, drinking Bedouin herbal tea and slowly passing round an ‘old school’ joint -the torch model.

In this company, Rodion felt exhausted. Perhaps it was time for him to become more sedate, he thought. Perhaps he had by now grown out of those endless get-togethers where they all get high on pot and keep churning out the same old stories about their rowdy past. He already knew all these cock-and-bull stories off by heart and now he wanted a change. He and Alya might get married and have children. It was now three months since they had first met and Rodion felt that Alya was somehow special. She was a kind of ticket to a different future for him. Actually, this is what frightened him as well. What was it like out there?

He didn’t realise that yet. He had everything a lad from a working-class district could dream of. He was making what was by his reckoning an unbelievable stack of * Khachik is a term of ethnic abuse referring to Armenians and other Caucasian people.

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Lyubko DERESH money teaching people something he excelled at and which he loved more than anything else — windsurfing. He spent what his parents considered crazy sums of money on surfing. The board alone cost a grand, and it lasted, truth to tell, only for one season. An expensive form of sport, Raskatov totally agreed, and yet he could afford to spend the winter in Thailand, on Ko Samui. Then in spring he returned to Odessa to meet up with his mates and party for a couple of weeks, go off to somewhere like Cape Tarkhankut and spend several fun days there. He did not ask a great deal from life, just to be able to travel where he liked, to have good surfboards, to have something to eat and somewhere to sleep at night. He did not even need much in the way of clothes — in the places where he spent most of his life clothing requirements were down to a minimum.

Raskatov was a happy man, to be sure. Just to make this state of affairs absolutely permanent, he had retired with his laptop to set up a Facebook page. He had already started to receive friend invitations, some of which were from very congenial young people who were keen to tame the wind. Raskatov was over the moon with his way of life; he was in his element.

Finishing his Cleopatra cigarette (during Ramadan a curious state of affairs prevailed at the Dakhab stores — a virtual blockade — they stopped delivering Marlboroughs and LMs, leaving only one alternative — the appalling cigarettes akin to nuclear explosions, known to Bedouins as Gleeyubadras). Raskatov reclined on a wicker settee. What would he like? Perhaps to go to the local juice bar for some fresh fruit juice? Have a drink of concentrated guava, mango, or sugar cane juice — cheap, but cold and tasty.

Soon, perhaps in a week’s time, his girlfriend Alya would arrive, and then there would be no doubt as what they should do. Raskatov was disheartened that girls restricted him so much. With them things were complicated, yet it was impossible to be without them. Even Alya, his magical ticket to an unknown future… Why do I love you so much? he asked himself as he prepared to write her a letter.

At the mosque behind the neighbouring building an old crackly loudspeaker announced the end of lunchtime prayers.

Raskazov realised where he really wanted to go. He wanted to visit his new friend Artem.

Translated by Patrick John Corness

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Lyubko DERESH

Lyubko DERESH «The Last Love of Asura Maharaj»

Nora-Druk, 2013 226p.

ISBN: 978-617-688-018-9

Fragment (English) Dusk was falling in Manhattan, and the shop windows began lighting up. Lamps flickered, neon signs came to life and the streets were ablaze with fiery, demonic lights. Asura Maharaj, gently leading Dasha by the hand, studied the signs, looking for somewhere suitable to go for an evening snack and a serious conversation. “How do you feel about gnocchi? Or tartarella? What would you say to a lasagne with pine nuts?”

“It’s for you to choose today,” replied Dasha.

Asura Maharaj meticulously scanned the signboards outside the restaurants, weighing up Thai and Chinese cuisine, alternately coming across family pizzerias and traditional steak-houses.

Rejecting the idea of entering an Indian restaurant and giving up on Moroccan cuisine, he realized he would never find anything here that would convey the luxury and the atmosphere of the nether worlds.

Suddenly he heard the sound of a familiar language. It was a recording, most likely from a vinyl disc, of “Adonai Elohim El Shaddai”, sung tenderly, with a slightly crackly old man’s voice. It was in southern lands that they spoke this Prakrit. It was the speech of a nomadic people well versed in magic.

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Lyubko DERESH “Do you fancy Uncle Moses? he asked, spotting a sign in English and Hebrew. He wanted to share with her something tasty that might at least remotely resemble the cuisine of his (now former) home. Asura Maharaja hesitated whether to go to Uncle Moses for kosher fish or find some accommodating Koreans who could come up with a bit of dog-meat hoe from under the counter.

He was not satisfied with either the first or the second place. When he saw the gentle peachcoloured radiance of her face in the darkness, he could not contemplate kosher fish or dog-meat hoe. That remained somewhere in the tropical jungle of Patala, in crowded garden restaurants at night, full of voluptuous waitresses where you could hear the cries of exotic birds, but now this belonged to the past, as did Melissa, Datura , Belladonna, Astoria, Wisteria, Judith of Nowruz, Esther, Khorezm, Xiao, Yumi, Yukiko, Keiko, Ahyani, Surendra, Tamasika, Shoshopanshoko and Miktlantekutli, along with all those adorable nameless temple dancers who had left as many scars in his heart as if they had waved not peacock feathers as they danced but Brunei steel daggers.

The longer he talked with Dasha, the more brightly the light shone on her breasts, projecting one after another the images of his past. From time to time in the midst of their conversation, his pupils dilated: a sudden recollection had pierced his heart like a sharp splinter.

His heart ... Asura Maharaj thought that was the last place he should look during his short but turbulent life as a scholar and as someone with a zest for life. He lifted slightly the veil over what was hidden inside his chest, but immediately covered it up again. He was scared to look there, although he realised that now there was no turning back.

“Uncle Moses? I haven’t heard the name before.” ”I think you have to be determined, regardless of the outcome,” said Asura Maharaj and, trusting his instinct, he led her inside. *** Asura Maharaj ordered fish and a cheese pie.

“What would you like? Perhaps glazed tzimmes crock pot? Or steamed vegetables? Or maybe you would care for some short pastry?”

“I’ll just have a taste of yours, if you don’t mind,” said Dasha. “Please order me a glass of water.”

At Uncle Moses it was light and warm; soft music was playing. Asura Maharaj looked around. They were sitting on the terrace on the second floor. Down below, the waiters bustled about, the continually ringing bell at the door indicating that Uncle Moses was busy in the evenings. The yellow-painted walls were hung with blackand-white photographs, apparently of significant events in the life of the illustrious family that kept the restaurant.

Asura Maharaj looked around him — sitting on the terrace were ordinary Americans, such as he had become accustomed to by now. Dasha, leaning with folded arms on the table, gazed ahead.

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Lyubko DERESH The black lace of her sleeves spread over the white table-cloth. From it emanated a peaceful calm, a kind of heavenly sweetness giving off an aroma of warm milk and shining with an unprecedented gleam. ”Miss Dasha, I have no wish to try your patience or disturb you with my expectations. So I will tell you the reason for my so unexpected appearance in your life.

You are the woman of my dreams . When I first saw you, I realised that I wanted to change my whole life, and then the whole world. I know of nothing more powerful than my feelings when I look at you. The mere thought of what you are illuminates the darkest corners of my heart with the light of love. I do not want to think about my past, I do not want to think about the future, when I remember that you exist. For the past was deceitful, the future is false, and you are not present in either. I have no power over how much time I still have on this earth, but I swear I will serve you as your guide and support as long as I live. My darling, be my wife and the mother of my children. Reject all doubts; come with me aboard the vessel of family life and have no fear. I will protect you.

As Dasha listened to all this, her smile became softer, gentler, sweeter than the sweetest milk when it is warmed on a low heat.

She took off her glasses and put them down in front of him. When Asura Maharaj saw her unseeing eyes enveloped in a blue blindness, the love that overflowed in his heart made him want to cry.

“Your words come from the heart, I can feel it,” she said. “Tell me where you have come from, Asura Maharaj.”

“Miss Dasha, I would like to tell you nothing but the truth, but believe me, my truth is something very grave.”

“I am accustomed to shocks. Do not spare me, please.”

“You have so many good qualities, Miss Dasha, that I have never for a moment felt any pity for you. Well, if you want to know the truth, here it is. I was not born of a woman, as other people on Earth are, and until today I did not live here. I came here only for you. The universe is much more extensive than most people think. It is densely populated. Life is everywhere — in the volcanoes, in the depths of the ocean, on the sun, on the moon, on Pluto, even in places where it might seem that there is a pure void. Life forms are innumerable, Miss. There are intelligent forms of life, such as people, and less intelligent ones, such as animals. There are civilisations which leave all other intelligent forms of life far behind in their development. I come from one of those worlds. We call this community of highly developed nations the subterranean paradise of planets. Our culture is far in advance of that on Earth, and of any other culture, but on Earth, as a result of prejudice, the place where I come from is traditionally called hell.

Dasha bowed her head.

“I knew it. My grandma said the devil would come to court me.”

“Oh no, I am not the devil. Devils are manual workers, the proletariat. I was brought up in a decent family with good traditions. My father was a famous astrologer and mathematician and my mother was very knowledgeable in medicine. I was educated by the best teachers of the day, and until recently, until last night in fact, I held a secure post at a research institute. And you are my greatest scholarly discovery, miss.

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Lyubko DERESH Dasha listened to his words in silence, her blind eyes groping for him in vain, as it were, in the blue darkness. ”I can feel you watching me. You do not take your eyes off me ... Can I hold your hand, perhaps?

Asura Maharaj placed his hand on the table beside her. Dasha gently took it in her hand, and her face became contorted with pain, as if a thousand knives had been driven into her heart. She immediately tried to hide it, but another form of anguish was reflected in her face. Overcoming her suffering, Dasha tried to smile, and Asura Maharaj saw the most horrible picture of his life: as the blade of agony cut up her smile into tiny pieces.

“It is painful for you. Forgive me.” ”No, wait, I’m getting used to it now.” Her whole body gave a shudder, and a gasp of pain escaped her lips. “You ...” Dasha drew a deep breath and let go of his hand.

“You are a good man, Asura Maharaj.”

Translated by Patrick John Corness

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Lyubko DERESH

Lyubko DERESH «Songs of Love and Eternity»

Family Leisure Club 368p.

ISBN 978-966-14-6558-8

Fragment (English) So here I am, standing by a path near the large Buddhist tree. Everyone ties ribbons to it, for luck.

I could have stayed; couldn’t I? I could still be with him. The boor. The cheat. The waster. Although I know it’s wrong, it’s wrong to judge a man outright. He’s like a rolling stone, he gathers no moss. I know that there are no perfect men. In general, perfection only happens when I am able to see it for myself. So, sorry, I had to. Tie the ribbon into a braid.

Indian girls wearing heavy mascara. Rings in their noses, chain bracelets. They look at me and smile. They are probably thinking: what’s this stupid meddling white woman doing here? Hasn’t she got anything to worry about in that Central Europe of hers, or wherever she comes from? Oh no, they don’t think about things like that.

They are curious about my hair. Theirs is always pitch black, whereas mine is like straw.

“Miss, give me ten rupees!” the request wafts towards me over the sound of the music from the CD player.

“No rupees,” I say firmly, making my way closer to the tree, twisting in my hands a yellow ribbon. I feel pitiful and ridiculous. More ridiculous still, what the hell are you doing here alone among this chocolate-coloured Asia, with your hair hanging loose, wearing Indian trousers and a “Ukrainian Heritage” t-shirt.

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Lyubko DERESH With my iPod in my ears and true Rigveda mantras in it? Have you signed up as a Buddhist, or what? Funnily enough, I do not even think about it. I just can’t help laughing at how naively and despairingly I am approaching this tree to tie a ribbon to it and ask the dear Lord to send me my Mr. Right.

“Dear Lord” I say to myself in my mind, resting my head against the tree, “Dear Lord, send me a wonderful, handsome husband, created specially for me.”

Well, now that I am here, I’m tying a ribbon to a branch and lighting the incense; I’ll settle for nothing less than a prince.

Did I have to go through all that in order just to end up like this? No. Well, actually, if it is possible that I am now standing looking at this illuminated Indian tree, with ribbons hanging from it, then anything is possible. In the headphones they are playing mantras (true), some lad is offering for the third time to sell me a hundred grams of saffron (true) for a ridiculous five hundred rupees; in the whole town you are ‘yourself,’ and my phone is turned off and I can’t turn it back on — if this is possible perhaps anything at all is possible. True. Night-time offices. The Kyivan winter.

Kyiv — Delhi — Ladakh. A one-way ticket. And my Mantra, a peace formula derived from my days as a student of German philology: «dogen nicht biten” And a 100% friendly world, because all that is me.

And if anything is possible, then somewhere the shining white knight of my dreams must exist. Just as I imagine him. Isn’t that so? If everything exists, then so does he. For I am the one who is imagining what exists and what does not.

I sit down on a bench near the tree. A young Indian girl in white trousers and dark glasses. Will you have a cigarette, girl?

I will, I’m lighting up.

So where are my cheap hand-rolled fags? Room key, Indian Patanjali ayurvedic cream for my facial, a jar of saffron, bought three days ago (still can’t work out whether I need saffron or not) a pinch of hash, a papier-mâché rabbit for fifty rupees ...

Suddenly I’m surprised to realise that I can hear my mother tongue. Well, not my native language, actually, but Russian; still, I hear it. Young pilgrims to the tree. Muscovites, it seems. Downshifters. They are joined by a bald bearded man and a young woman with a baby. The people are talking to each other. I look at the bald bearded man; he seems familiar. The bald bearded man senses my gaze and he returns it.

Ah, I recognize that look. There are Bodhisattvas and adherents of Bodhimur. Like members of the Young Volunteers organisation, only Bodhi. It is becoming clear to me what this young family with a baby in a sling are doing here. There are journeys from which people do not return.

I wonder whether I should approach them or not. No, I won’t.

What if there’s a prince there? Mine? And I miss him. No, you have to plan the future, so your happiness cannot be squandered by default. The main thing is not to be bothered about the outcome.

When things started to collapse, I was overcome by a feeling that a treacherous hairline crack, like that in the dome of the Sistine Chapel, was running throughout my world. First of all my relationship with Andrij started to break down. The sluggish Kyiv autumn, the depressing breakfasts lacking a divine spark. I felt that I was

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Lyubko DERESH becoming more and more invisible to him and that finally he was ceasing to notice me at all. I tried to repair matters, because this was not supposed to happen; I didn’t imagine it would! I was certain I needed no one except Andrij, and that it was mutual.

I was ready to die for him. For us. But it turned out that he was not.

Everything was cracking and falling apart. You can stuff your common-law marriage, if at any time I can be kicked out. What kind of relationship is that — on trust?

What sort of ‘trust’ is that? Where is it now?

Then my job folded. A cool job, with good foreign capital, I liked my job. News is always dynamic and there is a feeling that you’re involved in something great. And then I go out with Alisa onto the balcony for a smoke, and she tells me: “I’m going to Goa, for a whole six months.” “Are you crazy, kid?” I said. She replied: “I’m going to be a Bollywood star. They pay fifteen bucks a day for a shoot. For fifteen bucks, she says, do you know how much grass, shrimps and papaya I can consume?” Alisa went, and I still thought how stupid she was. My priority is to sort things out with Andrij here. And then he comes and says, “That’s it! I can’t carry on.” And he left. I go to work with that taste in my mouth, not of tears, but of the valerian I have begun to drink in the evenings. I drank valerian, reading about the infinite compassion of Avalokiteshvara for all living creatures and I thought: I’m a dozy cow. A stupid cow that everybody whips. First they allow me to feel like shit, then they hire me on the cheap (what kindness they show towards this shit by picking her up!). And then, having exploited her, they just put her back where she was, on the ground, and carry on, washing their hands of her.

And then, one evening, as the streets are covered with snow and the stupid lights shine in the offices in the fading twilight, I go onto the same balcony where I stood with Alisa, light a cigarette and my thoughts begin to race. I think: what’s it all about? Is it in the name of some girly heroism that they’ll give me some award for it, a medal with a ribbon? Will anyone appreciate that I’m here until midnight, keeping my arse in jeans to prevent the boss pinching it all the time, that I keep working my socks off and sob over a crummy article that a friend asked me to help her with because she had to dash off home to her children and husband? I’m twenty-eight; I don’t have any children, or a husband either who could give me refuge. I have a job which creates the impression that I am involved in something great, which is about to speak to me, but has remained stubbornly silent for years. And I end up spending my evenings drinking valerian and realising that after one more year something will just burst in me and I will become a bit like a mannequin amongst the belongings of Mango and Bershka, with beautiful eyes, as empty as my life itself.

I had a big advantage: I did not have to justify myself to anyone. For women in general there is no point in attempting to justify themselves. Never, I believe. Women have it easier than men. They can just go out without saying a word to anyone. But then it is more difficult to get women committed to the funny farm — they are forgiven more readily. A woman can live here quietly, hoping for a warm, happy family life and then taking a break for a smoke during working hours, realising how hacked off she was, being stuck for ever in the back of beyond.

I finished my cigarette and told myself everything was possible, but just don’t get

15

Lyubko DERESH formatted. You are not a hard drive. What the hell, Lia? Here nobody means you any harm; you just want a good man. After all, you yourself know perfectly well what you want. Kyiv — Delhi. Delhi — Ladakh. To eat chapatis. To drink Indian lemonade. To reach the source of the Ganges.

A sad-looking Indian dog approaches me, probably an enlightened one. He wags his tail and asks for ten rupees.

“Fuck off — no chance,” I tell him, scratching the dog behind the ear..

“Dogen nicht biten,” I think; I get up from the bench and approach the young people from our part of the world. My prince is among them somewhere, my prince.

Or not among them, but somewhere — he just does exist. My prince.

“Namaste! My name is Lia, I’m from Kyiv. Where are you from?

Translated by Patrick John Corness

Oksana FOROCTYNA «Duty Free»

Calvaria Publishers, 2014 193p.

ISBN: 978-617-719-206-9

Fragment (French) 1999, septembre À Lviv, avoir une tête connue était bien utile vis-à-vis de la clientèle. À ceux qui achetaient des appartements dans des immeubles anciens, Wanda présentait ses amis restaurateurs, en qualité de consultants / sous-traitants (ou consultants / soushommes, c’est selon). Si le contact avec les clients passait pas trop mal, s’ils avaient de l’argent et qu'ils n’étaient pas trop primaires, elle essayait aussi de leur refourguer pour leur nouvel appartement ses amis artistes peintres (ce qui lui rapportait une petite, mais assez confortable commission par les temps qui couraient). Les plus excentriques leur commandaient même des fresques. Bien que les véritables excentriques achetassent des villas et fissent venir des designers d’Italie : ils devaient, à la demande des propriétaires, transformer ces modestes hôtels particuliers des gynécologues d’avant-guerre en une version miniature de Palazzo Ducale. Ils agrémentaient les vieilles villas de véritables merveilles : étoiles au plafond, marbre et dorures dans les salles de bain, chandeliers et baldaquins, armures de chevalier et sabres de samouraï, ours et faucons empaillés, diplômes imaginaires d’université américaine sous verre, médailles, récompenses, lettres de noblesse, miroirs aux cad-

17

Oksana FOROSTYNA res monumentaux, sculptures d'antiques divinités, icônes russes et fontaines chinoises d'intérieur.

Un de ces palais, en l’occurrence celui d’un nouvel arrivant de Dnipropetrovsk ayant l’intention de s’établir à Lviv pour se consacrer à « l’import-export et quelques projets à la frontière polonaise en tant... qu’expert », manquait de peintures.

— T’as déjà fait l’amour dans un lit à vingt mille dollars ?

— Non, répondit Wanda en toute sincérité.

— Voilà… du cerisier, fait sur mesure… L’expert en coopération transfrontalière caressait amoureusement le dossier en cerisier. — Ils ont l’air un peu naze…

L’expert était en train de scruter des poissons préhistoriques dans un grand aquarium. Au-dessus étaient posées quelques grosses piles du journal « Business ».

— Ils sautent dehors, ces monstres ! — répondit le propriétaire au regard interrogateur de Wanda. — Sur les invités, ha-ha-ha ! Je plaisante. Non, mais sérieusement, quand on leur donne à bouffer, ils se mettent à sauter, alors faut faire gaffe à ses doigts.

— Et comment vous les nourrissez ?

— C’est bien ça le problème, il leur faut de vrais poissons, ce sont des carnivores quand même. Mon chauffeur allait dans une animalerie, mais quand ils ont pigé que c’était pour en faire de la bouffe, ils ont refusé. Maintenant, on achète du veau au marché… Donc, regarde par ici : ici et là il faut accrocher quelque chose. Un truc qui aille bien avec le reste. « Avec le reste » allait bien la peinture d’Hansel et Gretel. Une semaine plus tard, dans leur atelier, l’expert examinait quelques œuvres : il en fit le tour et, après évaluation, arrêta son choix sur deux huiles sur toile représentant le quartier historique de Stare Znesinnia tout de cuivre et de verdures.

— C’est un exemplaire unique ? — demanda l’expert en se mettant à transpirer.

— Bah oui… — Hansel était un brin désarçonné par la question.

— Sûr ? — l’expert s’assombrit et souffla de nouveau, cette fois, parce qu’il tentait, le menton contre sa poitrine, d’allumer une cigarette avec son briquet en or, suspendu sur une chaînette en or un peu trop courte.

— Bien évidemment… tout est en exemplaire unique, à l’exception des eauxfortes, bien entendu.

La précision avait semé le doute, ce qui n’était pas du goût de l’expert.

— Tu comprends, je m’en fous de l’argent, je peux t’en ajouter s’il le faut. Mais tu dois comprendre, il me faut une exclusivité !

Hansel qui n’avait toujours pas capté, essaya de suivre sa pensée.

— Fais gaffe, mec, si j’apprends que t’as fait la même chose à quelqu’un d’autre… ou même quelque chose d’approchant…, écoute bien, mec, je te retrouverai !

Hansel et Gretel restèrent figés sur le canapé, une expression polie au visage. Les bijoux de Gretel se mirent à tinter. Wanda voulut disparaître sous terre, non sans avoir embarqué l’expert.

— Donc, tu me donnes celle-ci et celle-là. Tu m’a compris, n’est-ce pas ?

Pour la première fois de son existence, Wanda commençait à bien gagner sa vie.

Quelque temps après, elle commença même à dégager des marges confortables, et se mit à croire qu’elle ne revivrait plus jamais l’humiliation d’emprunter de l’argent

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Oksana FOROSTYNA à ses parents (question d’autant plus douloureuse que leurs salaires de l’université et de la bibliothèque étaient modestes) ou bien, ce qui était encore plus humiliant, qu’elle ne devrait plus emprunter par l’intermédiaire de son mari, à son beau-père, haut fonctionnaire local au salaire bien plus important, mais qu’avaient piqué plus d’une fois les reproches de son entourage au sujet des pitreries radiophoniques de Wanda et son indifférence affichée pour la cause patriotique et la construction de l’État. Il y avait aussi la solution presque désespérée auprès d’amis désargentés, sans parler d’aller mettre au clou ses bijoux, ou bien encore, vendre aux bouquinistes ses incunables. La radio lui manquait, elle était irritée par les rendez-vous professionnels et les répétitions qui tombaient en même temps, mais la vie s’organisait petit à petit. Elle commençait à l’apprécier. Son seul regret était qu’Eliga s’était éloigné.

Peut-être qu’elle s’était trop habituée à sa fidélité de chien et son admiration, mais il vivait ici depuis suffisamment longtemps pour ne pas perdre cette candeur qui lui plaisait tant à leurs débuts. Plus il gagnait en assurance, moins sûre d’elle était Wanda, qui se sentait même moins désirable. Elle savait qu’il menait sa vie de son côté, qu’il avait de nouveaux amis, qu’il était devenu plus critique à l’égard de ce qu’elle faisait, et qu’il commençait même à contester ses choix politiques. Cependant, il continuait toujours à l’écouter avec attention, encore que cette attention n’eût peutêtre été que la conséquence d’une insuffisante connaissance de la langue. Il exigeait toujours plus d’attention, et un jour lui demanda même d’emménager chez lui, rue Lytchakivska, soulevant ainsi la question qu’ils n’avaient pas abordée depuis leur première rencontre. Tenant ses poignets, il racontait quelque chose sur la liberté et la vie devant soi. Wanda était tellement surprise qu’elle demanda quelques jours de réflexions, tout en sachant déjà qu’elle ne s’y risquerait jamais.

Pendant ce temps, Eliga s’était rapproché du milieu des expats qui travaillaient à Lviv. D’ailleurs, «milieu» est probablement un mot un peu fort : il s’agissait en réalité d’un groupe d’une dizaine de jeunes gens qui s’étaient retrouvés on ne sait par quel miracle à cet endroit. Ils se réunissaient chaque vendredi dans un bar de la place Rynok, puis ils en choisissaient un autre, puis allaient aux « Poupées » et enfin, les plus aguerris continuaient dans un autre club. Chemin faisant, les hommes prenaient congé, avec plus au moins de succès, une habitante de souche à leur bras.

Autrement dit, ils profitaient de la vie, comme le faisaient leurs collègues en Europe de l’Est, depuis dix ans environ. La compagnie comportait toujours deux ou trois autochtones. Les jeunes hommes en constituaient la minorité et étaient plutôt doués, réservés et abordaient des sujets généraux, comme les perspectives de la démocratie en Ukraine ou les sortes de bières.

— There is no democracy here, disait une Canadienne à l’allure sportive, en direction d’Eliga. Elle étudiait le système électoral ukrainien. — No democracy… Ne-ma demokrati-i, avait-elle répété on ne sait pourquoi en ukrainien. Probablement pour qu’Eliga comprenne dans quel merdier se trouvait la démocratie dans ce pays. La Canadienne devait s’envoler chez elle peu de temps après, et plaisantait dans un excès de mélancolie, au sujet de sa maman qui n’avait toujours pas réussi à localiser, sur une carte, l’endroit où s’était retrouvée la chair de sa chair.

Les femmes de Lviv qui ornaient la compagnie, étaient divisées en deux grands groupes. Dans la minorité riche en sous-groupes, on trouvait des femmes un peu plus

19

Oksana FOROSTYNA âgées, du style de Fée (elle venait de temps en temps à ces agapes, mais ne restait jamais bien longtemps), femmes qui travaillaient plus ou moins avec ces Américains-Canadiens-Allemands-Hollandais, ou bien étaient obligées de s’occuper d’eux, pour traduire ou bien aider les amis de leurs amis, ou bien pour s’amuser un peu tout simplement dans cette nouvelle compagnie, en se souvenant avec nostalgie de leurs stages-études-missions-bourses. La composante masculine de la soirée les intéressait, bien évidemment, mais comme les dames étaient sans illusions, elles appréciaient les expats surtout pour leurs habits propres, leur odeur agréable, leur retenue dans la consommation d’alcool et, par conséquent, leur joli teint et leurs bonnes manières. En règle générale, elles pouvaient parfaitement soutenir une discussion en anglais et ressembler à leurs consœurs occidentales, se conduisant en femmes émancipées, du moins en présence de ces dernières, du moins par solidarité.

La deuxième catégorie, celle qui réchauffait l’air ambiant, était beaucoup plus intéressante. Ses représentantes — des étudiantes, futures médecins, vétérinaires, économistes, juristes — considéraient la bière du vendredi soir comme un dernier combat. Car, avant de s’y rendre, il leur fallait mentir à leur Vassia du moment; faire un discours sur leurs devoirs filiaux, s’inventer un exposé particulièrement difficile à préparer sans attendre chez une copine; faire un travail d’explication auprès de maman afin qu’elle ne grille pas bêtement sa couverture; raser soigneusement tout ce qu’il faut; enfiler une belle lingerie; s’habiller pas trop vulgaire, mais assez pour faire impression, à côté de ces mal baisées de Canadiennes aux gros culs; passer chez le coiffeur et le manucure; et enfin, pendant toute la soirée, rester sur le qui-vive pour éviter de croiser un des potes de Vassia, ou bien une des pétasses de son immeuble, mais, Dieu merci, ils ne fréquentaient pas ce genre d’endroits. Ces étrangers, on ne sait pour quelle raison, aimaient les restos avec de la musique hippie à la con, d’ailleurs, ils étaient eux-mêmes des hippies à la con. Si Vassia apprenait avec qui sa chérie picolait, il en ferait déguster à elle et à toute cette brochette cosmopolite.

Mais puisque Vassia consacrait les soirées libres de sa meuf à des amusements virils, la fifille souriait avec insistance au coopérant hollandais ou au businessman canadien, écoutait poliment leur baragouinage en mauvais ukrainien ou mauvais russe, s’essayait même à parler dans son mauvais anglais, dissimulant courageusement son ennui, supportant encore plus courageusement la froide politesse des femmes de la première catégorie, celle des étrangères, et celle des homos de toute nationalité. Car sa principale mission, lors de ces soirées, était de montrer à ce bourgeois que de la classe, elle en avait, en songeant le cœur en émoi, qu’elle pourrait envoyer paître son Vassia, sa superbe Lada et les éternels nids-de-poule; envoyer se faire voir le maudit quartier de Sykhiv, avec ses bus crasseux, épouser un Hollandais, vivre en Hollande — VIVRE EN HOLLANDE ! Mais si ce nigaud ne se laissait pas convaincre par le mariage, alors pourquoi ne pas rester avec Vassia, c’était même touchant ça, rester avec Vassia, et qui plus est patriotique. C’était le patriotisme même, c’était l’amour de la Patrie, c’était un sens du sacrifice que toutes ces salopes de Toronto ne pourraient jamais comprendre.

Traduit par Iryna Dmytrychyn

Tymofiy HAVRYLIV «Go Out and Take It»

Calvaria Publishers, 2014 312p.

ISBN: 978-617-719-213-7

Fragment (French) «GO OUT AND TAKE IT» […] « Comment tu me trouves ? » demande Mathilde avec une coquetterie affectée.

Autrefois, Jacques se collait contre son ventre rebondi guettant avidement les battements du petit cœur dans le corps minuscule en train de se former. Dès qu’elle était tombée enceinte, Jacques s’était ramené avec un énorme bouquet, un tas presque — cent cinq chrysanthèmes — qui ont eu du mal à franchir la porte du foyer. Tout au long des neuf mois, Jacques chantonnait quelque chose dans sa barbe, au point que Mathilde avait l’impression que ce n’était pas elle, mais lui qui attendait un enfant.

Retirant l’oreiller de sous sa robe, Mathilde a mis fin à l’incertitude et au souvenir à la fois doux et fugace.

Dans les couloirs sombres, aux murs recouverts à mi-hauteur d’homme, de peinture à l’huile devenue crasseuse, se pressaient déjà pas mal de malheureux dans leur genre. Feignant la fatigue, Mathilde se laissa tomber sur le banc qu’on venait de libérer pour elle. Jacques se tenait à côté, se reportant d’un pied sur l’autre. C’est à ce moment qu’une voix interpella Mathilde. Elle appartenait à une femme obèse appuyée contre le mur, et qui s’éventait avec un formulaire. « Ça doit être le septième

21

Tymofiy HAVRYLIV mois ? » « Neuvième », soupira Mathilde. « Grands Dieux ! », c’est ainsi qu’ils ont pu entrer sans faire la queue.

Arrivés au seuil, Jacques et Mathilde attendaient patiemment. Outre le fauteuil derrière une large table, où trônait, comme faisant partie du mobilier, le maître des lieux, la pièce était dépourvue de chaise. « Qui êtes-vous ? » la question désarçonna Jacques et Mathilde. « C’est à quel sujet ? » « Au sujet de l’appartement, — marmonna Jacques. — Mathilde est déjà très enceinte. » « Mathilde… », le fonctionnaire savourait le prénom comme un bonbon, tout en laissant comprendre : « Et savez-vous combien de Mathilde me cassent les pieds tous les jours ? » « Nous ne… », Jacques tentait de remplir le vide, mais il fut interrompu, comme si on lui faisait comprendre que dans ce bureau, le droit exclusif de créer le vide et de le remplir ne lui appartenait pas : « Qu’est-ce qui vous amène avec Mathilde ? » — « Nous sommes venus… » se lança de nouveau Jacques, mais, voyant la mine de l’autre côté de la table, se tut de nouveau. « Je vous écoute, — le fonctionnaire regarda négligemment par-dessus leurs têtes. — Continuez ». « Nous devons bientôt bénéficier d’un appartement » récita Jacques comme une poésie à l’école. « Félicitations », répond l’autre avec indifférence. « Nous voudrions… » Jacques cherchait et n’arrivait pas à trouver les mots justes. « … demander une plus grande surface ». C’était Mathilde. Jacques tressaillit.

Son ventre était censé faire office d’argument pour éviter la queue ; il eût été ridicule d’en espérer plus. « Demander… » — l’espace d’un instant, le clerc fit glisser le mot sur sa langue comme s’il essayait d’en percevoir le goût.

L’appartement disposait de tout, y compris d’une cuisinière et d’un linoléum, le même qu’au foyer, mais de couleur bleue. Petit à petit les murs s’habillaient d’armoires, de commodes et d’étagères. L’espace se remplissait sans trop d’effort, comme par lui-même, jusqu’à ce qu’il n’y ait plus de place libre. Les photographies, les coupures de journaux, les pin’s, les vases, les flacons, les carafes, une pharmacie familiale, le savon domestique, la lingerie, une boîte au couvercle transparent qui laissait voir des papillons desséchés, épinglés sur le tissu, dont un sans aile, des trousses, des stylos, des cahiers, un voilier figé dans le verre, un service de cuisine, le sabre de verre apporté par Jacques du Caucase, des livres. Bientôt tout cela sortait audacieusement des tiroirs, pointait son nez curieux, dressait sans vergogne ses oreilles, se répandait sans gêne sur le canapé, se hissait en petites pyramides et hurlait dans les coins, tombait par terre et s’accumulait sous les pieds.

Au début de leur vie conjugale, alors qu’ils s’étaient rencontrés à l’âge adulte, ils pouvaient passer des heures à discuter, Mathilde tenait le rôle de celle qui parle, Jacques jouant celui qui écoute, se contentant de demi-mots. Il soliloquait lorsqu’il fallait se révolter, lorsqu’il fallait se réjouir, mais aussi lorsqu’il devait dire quelque chose et lorsqu’il devait répondre. Il soliloquait pour acquiescer et lorsqu’il convenait de nier, cependant de plus en plus souvent, son apport à la conversation revêtait la forme d’un sifflement qui se transformait en râle. Au début, cela irritait Mathilde, mais elle finit par dresser un mur de séparation, et ce n’est que depuis peu que le ronflement commençait à la bercer ; elle s’endormait sous cet accompagnement, comme d’autres femmes dans les bras de leurs maris et de leurs amants.

22

Tymofiy HAVRYLIV […]

La vie — si légère ! — dilapidant tout sans compter, déversait ses joies à la pelle; et quand il ne restait plus rien, ne distribuait plus que des miettes rassies. Ils se tenaient debout devant monsieur le maire, Jacques en costume trop court, et une rose au revers qui lui donnait l’aspect d’un clown.

Tout le monde devait chercher l’alliance, que Jacques avait malencontreusement fait tomber : la maîtresse de cérémonie, les employés, les témoins, les jeunes mariés et la femme de ménage qui finit par la ramasser dans la poussière : un rond brillant en alliage imitation or. Dans l’émotion, Jacques avait enfilé la bague à Mathilde sur le mauvais doigt. « L’essentiel c’est que ce soit votre doigt ». « Bien évidemment », Mathilde avait plaisanté en retour, Jacques restant silencieux et tout à son aise.

La robe de mariée était une location, vieillotte, avec un col en faux duvet relativement bien conservé, et des gants ajourés : combien de mariées l’avaient déjà portée ? Qui, en premier, avait offert cette robe, aujourd’hui suspendue au cintre en bois d’une boutique de location, après qu’elle eût rempli sa destination première ?

Beaucoup de choses échouaient ici, reliquat d’un temps révolu, ressemblant sans y ressembler à ces automnes de la steppe, avec l’herbe humide de rosée et le soleil qui se levait sur la stipa et, par la suite, accompagnait Mathilde sur le chemin de sa vie. D’impitoyables balais en chassaient les bribes mais le passé resurgissait ici et là, traqué et circonspect, fantasmagorique et aux clins d’œil triomphateurs.

Mathilde se changea dans les toilettes, dans l’odeur toxique du chlore, peinant dans sa hâte à quitter une robe qui semblait avoir juré de la transformer en éternelle mariée. Elle s’empressait de rendre ce qu’elle avait emprunté, le magasin n’étant ouvert que jusqu’à quatorze heures. Les gens se retournaient à leur passage : un jeune homme gauche, une robe sur le bras et une rose au revers de sa veste dont se séparaient, en tournoyant jusqu’au sol, les pétales, et la femme qu’il traînait derrière lui, tel un nomade sa proie. « L’amour, ça ne se commande pas » criait-on sur leur passage. « D’aucuns empruntent pour la semaine », — une femme corpulente, entre deux âges bien prononcés, déployait la robe sans précipitation. « Rien d’étonnant, ajouta Jacques. — Cela n’arrive qu’une fois dans la vie ». « Il arrive que cela ne soit pas le cas. Un de nos clients en a emprunté douze fois — un record », on sentait le poids de l’expérience sur ses épaules. « Quelle horreur ! » lâcha rapidement Mathilde, traînant Jacques vers la porte. « Au revoir ! » leur dit l’employée. Jacques ouvrit sa bouche, mais Mathilde s’empressa de la lui fermer. « Quel au revoir ? » le sermonna-t-elle dehors. « Si je devais me marier comme l’autre type, assurait Jacques, — ce serait toujours avec toi ». « Qu'il est bête ! » dit-elle, plus douce. « Avec toi, je suis prêt à me marier… », sans le laisser terminer, Mathilde écourta la discussion par un baiser.

Avant cela, après avoir attendu dans ce couloir sombre et imprégné d’odeurs de peinture à l’huile, Jacques et Mathilde étaient entrés dans une pièce où des bancs étaient accolés aux murs, et un drapeau à franges dorées se tenait penché contre le piédestal d’un buste en plâtre, comme s’il était fatigué par le spectacle toujours le même. Les paroles, envolées cérémonieusement, tombaient comme des confettis.

Au milieu, contre une table laquée — imitation de l’autel — se mirait un bouquet de dahlias aux grandes corolles et généreux pétales, conférant à la cérémonie un

23

Tymofiy HAVRYLIV esprit d’authentique fraîcheur. « Acceptez-vous… » « Vraiment! » « Et vous ? Acceptez-vous… » — « J’accepte ». « Sont unis par les liens du mariage, Mathilde Khrystoslavivna (la maîtresse de cérémonie s’était un peu emmêlée les pinceaux avec le patronyme de Mathilde) Kotchubey et Jacques Markovytch Tchoukhlib… » On les congédia par une autre porte. Des rideaux massifs, sur d’immenses fenêtres, drapaient l’espace encore vide, sans laisser passer la lumière du jour. La faible lumière des ampoules dans les appliques, éclairait les parois d’où regardaient rois, princes et magnats peints à l’huile, et qu’on n’avait pas eu le temps de décrocher, comme sur le mur d’en face, où les portraits se trouvaient déposés par terre, tournant timidement le dos aux visiteurs. Une partie des crochets libérés portait désormais des portraits de révolutionnaires rebelles, si bien qu’ils se faisaient face : d’un côté, les nobles un brin étonnés, de l’autre — les insurgés ; c’était un jeu de patience, une silencieuse rivalité de l’histoire, passée et présente. Sur un des tableaux, le peintre n’avait pas encore eu le temps de tout recouvrir. En dépassait la tête d’un certain Oulianov (Lénine), parure princière accrochée à sa zibeline, et triomphe affiché dans son regard. L’ensemble avait l’air d’un terrible affront, comme si la contrerévolution avait écrasé la vermine de Thermidor.

Dans le silence et la solitude, sous ces regards croisés et figés, son corps s’était mis à trembler. Mathilde sentait venir la faute qu’on venait de légitimer, mais qu’on n’avait pas encore inscrite au registre. Une Kotchoubey était devenue légitime, c’est à dire unique et légitime épouse d’un Tchoukhlib, alors que tout le monde l’appellerait toujours Markovytch.

Traduit par Iryna Dmytrychyn

Fragment (German) «GO OUT AND TAKE IT» Fragment 1 (Romananfang) — Wie spät ist es? — fragt die Frau.

Die Beunruhigung, die die sich in ihr einzunisten begann, spiegelte sich noch nicht auf ihrem Gesicht.

— Acht Uhr, — antwortet der Mann, während er auf die Wanduhr schaut, die die Frau genauso sehen kann wie er.

— Und was sagst du dazu?

Der Mann bewegt seine Arme.

— Er hätte um sieben Uhr zu Hause sein müssen.

— Er verspätet sich, — der Mann zuckt die Achseln.

— Er hat noch ein Gedicht zu lernen und Mathe zu machen.

— Vielleicht ist der Bus nicht gekommen.

— Der Bus?!

Nach ihrer Heirat hatte es sie stets beleidigt, von ihm ignoriert zu werden, doch im Laufe all der Jahre, hat sie sich daran gewöhnt. Allmählich entwickelte sich in ihr dieser kurze Aufschrei, mit dem sie die Wirklichkeit, die ihr zu entgleiten dro-

24

Tymofiy HAVRYLIV hte, wieder zurückholte. Vorwurf, Klage, Ausweglosigkeit, Rebellion, weiblicher und später auch noch der Mutterinstinkt, Angst. Sie befürchtete, dass eines Tages, so viel sie auch schreien mag, die Wirklichkeit auseinander fällt und ihren Mann lebend begräbt. Infolge seiner Unaufmerksamkeit, die ihr einem Verrat gleichkam, musste sie die Verantwortung allein tragen, während sie davon träumte hatte, dass sie sie durch die Wirren des Lebens gemeinsam tragen, wie jenes mit Samtflaum überzogene Papierherz, das sie zu zweit auf dem damals noch frischen Foto mit gezackten Rändern hielten. Sie hatte gehofft, dass die gemeinsame Last ihr Bündnis festigen würde, für das das Standesamt ihnen ein Dokument ausgestellt hatte — sie halten es immer noch, jenes Herz, das ihnen der Fotograf in die Hand gegeben hatte; und obwohl das Foto längst verblasst ist, blieb ihre vielversprechende Jugend unverändert darauf gebannt.

Sie verließ sich auf die Symbole, die ihr versicherten, dass alles gut gehen wird: sie ließen sie selten im Stich, wie auch ihre Wanduhr — sobald sie stillstand, drehte sie hastig das Radio lauter auf, um dann, die Zeiger zu rücken und das Pendel in Form des griechischen Buchstaben «Ф» in Bewegung zu setzen, denn so war es leichter, den Alltag zu meistern, — es gab etwas Beruhigendes in dieser Pendelbewegung, die den Stundenlauf erträglicher machte, die Lebensformel als etwas Mittleres zwischen der Tyrannei der Zeit und ihrer zyklischen Dauer symbolisierte.

Jaques starrt in die Zeitung — die Wochenendausgabe verfügt statt der üblichen vier ganze acht Seiten, die er bereits gestern verschluckt hat, wie eine vom Arzt verordnete Pille. Matilda putzt mit den Zeitungen ihres Mannes die Fensterscheiben: zuerst wischt sie diese mit einem in Essig getunkten Tuch, dann mit Papier, wovon die Fensterscheiben in kristallener Sauberkeit erstrahlen. Als einundzwanzig Uhr vorbei ist, schaut Matilda demonstrativ aufs Zifferblatt, um anschließend verzweifelt mitzuteilen: — Neun Uhr! Morgen nach der der Arbeit wird Jaques eine neue Zeitung mit den gleichen, wie immer, nichts nutzenden Berichten, verdünnt mit Alltagsgeschichten und einem Fortsetzungskrimi in zwei Spalten, dank dem er sein Abonnement regelmäßig erneuert, aus dem Postfach nehmen. Die Zeitung ist Jaques Alibi, heute auch noch sein Visier.

— Alles nur, weil du ihm eine Angel gekauft hast.

— Er mag es zu fischen.

Sein träumerischer Ton heizt sie an: — Du magst es.

— Wann war das!

— Du gönnst ihm Marotten, die du zu deiner Zeit nicht befriedigen konntest.

— Doch.

— Das wirst du mir erzählen!

— In unserem Dorf gab es einen Teich.

— Einen Sumpf.

— Nicht besonders groß, das stimmt schon.

— In dem Frösche quakten.

— Hast du sie gehört?

25

Tymofiy HAVRYLIV — Und ob.

— Wie hättest du sie hören können?!

Das war der Höhepunkt der Ungerechtigkeit — der Teich, etwas größer als eine Pfütze, wurde zugeschüttet und zusammen mit ihm Jaques Traum, dort je etwas zu fangen.

— Du hast es doch selbst erzählt.

Die Gedanken bedrängen Matilda — wie die Typen, die ihren Sonn, der sich weigerte, seine Angel wegzugeben, umzingeln, — sich an die eigene Ratlosigkeit festzuklammern: das ist der ganze Widerstand, zu dem er fähig ist.

— Fahr!

— Natürlich.

— Wohin?

In solchen Augenblicken fühlt sich Matilda wie die sagenhafte Jaroslawna, die heult, nicht aber in Kyiv, nicht auf dem Schutzwall und nicht früh morgens — früh morgens eilt sie zur Arbeit.

— Wie meinst du das?

Jaques ist ratlos.

— Du weißt nicht, wohin er gefahren ist!

— Angeln.

— Warum werde ich so bestraft?

— Ich bin fast fertig, — stotterte Jaques, seine Hose anziehend.

Er tritt für eine Welt ein, in der es keinen Platz für heftige Töne gibt — gleich einem Transistor mit eingeschränktem Frequenzbereich. Jaques hat ein merkwürdiges Gefühl, als ob Matilda seinem im Grab liegenden Vater Vorwürfe macht, während Jaques längst selbst Vater ist.

Matilda wird von einer neuen Angst verfolgt — vor der nächtlichen Straße und Finsternis, Autos und den betrunkenen Fahrern.

— Fahrradreflektor, sind sie von weitem gut sichtbar?

— Ja, — atmet Jaques aus, seine Schnursenkeln zubindend.

Auf den Ellbogen seines Sakkos leuchten Flicken. Matildas Aufregung überträgt sich auf Jaques. Septemberabende atmen kühl. Auf den Treppen wird er vom Aufschrei eingeholt, Jaques kehrt zurück und nimmt die ihm gereichten Garagenschlüssel entgegen.

Fragment 2 (S. 126-127) «Ab heute werden sämtliche Löhne in diesem Sicherheitsschrank aufbewahrt», — Jaques wusste nicht, wie er dies weiter leiten sollte, wo alle ohnehin mit ständigen Auszahlungsverzögerungen unzufrieden waren. «Nichts zu machen», — der Chef fing Jaques irritierten Blick, der auf den im Zimmereck stehenden Safe gerichtet war, ab. «Aber…» — Jaques war ein schlechter Widersacher. «Eine Direktive», — der Chef hob vieldeutig seinen Finger, und es schien, dass er irgendwohin höher zeigte, als die Decke es war, höher als die höchst liegenden Entscheidungsräume, — dorthin, von wo es im Winter schneit. Eine Fliege zappelte an der Decke, Jaques neckend.

26

Tymofiy HAVRYLIV Auf einmal vertauschten Decke und Fußboden ihren Platz, jetzt war die Fliege auf dem Boden und Jaques hing von der Decke, mit den Sohlen seiner frisch geputzten Schuhe dorthin geklebt. Decke und Fußboden begannen sich zu drehen und in dem Augenblick, als er sich am Tisch festhalten wollte, bot ihm der Chef einen Stuhl an.

Die Kronblätter der regenschirmartig aufgeblühten Blumen waren rosa, in der Mitte intensiver, zu den Rändern hin weißlich. «Aus Kunststoff», — schnitt der Chef eine Grimasse, er nahm die Vase zur Hand und blies den Staub weg. «Sie passt nicht auf, — klagte er. — Sie räumt alles ordentlich auf, die Blumen aber rührt sie nicht an». «Und das Wasser ist längst verdunstet», — er nahm den Strauß aus der Vase und guckte hinein. «Keinen einzigen Tropfen», — er drehte das Gefäß um. «Unerhört! — Jaques spürte die Empörung in ihm aufsteigen. — Unerhörte Fahrlässigkeit!

Wie lange noch kann so was geduldet werden?!» «Und die Blümchen wollen doch Wasser, — führte der Chef unentwegt fort. — Sogar solche aus Kunststoff». Einen Augenblick sagte er: «Kunststoffblumen. Wie macht man sie eigentlich so…» «Steif», — eilte Jaques zu Hilfe. «Wie haben Sie bloß gesagt — gestylt? Ich habe gemeint: wie echt». Dann hackte er halb verträumt, halb verdutzt nach: «In den Städten der Zukunft werden die Kunststoffbaobabs emporwachsen und die Rasenmäher werden das regenerationsfähige Polypropylengras kurz schneiden. Und was haben Sie sich gedacht?» Und: «Alles wird reformiert. Das ganze System von Betriebsbeziehungen.

Nichts wird sein wie bisher. Kreativität und Rationalisierung — das sind die Slogans von heute. Und die Eigenwirtschaftlichkeit. Diese zu allererst». Jaques konnte kaum etwas begreifen. «Warum nicken Sie? — die Stimme des Gesprächspartners wirkte etwas gereizt. — Sagen Sie endlich etwas!» «Verzeihung», — murmelte Jaques. «Verzeihung! — karikierte ihn der Chef. — Sie haben wohl zu viele bürgerliche Romane verschlungen?» «Zeitungen, — sagte Jaques etwas mutiger. — Lokalzeitungen».

Fragment 3 (S. 165-166) Das Wort, in das Matilda all ihre große Hoffnung investierte, half nichts, da sich ihre Wohnung bereits nach einigen Tagen in einen Durchgangshof verwandelt hatte, aus dem Matilda am liebsten weggelaufen wäre, wären nicht die über die gemeinsamen Jahrzehnte angehäuften Schätze gewesen — Möbel, Klamotten, Geschirr, noch mehr aber die Familienreliquien, die in Schubladen ruhten: schwarzweiße Fotos mit ungleichmäßigen Rändern, Medaillons, eine Bernsteinkette, sowie ihre einzige Brosche, die sie innerhalb von dreißig Jahren zweimal anhatte — zum Geburtstag ihrer Freundin und ein anderes Mal, als sie ins Theater gingen. Trotz Einsprüche und Korrekturen war das Dokument ein Urteil, unter dem ihre einwilligenden Unterschriften standen. Auf diese Weise war ihre unbeständige Welt, in der noch Gemütlichkeit herrschte und mehr schlecht als recht das Altern von Matilda und Jaques begleitete, endgültig auf den Kopf gestellt.

Einen weiteren Monat beseitigte Matilda seufzend das Durcheinander und half Jaques — zu zweit schafften sie den Heizkörper in die Badewanne, wo sich das Wasser, den Weg durch verschmutzte Rippen ebnend, in ein teerschwarzes Gebrüh verwandelte, die Jaques und Matilda eimerweise ins Klo wegschütteten. Als alles vorbei

27

Tymofiy HAVRYLIV war, reinigte Matilda ziemlich lang die Badewanne, in der sie so gern im warmen Wasser lag — immer häufiger beschäftigte sie der Gedanke, wie sie wohl aussehen wird, wenn sie stirbt. Sie faltete ihre Hände, im letzten Augenblick wurde es ihr jedoch unbehaglich, und sie rief Jaques, indem sie mit der von der dünnen und mit Altersflecken gesprenkelten Haut Faust, an der Wasser herunter tropfte, an die Tür klopfte. «Hier, — sie gab sich Mühe, die Stelle auf ihrem Rücken zu zeigen. — Ein bisschen massieren». Jaques rieb kräftig, um dann, wie vor zehn, fünfzehn und zwanzig Jahren, zu ihr in die Wanne zu steigen, wo sie beide dann lagen, bis ihre Körper Gänsehaut bekamen.

Nachdem sie einmal ihren Blick zufällig nach oben richtete und am Fenster dicht unter der Decke das Gesicht ihres Sohnes erblickte, der damals vierzehn Jahre alt war, malte Jaques die Fensterscheibe in der Wand zwischen dem Bad und der Küche zu. Vor Überraschung hätte Matilda beinahe aufgeschrien, tat aber, als ob sie nichts bemerkt hätte, drehte sich auf die Seite, mit dem Rücken zum Fenster, um nach einer Weile Jaques zu rufen, der im Wohnzimmer seine Zeitung las — an jenem Tag musste er zum zweiten Mal Matildas Rücken reiben. Damals machte sich Matilda erstmals Sorgen, dass ihr Sohn, anders als seine Altersgenossen, mit keinem Mädchen befreundet war. Dass er auch mit den Buben kaum verkehrt, tröstete sie kaum.

Fragment 4 (S. 166-167) Von den bunten Kügelchen angelockt, besuchte Matilda öfters den Laden «Chemische Waren», trat ans Regal heran, betrachtete neugierig die mit einer gelben, grünen, blauen oder roten Flüssigkeit gefüllten Kügelchen. Matilda nahm eine nach der anderen in die Hand, drückte sie mit den Fingerspitzen vorsichtig an, so dass die Plastikhülle etwas nachgab, bis sie sich endlich für eine grüne entschied.

Den Inhalt über den Kopf geleert, verteilte sie ihn gleichmäßig auf ihrem gräulichen spärlich gewordenen Haar. Das Shampoo schäumte und schäumte — müde, es weiter abzuspülen, stellte Matilda das Wasser ab und hüllte ihre Haare in ein Handtuch, von dem das jahrlange Kreisen in der Waschmaschine die einstigen Muster zu den undeutlichen Konturen verblassen ließ.

Bald ist aus «Chemischen Waren» ein Supermarkt der Haushaltsreinigungsmittel «SCHICK» geworden, es gehörte einer großen Kette an, die einen Reinheit symbolisierenden Biber als ihr Emblem hatte. Über dem frisch gestrichenen Eingang leuchtete in rosa Neon die Aufschrift auf, aus Anlass der Neueröffnung schimmerten die hohen Schaufenster mit capriccioso Vignetten, die über die ganze Fläche geklebten Buchstaben S C H I C K umrankten. Bald darauf setzte ein Lausbub ein riesiges P davor.

Die Kette gab ein reich illustriertes Werbeheft heraus, das man aus einem Metallkasten auf einem hohen Stiel, der an einen Notenhalter erinnerte, mitnehmen konnte. «Der Biber empfiehlt» — neben den vielen anderen Geheimnissen öffnete sich für Matilda die echte Bestimmung der wundersamen Kügelchen mit buntem Inhalt. Es war auch Seife, allerdings nicht fürs Haar, sondern zum Schaumbad: auf dem ersten Bild presste der Biber die zähe Flüssigkeit in die Badewanne, auf dem folgenden plätscherte er bereits voller Freude im üppigen Schaum.

28

Tymofiy HAVRYLIV Der Kalenderherbst war noch nicht vorbei, da schüttete der Winter die Straßen mit Schnee zu und der Frost schlug zu. Matilda heizte den Backofen, ihr Heimfeuer, öffnete die Tür zum Wohnzimmer, wo sie jetzt schliefen — wieder zusammen, durch Kälte und Ausweglosigkeit enger aneinander gebunden. Mit geblähten Kopf, vom Stickstoff und den verriegelten Fenstern, endete das Jahr.

Fragment 5 (S. 269-270) Als er sich bewegen konnte, sich am eisernen Bettrand festhielt und die Zellenwand entlang tastete, als ob er die ersten Schritte in seinem Leben machte, wurde er zum Verhör geführt. Da er nur sehr langsam gehen konnte, wurde er durch einen Gang, der am Ende durch das dicke Metallgitter versperrt war, geschleppt. Im Metallgitter gab es ebenfalls eine Tür, wie in Tierkäfigen, durch die man ihn und seine Begleiter durchließ. Dann bog der Gang zum Treppenhaus ab, er wurde von einer Treppe zur anderen geschoben, bis er eine Etage höher in ein Zimmer geführt wurde.

Als man ihn losließ, wackelte er, hielt sich jedoch auf den Beinen. Er befand sich in einer Umgebung, die er lediglich aus Filmen kannte, da, wo alles klipp und klar war — gute Polizisten und Bösewichte, Jäger und Gejagte, jetzt befand er sich plötzlich unter den Gejagten.

— Das ist dein Geständnis. Unterschreibe.

Die Buchstaben verschwammen vor seinen Augen, und Serhij sagte, er könne nicht lesen.

— Da gibt es nicht viel zu lesen. Los, halte mich und dich nicht länger auf.

— Ich werde nicht unterschreiben.

Er wurde an den Haaren gefasst und mit dem Kopf auf den Tisch geschlagen, wo das Papier lag, das er sich weigerte, zu unterschreiben.

— Du wirst alles unterscheiben, du Drecksau, alles.

Seine Nase blutete, er wurde aber nicht ohnmächtig. Er lag nur, unfähig, sich zu bewegen, auf einmal überkam ihn Müdigkeit, unermesslich und süß, so wie ein Mensch, der nächtelang nicht geschlafen hat, erschlafft. Als die Hand seinen Kopf wieder nach oben zerrte, öffnete sich die Tür und ein anderer, der nun hereinkamt, sagte: — Na und?

— Bis jetzt nichts.

— Und wer ist das?

— Dieser vom Teich.

— Ah… Hör mal, ich wollte es dir sagen, sei mit ihm vorsichtiger.

Ein Schweigen stellte sich ein, während dessen derjenige, der eben gesprochen hatte, nach etwas suchte.

— Schau mal.

— Was ist das?

— Ein Brief.

Man hörte ein Geräusch — ein Knistern von Papier, das geglättet wird.

— Evrika… Was soll das? Wer ist sie?

— Irgendeine Ausländerin.

29

Tymofiy HAVRYLIV — Na und?

— Der Brief ist in seine Tasche gesteckt worden. Er hat sie wohl als Gastarbeiter irgendwo aufgegabelt. Das Scheißvieh reist jetzt überall hin. Dann steht es schon im Briefwechsel: anscheinend wollte er den Brief verschicken.

— Was soll das uns scheren?

— Es sollte. Diese Arschlöcher werden nicht genug gefickt, machen gleich ihre Klappe auf, Reporter ohne Grenzen, Integration usw. … Die reisen herum, ficken die Ausländerinnen, dann treten sie ins Fettnäpfchen und du musst hier schwitzen und alles auslöffeln. So ein Arschloch. Hätte besser in seinem Italien sitzen sollen — ich verstehe das nicht: gibt es dort etwa nicht genug Teiche? Das Meer… Zum Ersaufen viel.

— Ich kann nichts dafür. Mir wurde gesagt: nicht entlassen — Geständnis, Gerichtssaal, Knast. Falls es geht, dann lebenslang. Ich führe nur aus.

— Eine wichtiger Bonze, was? Oder die haben mal wieder so einen Plan. Eins von den beiden. Wie auch immer, schade, dass er sich alles so vermasselt hat: so blöd. Auf den ersten Blick wohl intelligent.

— Er ist nicht der erste.

Aus dem Ukrainischen von Tymofiy Havryliv und Alexander Kratochvil

30

Tymofiy HAVRYLIV

Tymofiy HAVRYLIV «Wo ist dein Haus, Odysseus?»

Meridiane 123, 2009 ISBN 978-3-250-60123-4

Fragment (German) Es kam so weit, dass ich nicht mehr auf die Straße gehen, keinen gemütlichen Spaziergang mehr machen konnte; dabei ging ich gerne spazieren, sonntags begab ich mich auf den Korso, wo ich den ganzen Tag verbringen konnte, auf und ab schlendernd, und dabei bald die Malteserkirche und den Eiffelturm betrat, den Dogenpalast und Big Ben, das Museo del Prado und die New York Gallery of Modern Arts, restaurierte Kapellen und alte Innenhöfe, mit dem Panoramalift nach oben fuhr und über die Treppe nach unten lief, mich auf eine Bank setzte, die um eine Riesenplatane herum stand, oder an einen der zahlreichen Tische in den nicht weniger zahlreichen und exquisiten Kaffeehäusern, Konditoreien und Restaurants.

Unwillkürlich fiel mein Blick auch auf sie, die Geiger im schwarzen Smoking und mit Gesichtsmaske, erst sah ich sie nur, dann hörte ich sie, einen Moment lang war ich sogar hingerissen von der klassischen Musik, die sie da spielten, die sie zugegebenermaßen sehr ordentlich spielten – man muss sich das einmal vorstellen, was für Leute die in ihren Reihen haben, was die nicht alles können; als sie dann aber nach einer kurzen Pause voll Schwung eine verdammt vertraute Melodie angeigten, die ich schon irgendwo gehört hatte – offenbar vor langer Zeit, ja in der Kindheit, da war

31

Tymofiy HAVRYLIV sie oft gespielt worden, so oft, das man sich’s fürs Leben merkte, dass man sich jetzt erinnern konnte, nach so vielen Jahren, auf einem ganz andern Fleck dieser Erde, in einer andern Straße, an einem andern Tisch, bei Kaffee, den es damals nicht gab, als man sich mit Zichorie behelfen musste, die Erinnerung an Zichorie kam zurück, der leicht eklige Geschmack, ich spürte, wie es im Mund bitter wurde –, ich sprang auf und lief, sprang über Geländer und Geleise, bis ich vor ihnen stand und einem von ihnen die Maske vom Gesicht riss, die anderen begannen erschrocken ihre Gesichter zu bedecken, wehrten sich mit Geigen und Kontrabass, doch ich enttarnte sie nach und nach alle, riss diesen Fantomas-Gestalten die Masken herunter, hinter denen sie sich versteckt hatten, nein, ihr Lieben, ihr seid bloßgestellt, ich hab’ euch bloßgestellt, man wird euch rauswerfen, unfähig, wie ihr seid, und in dem Moment, in dem ich ihnen die Masken herunterriss, klickten die Fotoapparate und schnurrten die Videokameras der Touristen und Schaulustigen, die mittlerweile in nicht geringer Zahl zusammengelaufen waren.

Alles geschah, wie es in billigen Thrillern geschieht, Dutzendware, von der die Videotheken und das Wochenprogramm im Fernsehen voll sind, die Buchhandlungen und die Köpfe der Bürger, die zur Arbeit gehen und von der Arbeit kommen, Kinder gebären und großziehen, krank werden und sterben. Ich saß an einem Tisch, blätterte in der Zeitung und trank Kaffee.

– Wir können Ihnen Zusammenarbeit anbieten.

– Wohlgemerkt, für beide Seiten vorteilhafte Zusammenarbeit, – unterstrich der andere.

– Ich bin auf Reisen. Reisen ist meine Arbeit.

– Der Gospodin-Towaristsch treibt sich herum? Wie nennt man das schon bei uns, Mischa? Parasol?

– Parasit, – war Mischas Stimme zu hören, der seine Muttersprache noch nicht derart katastrophal vergessen hatte wie der andere.

– Ist kein großer Unterschied, Parasol ist zum Essen, und der Parasit will essen, ohne zu arbeiten.

– Genau, Parasit. Und gegen die Faulenzerei haben wir die richtige Arznei.

– Reisen ist mein Beruf.

– Das bestreiten wir gar nicht. Wir können Ihnen dabei sogar helfen. Als Sponsoren. Ohne ordentliche Finanzierung kommt man nicht weit. Und, das kann ich Ihnen versichern, mit Sponsorengeldern zu reisen hat nichts Ehrenrühriges, alle bedeutenden Menschen sind so gereist, angefangen von Bosporus Christophorowitsch Kolumbus bis hin zu Jean Yvowitsch Coustodijew.

– Coustow, – korrigierte der andere.

– Übrigens, auch Nichteuropäer, fuhr der erste mit erhobenem Zeigefinger fort, so ungewöhnliche Persönlichkeiten wie zum Beispiel Qui Chotte oder De Foe. – Was wollen Sie eigentlich?

– Nichts, wozu Sie nicht in der Lage wären.

– Sie werden uns Ihre Reisen erzählen.

– Reportagen schreiben?

– Rapporte. Aber Sie können es durchaus als Reportagen bezeichnen. Sogar als Romane, wenn es Ihnen beliebt.

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Tymofiy HAVRYLIV Wir trafen uns um neun, als die Tragödie auf ihren Höhepunkt erst hinsteuerte und Othello nicht einmal im Albtraum vorhersah, dass er, noch vor Ablauf einer Stunde und fünfzehn Minuten, Desdemona erwürgen würde. Ich wollte sie zum «Lucky Chinese» einladen. «Ich lade dich ein», sagte ich. «Lass mich zuerst dich einladen, und dann lädst du mich ein; übrigens ist das völlig egal», meinte sie. Es begann zu regnen, ein plötzlicher, unerwarteter Guss, und wir liefen, wie wir früher gelaufen waren, als wir achtzehn waren, oder zwanzig, liefen wie Verliebte, wie Glückspilze, die nach Jahren des Misserfolgs noch einmal den Jackpot gewonnen haben, einen für zwei.

Wir hatten den «Lucky Chinese» noch nicht erreicht, als uns der Regen zwang zu kapitulieren, in eine Seitengasse einzubiegen und über eine Treppe in einen Bierkeller hinunterzulaufen. Wir befanden uns unter dem Ziegelgewölbe des weitbekannten Restaurants «Zu den fröhlichen Mönchen». «Ironie des Schicksals», konnte sie sich eine spottische Bemerkung nicht verkneifen. «Und symbolisch», sagte ich. «Und vielleicht sogar durchaus passend», blinzelte sie mich listig an. «Spielst du auf unsere klösterliche Zukunft an?» tat ich, als hätte ich nicht verstanden. «Heuchler, du weißt genau, worauf ich anspiele», lachte sie. «Worauf denn?» Mir fingen die Augenlider zu flattern an. «Vielleicht erfüllst du endlich das Gelöbnis, dass du – wie lang ist das schon her? – vor genau sechzehn Jahren getan hast», lies sie nicht locker. «Gerne, aber nicht im Bierkeller und nicht heute.» – «Wenn nicht heute, wann dann?» – «Am Sonntag, vor dem Altar.»

Wir gingen durch das Gewölbelabyrinth, auf der Suche nach einem Tisch. Hier waren immer viele Leute, besonders um diese Zeit, besonders bei so unbarmherzigem Regen. Wir fanden eine stille Ecke, bestellten, tranken Wein, unterhielten uns, und ich erzählte die Geschichte mit dem Trinkgeld. Ich erzählte ihr eine Menge Geschichten, sie lachte, und vom Lachen kamen ihr die Tränen. Und während ich erzählte, begriff ich, dass mein ganzes Leben, seit ich ins offene Meer gestochen war, seit wir alle zu einer weiten und langen Reise (wie lange dauerte sie schon und wie lange würde sie noch dauern) ins offene Meer gestochen waren, mein Leben an eine einzige Verwechslungskomödie erinnerte. «Wenigstens eine Komödie. Eine Verwechslungskomödie kann ganz anders ausgehen», spielte sie auf Othello und Desdemona an. «Dann ist es eine Tragödie und keine Komödie; eine Verwechslungstragödie», räsonierte ich und setzte hinzu, «gut, dass am Ende der Verwechslungskomödie immer die Liebe steht.»

In der Hotelbar bestellte ich Vin de Champagne. «A base de Chardonnay, de Pinot noir, de Pinot meunier?» – «De Pinot noir», sagte ich auf gut Glück. Es war Nacht, und da schien mir noir am besten zu passen. Wir gingen ins Zimmer hinauf. Alles war so, wie ich es zurückgelassen hatte, und es war Nacht, und sie war zärtlich und wundersam, und morgens, als ich auf der Terrasse frühstückte, allein – genauso wie gestern, wie vorgestern –, da dachte ich daran, wie wir vor vielen Jahren, weit fort von hier, mit unserem Ruderboot auf der Insel der Verliebten gelandet waren, im Gras lagen und einander Fitzgerald vorlasen, eine braune Ausgabe, mit schwarzen und violetten Linien und Buchstaben. Und Helden auf dem Umschlag, deren Geschichte gerade erst begann.

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Tymofiy HAVRYLIV Da fand und mietete ich diese Wohnung – ohne Verpflegung und, schlimmer noch, ohne jeglichen sozialen Standard. Ich verdiente. Die Regierung kümmerte sich um mich, so dass ich nicht verhungerte und nicht auf der Straße stand, aber auch nicht auf großem Fuß zu leben begann. Die Regierung nötigte mich, mich für Gutscheine und Preisermäßigungen zu interessieren. In meiner Person erstickte sie ihren kompromisslosen Kritiker, erstickte ihn im Keim, bevor er es überhaupt werden konnte, indem sie mich durch das Verwirrspiel des Alltags, mit Socken und Zervelatwurst benebelte, mit einem Tag der offenen Türen und einer Nacht der kostenlosen Straßenbahn. Ich wurde ein Freund von «Saturn» und «Jupiter», «Venus» und – das war am wichtigsten – dem «Großen Wagen». Mein Briefkasten quoll über von Werbung, Gutscheinheften und Zeitschriften wie dem «PREISHAMMER – mit dem Hammer den Preisen auf den Kopf», auf dessen Cover das ganzseitige Foto einer Massendemonstration zu sehen war, mit Slogans über der aufgebrachten Menge wie «RUNTER MIT DEN PREISEN!», «NEIN ZUR DIKTATUR DER PREISE», «SCHANDE ÜBER DIE PREISLISTEN», «PREISE VOLL DURCHGEKNALLT – ES REICHT!», «WIR FORDERN DIE GROSSE WAHRHEIT!» oder Faltblättern mit Texten wie: «Wer mit der Freundin kommt, kriegt die dritte Stange Wurst gratis.»

Eines Morgens zog ich aus dem Briefkasten ein zweifach gefaltetes Plakat. Als ich es aufmachte, sah ich eine angeschnittene Stange Wurst und eine Aufschrift in roten Lettern: «SAG JA ZU IHR! SIE WILL ES!» Unten, wie Telefonnummern unter Anzeigen, die an Bäumen und Zäunen hangen, sah man in viereckigen, mit gestrichelten Linien abgegrenzten Feldern Gutscheine, auf denen überall dasselbe stand, ein alter durchgestrichener Preis und ein neuer in fetten Buchstaben. In winziger, fast unmerklicher Schrift stand dabei: «Abgabe in Mengen im Rahmen des gesunden Menschenverstands». Die Aktion dauerte nur drei Tage. Ich beeilte mich. Ich war in einem «Großen Wagen», dann in einem anderen, von dort weg in einem dritten und schaute sogar bei «Saturn» und «Jupiter» vorbei, in der Hoffnung, sie dort zu finden.

Allerdings verkaufte «Saturn» nur Technik und «Jupiter» nur Herrenunterwäsche in Übergrößen. Alles, was es an Lebensmitteln bei «Saturn» gab, waren Erfrischungsgetränke in einem kastenartigen Kühlschrank, und bei «Jupiter» – ein paar Weinflaschen in geflochtenen Körben, wo sie wie Säuglinge auf Stroh lagen, mit weißem und rotem Wein, rosé und spumante, um den Hals flatternde Bänder und im Mund Schnuller aus Kunststoff und Kork. Ich graste alle «Großen Wagen», die es in der Stadt gab, ab, war nahe daran, mit dem Zug in die Nachbarstadt zu fahren, wo es auch einen «Großen Wagen» gab, ich kam rechtzeitig zu Sinnen. Dauerwurst gab es nirgendwo. Überall war sie ausverkauft. «Hat der gesunde Menschenverstand einen Rahmen, und wenn ja, welchen?» begann ich zu zweifeln. Und diese Zweifel waren nicht unbegründet.

Ich öffnete die Augen. Auf dem Boden lag der umgeworfene Eimer, das Wasser schlängelte sich im Zickzack durch den Waggon, das Seepferdchen lag auf der Seite und blickte mich mit flehenden Augen an. Der Zug stand. Der Großraumwaggon, in dem wir fuhren und der in der Mitte durch eine Glaswand geteilt war – eine Hälfte für die Raucher, die andere für die, die nicht rauchten –, war beinahe leer. Ich starrte aus dem Fenster. Kein Bahnhof weit und breit. Wir standen mitten in einem Feld,

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Tymofiy HAVRYLIV einem verlassenen Feld, mit der uneingebrachten Ernte von überreifem Roggen, dessen pralle Ähren im Winde wogten und dabei ein Rauschen rauschten, in dem ein Stöhnen zu vernehmen war. Ich stieg aus dem Waggon, schaute nach vorne, trat in die zweite Gleisspur, die parallel zur ersten verlief, und marschierte über die von schwarzem Öl und Staub rußigen Eisenbahnschwellen schnurstracks bis zum Anfang des Zugs. Bald versammelten sich hier nach und nach die wenigen Fahrgäste, die mit diesem Zug unterwegs waren.

Die Geleise lagen chaotisch herum, und in den Himmel ragten, wie bizarre Chimären, mit offenen zackigen Blättern die metallenen Blumen des globalisierten Terrorismus. Es terrorisierte jeder jeden, der Leopard terrorisierte die Antilope. Der Mensch – die Natur. Die Dummheit – die Blindheit, und die Blindheit – die Vernunft.

Und alles war umgeben von einem unangenehmen Geruch, es wurde einem übel.

Die Züge hatten hier Endstation. Ich ging durch Schwaden von dichtem Rauch, den der Wind vorne zusammenballte, und es schien, der ätzende Rauch würde nie enden, als türmte sich die Schwade, die sich hinten auflöste, vorne wieder auf. Da und dort tauchten Hinweisschilder auf, verrußt und abgeblättert, auf denen man prominente Namen erkennen konnte: Maidan der Unabhängigkeit, Boulevard der Brüderlichkeit, Novemberallee, Park der Helden von Kruty, worunter die verwischten ehemaligen Bezeichnungen kaum mehr zu sehen waren: Platz der Wiedervereinigung, Prager Chaussee – 68 km, Oktoberkorso, Pavlik-Morozov-Gasse. Irgendwann musste, was hinten bleibt, hinten bleiben, andernfalls es nicht gäbe, was vorne kommt. «Ein Terroranschlag!» sagte oder krächzte eine Stimme im Nebel, vielleicht die Stimme eines Raben, der sich beeilte, die Nachricht weiterzugeben.

Aus dem Ukrainischen von Harald Fleischmann

Eugenia KONONENKO «Russian Theme»

Calvaria Publishers, 2014 124 p.

ISBN : 978-617-719-205-2

Fragment (French) Extrait chap. 2 : « Les Plus belles années de sa vie... » Reconnaître que cette période au tournant des années 80 et 90 était la plus belle de sa vie, c’était admettre le fait que l’avenir ne lui réservait rien de mieux. Et il n’en avait pas envie.

Quand sa vie s’était-elle mise à manquer de signes d’authenticité ? Lorsqu’il renonça à Lada ? Ou bien lorsqu’il renonça à l’Ukraine ? Du reste, y avait-il vraiment renoncé ? Dans le monde globalisé d’aujourd’hui, on ne renonce pas à sa patrie. On l’intègre à la globalité mondiale. Parfois, lors de congrès internationaux, il croisait de vieilles connaissances. Certaines venaient d’Ukraine pour donner des conférences, d’autres figuraient déjà depuis longtemps au rang d’autres nations. À cette époque, les années passaient à une vitesse folle. On dit qu’émigrer, c’est comme tout reprendre depuis sa naissance. Quel âge avait-il en tant qu’Américain ?

Un peu moins que Miroslav. Et qu’avait-il devant lui ? Une croisière aux îles Galápagos avec Dounia, pour les vacances de Noël ? Une conférence aux Açores, où on lui proposerait d’être interprète ? Il était bien révolu le temps où l’attente d’un voyage à venir faisait naître en lui des émotions incroyables, proches d’un frisson cosmique.

Parmi ses connaissances ukrainiennes, qu’il croisait de par le monde (et il allait encore sûrement tomber sur quelqu’un aux Açores), l’avant-goût d’un lointain voyage

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Eugenia KONONENKO leur donnait toujours le tournis. Les voyages semblent prolonger la vie qui s’écoule à une vitesse indépendante de sa qualité. La vie passera, de même que seront passées les Açores, comme l’avait écrit à sa place un poète russe soviétique, inoubliable et pourtant à moitié oublié, que sa mère aimait beaucoup à l’époque, et qu’elle aimait sans doute encore aujourd’hui d’ailleurs.

Dounia, la période soviétique de la littérature russe, ce n’était pas vraiment son dada. Elle admirait la prose russe du XIXe siècle. Citer les poètes russes à haute voix à en faire trembler les fenêtres, c’était plutôt le répertoire de sa mère. Il y avait déjà plus de cinq ans qu’il ne l’avait pas vue, elle le professeur de littérature russe d’une école de Kiev désormais à la retraite à qui il transférait régulièrement une certaine somme d’argent. Et plus de vingt ans qu’il ne prenait plus en considération ses conseils sur la vie. Mais les vers russes qu’elle déclamait avec inspiration pour commenter tout ce qui se passait dans le monde ou dans leur famille, eux, résonnaient encore dans sa tête, surgissant au bon ou au mauvais moment de l’imbroglio flou des années passées. « J’ai insufflé en toi notre Mère Russie, comme avec une pompe ! », lui répétaitelle haut et fort, citant l’ambiguë Marina Tsvetaïeva en le poussant du doigt. Et elle n’avait pas tout à fait tort.

C’est l’Ukraine qui l’avait aidé à s’éloigner de cette Russie que sa mère avait insufflée en lui avec une pompe, et pas seulement sa mère, mais toute la réalité soviétique. L’Ukraine était entrée dans sa vie comme une femme aimée fantasque avec laquelle on ne se mariera peut-être jamais, mais qu’on quittera et retrouvera par intermittence jusqu’à la mort. Sa propre mort ou la sienne. En effet, quand il était étudiant, contrairement à ce que l’on croit habituellement sur cette période de la vie, il n’avait ni bons amis ni bonne fiancée. Tous les sentiments aigus de la jeunesse lui étaient venus un peu plus tard, lorsque l’Union soviétique commençait à tomber en morceaux. L’année de la fin de ses études, un soir il s’était retrouvé par hasard à une fête chez une connaissance, où il avait soudainement découvert la vraie vie. Il y avait des gars avec qui l’on pouvait discuter jusqu’à l’aube et se quitter avec la sensation qu’on n’avait pas tout dit. Il y avait de jolies filles qui contrairement à ses camarades de fac n’avaient pas pour unique but de se marier à la première occasion décente. Et avec elles aussi on pouvait discuter jusqu’à l’aube, oubliant même à quel point elles étaient jolies. À vrai dire, avec elles on pouvait lier les deux. Il avait passé la nuit avec une jeune fille dès ce premier soir, et ça avait été le début de son initiation nationale. À compter de cette nuit, l’ukrainien était devenu pour lui la langue de l’amour.

C’était autre chose qu’avec Lada. La jeune fille l’avait remercié pour ce moment de joie vécu ensemble et avait dit qu’elle se souviendrait de cette nuit avec plaisir. Ça n’avait pas été la dernière fois qu’il l’avait vue, mais il ne s’était rien passé de plus, comme ça arrive. Parfois pourtant, ils échangeaient d’ardents regards et des sourires malicieux. Si pareille chose s’était produite avec une de ses camarades de fac, l’hystérie aurait saisi la demoiselle le lendemain même : elle n’avait plus ses règles et ses parents allaient la tuer si elle ne se mariait pas.

Ce genre de cercles de gars intelligents et de filles modernes, de gars modernes et de filles intelligentes, se constituait et se séparait dans cette ville de Kiev peuplée de millions d’habitants, pour des motifs qui n’étaient pas forcément liés aux questions politiques et linguistiques du pays. Mais c’était le cas du cercle sur lequel il était tombé, et ses membres l’avaient accepté comme l’un des leurs. Pour la première fois

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Eugenia KONONENKO de sa vie, l’ukrainien était devenu une langue pour communiquer, et pas seulement la langue de l’école, du théâtre ou de la poésie, et ça c’était chouette. Cela répondait peut-être à l’esprit du temps, parce que c’est précisément à cette époque qu’on s’était mis à parler à haute voix du fait qu’au sein de l’URSS, l’Ukraine dépérissait, périclitait, se flétrissait et que même les Ukrainiens n’en voulaient plus. Elle ne « fleurissait » et ne « rayonnait » pas, contrairement à ce que chantaient obséquieusement les poètes ukrainiens soviétiques grassement payés. Ces mêmes poètes se mettaient déjà à composer avec emphase des poèmes sur les changements sociétaux. Mais dans son cas personnel, les nouvelles idées qu’il avait adoptées n’avaient rien de conjoncturel. Dans le monde ukrainien, il avait commencé à ressentir réellement ce mouvement intérieur et cette envie de vivre qui lui manquaient auparavant.

Il y avait longtemps qu’il écrivait de la poésie sans pour autant se prétendre poète. Ses tout premiers vers lui étaient venus en russe. Mais en ukrainien, il lui semblait plus facile d’écrire et le résultat paraissait porteur de plus de sens. Aujourd’hui encore, il lui arrive de se souvenir d’un vers écrit à l’époque, au dos d’un répertoire téléphonique. En ukrainien, il pouvait chanter n’importe quelle mélodie sans fausse note, bien que Dieu ne l’eût pas particulièrement doté d’une voix de chanteur. Mais chanter en chœur, avec les voix de ses amis qui renforçaient la sienne, ça c’était une sensation indicible ! Et jusqu’à présent ses oreilles conservaient les sonorités de ces chansons, plus de vingt ans plus tard.

Non seulement ses nouveaux amis parlaient ukrainien naturellement, mais ils ironisaient joyeusement au sujet de leur propre « ukrainité ». Pour aucun d’entre eux, l’ukrainien n’était la langue natale. En leur temps, ils avaient tous commencé à babiller en russe. C’était une autre affaire pour l’ukrainien, qui était devenu la langue de leur renaissance, la langue d’une existence plus intéressante et plus nourrie, la langue secrète d’un cercle d’élus. Oui, des gens comme eux il n’y en avait que très peu dans la capitale de l’Ukraine, même dans la nouvelle vague d’enthousiasme patriotique de ces années-là. Mais ils n’étaient pas des marginaux, des parias. Au contraire, ils étaient une sorte d’aristocratie. Pourtant, ils ne se préoccupaient pas de leurs origines biologiques. Ils parlaient avec légèreté de leurs grands-parents russes ou juifs et de leurs parents conformistes aux carrières soviétiques. Il remarqua Lada pour la première fois, alors qu’elle était en train de parler sans complexes de son père, directeur de la chaire de communisme scientifique de quelque université après avoir occupé un poste assez haut placé dans l’élaboration de l’idéologie soviétique.

On a les parents que Dieu nous a donnés, et on n’en aura pas d’autres. Ensuite, c’est à nous de faire notre propre vie.

Aujourd’hui, il comprend bien que ses amis de l’époque avaient leurs zones interdites : des sujets dont ils ne voulaient et ne pouvaient pas parler même avec leurs amis les plus proches. Mais ils lui avaient fait découvrir des aspects de la vie auxquels il n’aurait jamais eu accès du temps de l’Union soviétique. Ce n’est pas simplement qu’ils parlaient de sujets nationaux, ça n’aurait pas été intéressant. Mais ils parlaient de tout en ukrainien, et il avait l’impression qu’en russe, il n’aurait jamais découvert tous ces nouveaux pans de sens qui s’étaient ouverts à lui.

Il s’était mis à toujours tendre l’oreille quand, dans l’espace russophone et bruyant des rues, trams ou cafés de Kiev se faisaient entendre des mots d’ukrainien. Il écoutait attentivement qui parlait, et comment on parlait. Tiens, un mélange com-

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Eugenia KONONENKO ique d’ukrainien et de russe... La prononciation est ukrainienne, mais le lexique...

Dans son cercle d’amis, ils s’amusaient à imiter avec dédain ce mélange bâtard qu’on appelle le sourjik, produit d’inconscientes bouches ukrainiennes peu instruites. Ces filles de la campagne, quant à elles, parlent un pur ukrainien étonnamment bon.

Elles doivent être d’une localité où le sourjik n’a pas encore pris racine. L’ukrainien est véritablement leur langue natale. Mais elles n’ont pas conscience de la beauté de leur langue, et bientôt elles auront appris à causer comme à la ville, peut-être même sans l’accent de la campagne. Voilà un Galicien*, avec son lot de mots et intonations caractéristiques. Lui aussi parle sa langue natale. Quant à l’autre, son interlocuteur, c’est un russophone, ça s’entend tout de suite, mais dans une discussion avec un gars de l’ouest, il s’efforce de lui montrer qu’il peut sans problème passer à l’ukrainien s’il le faut. Pourtant, il n’arrête pas de buter sur les mots et de faire des fautes ridicules. Mais voici qu’un cadre soviétique prend la parole. D’une voix forte, il étale son ukrainien avec une correction à vous donner la nausée, mais d’impalpables signes le trahissent : il parle la langue morte de l’Ukraine soviétique. C’est d’ailleurs ainsi que parlait le professeur Nebouvaïko. Et si l’on entend de l’ukrainien prononcé ni comme à la campagne ni comme en Galicie, sans les maladresses kiéviennes ni l’emphase soviétique sentant le renfermé, c’est qu’on n’est pas loin de l’un des siens.

Traduit par Clément Ollivier

Fragment (English) 2. The best years of his life…

To concede that those few years at the turn of the eighties to the nineties were the best years of his life would mean accepting that nothing good would ever happen in his life from then on. And he didn’t want that.

So when was it that his life started to seem unreal? When he lost Lada? Or when he lost Ukraine? But did he? In today’s globalised world you don’t lose your homeland; it is incorporated in that universal globality. Occasionally, he would meet old acquaintances at international congresses. Some of them would travel on Ukrainian passports, some already had foreign ones.

Meanwhile, the years flew crazily by. They say that to emigrate is to be re-born.

How long had he been an American? Not quite as long as Miroslav. And what did he have to look forward to? The cruise to the Galapagos Islands he and Dunya were planning for their Christmas holidays? The conference in the Azores where he was invited to act as interpreter, a short time before that? Long gone are the days when the anticipation of future journeys aroused in him incredibly powerful sensations, * Originaire de Galicie, région de l’ouest de l’Ukraine où, du fait de son appartenance à l’empire Austro-hongrois et de sa soviétisation plus tardive (elle faisait partie de la Pologne entre deux guerres), la langue ukrainienne diffère légèrement de celle du reste de l’Ukraine et est parfaitement identifiable, entre autres, en raison de son vocabulaire aux apports germaniques et polonais et de sa prononciation.

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Eugenia KONONENKO virtually a cosmic shudder. The Ukrainian friends he meets around the world (he is bound to meet somebody in the Azores too) still find their long journeys mind-blowing. These journeys somehow prolong life, which proceeds on its way regardless of its quality. You see, life will pass by just as the Azores passed by, once wrote a Soviet Russian poet he found unforgettable, although generally speaking he is halfforgotten; he was a favourite of his mother’s — and probably still is.

The Soviet period in Russian literature was not Dunya’s cup of tea. Dunya loved Russian nineteenth-century prose, whereas reciting Russian poetry so loudly that the window-panes rattled was something from his mother’s repertoire. He hadn’t seen her for over five years.

She had been a Russian literature teacher in a Kyiv school, retired now, and he transfers a certain sum of money to her through the bank. And for over twenty years he hasn’t taken her into consideration, making his own decisions about his life-style.

But the verse written by Russian poets, which she declaimed with such enthusiasm as a commentary on everything that went on in the world or in their family, still resounded in his head — appropriately or inappropriately, as the case may be — rising to the surface of the mire which is the past.

I have instilled Mother Russia into you — as if with a pump! Mother loudly quoted the unequivocal Maria Tsvetaeva, poking her finger at her son, and there was something in that, after all.

He was distanced from the Russia that was pumped into him by his mother, indeed not just by her but by the Soviet way of life as a whole, with the help of Ukraine, which entered his life like an eccentric lover, a woman you perhaps wouldn’t marry, but would keep getting together with and breaking up with again until you died. One of you or the other. Well, it turned out that during his student years, traditionally considered to be the best years of your life, he had neither good friends nor a proper girlfriend. He began to experience all the powerful emotions of youth a little later, soon after the Soviet Union had begun to collapse and fall apart. During his final year at university he happened to attend a party at the house of some friends of his. And suddenly he found himself in a world of true fulfilment. There were young men there who you could talk to all night, yet in the morning you would leave with the feeling that you still had more to talk about. There were attractive girls who were not dying to get married, unlike the girls in his year at university, who would do so at the first opportunity that came along. And you could talk with them all night too, sometimes even forgetting how beautiful they were, although you could actually combine the one with the other. He stayed the night with a girl after the very first party, and this was the beginning of his national initiation. After that night, Ukrainian became the language of love for him. It was not Lada.

The girl thanked him for the joy they had shared, saying she would always have pleasant memories of that night. They still continued to see one another. There was no repetition; after all, things do not always work out. But they would sometimes exchange sultry glances and knowing smiles. If anything like that had taken place with one of the girls in his year, the hysterics would have started the very next day (nothing to do with PMT), and then the parents would have crucified her if she didn’t marry him as a matter of course.

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Eugenia KONONENKO Similar circles of sensible lads and trendy girls, trendy lads and sensible girls formed and broke up again in the multi-million city of Kyiv, many of them, and not only at the time of the break-up of the Soviet Union, and not only involving the Ukrainian language and Ukrainian ideas. But this was where he ended up, and they took him in. Ukrainian became a language of communication for him, practically for the first time ever, rather than the language of the classroom, of theatrical performances or of poetry, and that was brilliant. Perhaps this was in tune with the spirit of the times, as it was then that people started talking out loud about how under the Soviet Union Ukraine was wilting, weakening, deteriorating and becoming less and less relevant to Ukrainians themselves. And it was by no means ‘flourishing and radiant’ as well-paid Soviet Ukrainian poets ingratiatingly chanted. These very same poets were already beginning to compose effusive verse on the theme of changes in society. Personally, he had no particular agenda in adopting new ideas; in the Ukrainian world he truly began to feel a kind of inner harmony and will to live which he had never experienced before.

He had started writing poetry a long time ago, though he didn’t consider himself a poet.

The first verses he ever wrote were in Russian. Ukrainian rhyming verse was easier to compose, more melodious, and made more sense. Sometimes he can still spontaneously recall some of the lines he jotted down on the back of a notepad containing his addresses and phone numbers. He could sing any song without getting out of tune, although he wasn’t endowed with a strong voice. But singing in unison, when his friends’ voices powerfully augmented his own — that was an incredible feeling.

To this day he can hear in his head the sound of those songs from over twenty years ago.

His new friends not only spoke Ukrainian quite naturally, but they spoke with a cheerful irony on the topic of their own Ukrainianness. Strictly speaking, none of them was a native speaker of Ukrainian; all of them had at the appropriate stage in their lives begun their mumblings in Russian. It was a different matter with Ukrainian, which had become the language of their re-birth, a more fascinating language, more existential, the secret language of a select community. True, there were very few such communities in the Ukrainian capital, even during the short-lived wave of patriotic fervour of those years. But their members were not exiles or pariahs. On the contrary, they were a kind of nobility, though their biological origins were of no concern to them. They were at ease when speaking about their Russian or Jewish grandfathers and grandmothers and about their parents, bourgeois conformists or Soviet careerists. He had first noticed Lada when she openly spoke about her father, head of the department of scientific communism, previously responsible for Soviet ideology at a fairly high level. We have the parents God gave us, and they are the only ones we will have. So we have to form our own way of life.

Now he fully understands that his friends from those years also had their own nogo areas which they did not want to speak about; indeed they could not do so, even with their closest friends. But in those same years they revealed to him the aspects of life which had been inaccessible to him in Soviet days. They did not speak only about national issues; that would have been boring. But they spoke about everything

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Eugenia KONONENKO in Ukrainian, and at the time he felt that in Russian he would not have been able to discover the new meanings which were coming to light.

He began to pay attention every time he heard Ukrainian being spoken in the Russianspeaking hubbub of Kyiv’s noisy streets, trolleybuses and coffee houses. He always listened in to find out who it was. What a comical mixture of Ukrainian and Russian this is. The intonation is Ukrainian, but the vocabulary‌ In their social circles they indiscriminately parrot this hybrid speech coming from the mouths of the uneducated and semi-literate. These country girls, on the other hand, are speaking Ukrainian surprisingly well. This means they are from a locality where the Ukrainian-Russian hybrid has not yet become established. For them Ukrainian is truly the native tongue. But they are unaware how good their Ukrainian is; soon they will learn city speech, possibly even losing their rural accent. And here is a Galician with his characteristic vocabulary and intonation patterns. He too is speaking his native tongue. And the person he is talking with, normally a Russian speaker, as you can immediately tell, attempts to demonstrate that he is able to switch to Ukrainian quite readily, if necessary, when conversing with someone from Western Ukraine. But he keeps hesitating and making funny mistakes. All of a sudden he starts sounding like a Soviet establishment figure. He speaks Ukrainian in a loud, booming voice, with execrable accuracy, but certain elusive characteristics of his speech tell you this is the moribund language of Soviet Ukraine.

By the way, Professor Nebuvaiko used to talk like this. And when Ukrainian is spoken without rural or Galician intonation patterns, with no clumsy Kyivan expressions or inane Soviet sentimentality, this is an indication that somewhere close by one of our own people is talking.

Translated by Patrick John Corness

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Eugenia KONONENKO

Eugenia KONONENKO «The Executor»

Calvaria Publishers, 2014 124p.

ISBN : 978-617-719-209-0

« ANDRIY YARYLO » That night was the first time the writer Yaryna Andriychuk had a dream about Andriy Yarylo. They were walking together down a long avenue between rows of exceptionally beautiful trees displaying the golden colours of autumn, on their way to an unknown destination and exchanging some vague phrases. They both felt fantastic. Their fingers were intertwined, and this had a deeper meaning than if they had embraced. In the dream, their touching seemed very real. When she awoke she remembered feeling the warmth of his palm in hers. A sensation that had never actually existed. Her whole being was overwhelmed by an incredible sense of lightness and closeness. Then he said: on Saturday, we’ll see one another over there! He pointed out a little cottage in the middle of the field that stretched beyond the row of trees lining the road. At this point the dream was interrupted. This is how bad dreams are interrupted, when the nightmare reaches its climax. Yaryna was upset. Not because she had had a bad dream, but because she did not know how it ended. She was awake now, and she could not get back to sleep. In America she often had sleepless nights.

Knowing that she would be unable to get back to sleep, she switched on the light and reached for her netbook. It’s night-time here, whereas over there dawn had bro-

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Eugenia KONONENKO ken long since. Her mailbox is already full of messages sent today. “Andriy Yarylo died today, at five in the morning.” So he had come to say goodbye. He had come illegally — the laws of this world are quite severe. He could not stay longer. So that’s why she had woken up so suddenly.

Why had he died? I don’t think he was ill. It’s true that about a month ago he had written: “Yaryna, I’m exhausted!” But don’t we all feel utterly exhausted from time to time? Yaryna looked back through her previous emails and found the last message from him, written two weeks ago. Nothing special. It’s raining In Kiev, what’s it like where you are? How is your writing going on the other side of the ocean? My aunt was very keen to have your book, not the last one or the one before that, the one you published straight after the Orange Revolution. It’s out of print. Who can I contact to get hold of a copy? You gave me one, but people always steal your books from me. She had not replied, as the message was rather dull. Previous mails from Andriy Yarylo had been long, and sincere. After they stopped seeing one another they began corresponding, and perhaps she put more into her letters to him than she did into her books.

Yaryna got out of bed and went into the living room, where there were several books on the shelf that she had brought with her from home. She pulled out from amongst them a yellowing copy of her first book of short stories, which she autographed for him, but never gave him. She had given him a different copy, with the routine dedication: A souvenir for Andriy from Yaryna. Not this one, in which she had written on the first page: Why should I sign this book for you, recalling all we had, again?

It only speaks those things anew, once more your frenzied gasps, your pain ...

And the date — twenty years ago. She and Andriy already had many shared memories back then. Thanks to him, Yaryna had been through everything when she was still a schoolgirl. She had experienced nothing new after that. All subsequent events were mere variations on those experiences with Yarchyk in her school-days. All those ups and downs, the friendships and betrayals, frequently provided frameworks for her short stories and novels, and those children’s stories were truly authentic, because every time she completed another story, Yaryna Andriychuk felt, albeit just briefly, a sense of having fulfilled an obligation to the force that gives us earthly life.

Even in his first years at school, Andriy Yarylo managed to convince all around him that he was the best. He was the darling of virtually all the girls and virtually all the teachers. Apart from the maths teacher, whose favourite was Yaryna Andriychuk.

At first they both looked down with haughty disdain on the young lover-boy hero who groaned in despair when called up to the blackboard in mathematics lessons, unable to distinguish between a median of a bisector and a segment of a sector. Yaryna boasted at the time that she was not in love with that Casanova her friend Lily Maiko wanted to commit suicide over in year seven, in other words when she was 13, after Andriy dropped her.

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Eugenia KONONENKO Why did he walk me home all week! I didn’t think I could mean anything to him, wept Lily to Yaryna, who Yarchyk also tried to escort home after school. She gave him the cold shoulder, though, saying she didn’t go with anyone who couldn’t count up to ten. He shouted after her, counting from one to ten in several languages! Eins, zwei, drei! Four, five, six! Sept, huit, neuf! He could count to ten! Beyond that there are always calculators! And silly girl-mathematicians!

That was in year seven. In year eight Yaryna was constantly ill. It was a really difficult time: the endless tests, the screening using faulty Soviet apparatus, the awful salt-free diet. If a parent came to school for her homework, Andriy Yarylo was always around, and he promised to bring Yaryna whatever she needed. He visited her all year, first in hospital and then at home. Sitting next to her bed in the ward, he aroused envy in the other girls, even the older patients. Then she was allowed to leave the room with her visitor, and they sat on a tattered hospital couch. He came twice a week, sometimes more often. That was when he told her he didn’t want to be a dunce in the maths lessons. While she was doing her homework she also helped him to shake off of his stigma as an idiot at maths.

For New Year she was discharged from hospital, but her parents said she was too ill to go to a New Year’s Eve party. Things turned out even better though. Andriy Yarylo brought a tape recorder to play back for her all the music the year 8 students had danced to the previous evening. Her anxious parents decided that their sick daughter needed cheering up, so they did not give Andriy a hard time. At first they kept peeping into the room where Yaryna and Andriy were circling round in a slow dance. Then they dropped off. The fourteen year old lovers did not betray their parents’ trust. They did not even kiss; they just danced to the tape recorder until morning. But that was the night Yaryna gave herself to Andriy for good.

Until the end of year eight Andriy kept bringing Yaryna’s homework and taking her completed work back to school. Her parents sent her to a health resort for the summer. On the first day of school in year nine Andriy shared a desk with Lily Maiko.

For several days that autumn, Yaryna went through hell, except that (unlike Lily) she was not considering how to commit suicide but how to kill him, the sodding weasel. She was seriously working out how to do it. What saved the day? Her burning desire to outshine him in the literature class, where Yarchyk was unsurpassed. It has to be said, however, that he shot his bolt after that, sticking at the level of the star pupil in literature. The teachers knew what they were doing when they set up a career-oriented system at school, harnessing as the driving force not thirst for knowledge but enthusiasm to be the best performer. To this day Yaryna still remembers the extended poem by Shevchenko she learned by heart at that time, and the books about his works she read so as to be able to respond in the literature lessons better than that upstart Yarylo who had betrayed her. If she had kissed him in a corner as Lilka Maiko did, she would not have achieved that painful leap in knowledge, not only about Shevchenko but about herself and about something else very important as well.

“How insightful! A woman rescued from unrequited love, achieving a higher professional status than the lover she grieved over!” said a reader who telephoned Yaryna Andriychuk on a TV show, fascinated by her story named after a line from Shevchenko: In Vilnius, that glorious city.

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Eugenia KONONENKO “Andriy Yarylo liberated many of us from the girlish reserve instilled in us by family and school! Here’s to you, Andriy!” Lily, née Maiko, toasted him, raising her glass on the occasion of the twenty-fifth anniversary of their graduation.

“So he was the one you lost your virginity to, was he?” asked Yaryna, who was sitting next to her school friend at the graduation party.

“Oh no, no way! But I did go around with that boy wonder for some time and he was the one who gave me my confidence, actually.” After Andriy’s second betrayal Lily no longer contemplated suicide; she sought solace in the company of another lad, and she married him a few years later. “I had acquired communication skills by then, so I knew how to get along with the lads! It was all thanks to him!”

When Yaryna published her novel Communication Skills Lily objected, pointing out that she had not consented to the revelation of her experiences, even in literary form.

“Take me to court,” replied Yaryna Andriychuk. “It’ll be good publicity for me.”

The women laughed heartily. Yaryna had not explained to her old girlfriend that the story Communication Skills was not Lily’s but her own, Yaryna’s, experience with that same Andriy Yarylo. Her friend had merely suggested an apt title. Did he and Lily have conversations like those she had with him during the year when she was seriously ill? Oh God, my hair still stands on end at the thought of the torture of that treatment. Despite all that, it was still the happiest year of her life. An extremely positive experience inextricably linked with an equally powerful negative one. Hell and Paradise are not the Nether Regions and Heaven; they both co-exist in everyone’s soul, in everyone’s life.

Her relationship with Andriy did not come to an end when they left school. For several years they fell out and made up again, saw one another and made several attempts to form an adult relationship. But fate supervened. Yaryna spent a couple of days going out of her mind from the suspense after agreeing to go to his aunt’s apartment. But Andriy met her nervously at the trolleybus stop, apologising that his aunt’s planned journey was off. Yaryna did not want to see him for six months after that and she did not know to escape from this new circle of hell. Then the aunt did go away as she was supposed to, but the moment they embraced a fire started in the next-door flat, filling his aunt’s whole house with foul-smelling acrid smoke. Yaryna kept her distance from Andrew once more, convincing herself that this time it was for good. Fate still drove them together time after time; nevertheless it never worked out for them.

“I really love your story Kept Apart! I don’t remember, perhaps we were in adjacent beds in some hospital and I told you everything about myself?” At a meeting in the local library a woman told her of her impressions of what she had read.

Yaryna Andriychuk’s life had more to it than being kept apart from Andriy Yarylo.

She got married and had a son. Yes, she called the son Andriy, and his father did not object. For a start, he knew nothing about Yarchyk, and then Andriy is the best name for a boy, after all. Later she got divorced and re-married. Both her husbands took an interest in her work. The first one jealously searched through her stories, looking for allusions to other relationships and he got very annoyed that they were so hard to find: she must have encrypted them! The second one still makes occasional efforts to

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Eugenia KONONENKO get her recognised as a popular writer for glossy magazines. He advises her to include as much mysticism and eroticism as possible in her writing. But what’s the point of this eroticism when she has never shared a bed with the man her work is actually addressed to!

The idea of what he might be like disturbed Yaryna Andriychuk for a long time.

This idea became especially unbearable when Yaryna had not broken off her relationship with her ex-husband before she started a relationship with the present one.

I don’t compare them with one another, I compare each of them with the Andriy Yarylo of my childhood dreams, she told herself.

“Your story What is he like, actually? is simply fantastic!” a university lecturer whispered to Yaryna Andriychuk after a meeting between the writer and some students. “I am very grateful that you had the courage to write about this!”

“I really like the text too,” the writer replied sincerely, because just by writing it she had got rid of the accursed question tormenting her ever since year eight, as to whether the teachers knew what was in the mind of an outstanding student, a medal-holder.

“Do you know you are a writer of genius, Yarka?” said Andriy Yarylo on the phone to her one day; until then he had at best praised the covers of her books or asked how she had managed to arrange for them to be reviewed in a reputable newspaper which everybody read. And now Andriy Yarylo was impressed by her story On Maidan Square, one of the few that were quite unconnected with him personally. From which layers of her unconscious had this story come? The artist had finally discovered a previously hidden inspiration. He was creating his finest triptych at the very time when all Kyiv was bringing buckets of hot food for those standing in the Maidan.

It was a time when everyone was involved in major events, forgetting about their personal affairs. There was more to it than that; it was a time when it was shameful to be concerned about personal affairs. Everyone had to go to the Square, shouting “Yes!” He locked himself in the studio on St. Sophia Street which leads to Maidan Square, painting a triptych which has nothing to do with the Orange Revolution.

But the power of the Maidan is fuelling the sacred flame of his creativity in some incomprehensible way.

My grandfather was hiding away, enthusiastically writing the story of his life, while everyone was celebrating Victory Day. He was writing with a lead pencil in a pre-war notebook! At the time there was a tremendous, wild enthusiasm in our society, though it did not last long. I kept this notebook of my grandfather’s. It’s a remarkable thing! But this isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. Where did you dig up your storyline? Anyway, you’re such a terrific writer, not judging anyone, not praising anyone. So where are you coming from as an author, Andriychuk?”

After that phone call of his they met and spent almost the whole night wandering around Kyiv. It was like resuming after so many years the conversations they had when she was ill. In those days they argued over many very adult issues, debating them at length. They also told one another about their families, about their grandparents. He told her a lot about that aunt, pointing out her windows on the fourth floor of the building they were just passing. When he brought her home, she ventured to give him a new collection of her short stories, unabashed this time at the passionate dedication:

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Eugenia KONONENKO May castigating fate have no effect!

May worlds of fancy reach some blithe abyss!

My noble, gentle creep, I love you, yes!

“What makes me such a creep?” you will object.

“What makes me a creep?” Andriy Yarylo wondered a few days later, really hurt as he read the dedication. “What makes me a creep?” Is it just about the idiotic goings-on at my aunt’s place?

“Because in year eight you visited me when I was ill so you could catch up in maths. You took advantage of me.”

“Just the opposite! Mathematics was my excuse to visit a wonderful girl! I already knew then that you had a brilliant future! You really have no idea whether I am sentimental or not, actually...”

“And I don’t want to know.”

Communication between them became awkwarder than it had ever been. Those inept dialogues, the worst of which was that they led to nothing. Andriy was not living with his wife just then (the one he got together with again, the one who had just been widowed), and his disastrous longing to clarify their relationship tormented him several hours a day. He phoned Yaryna, trying to convince her about something, reminding her of school, of their dates after school, of their chance — but inevitable — meetings later on, when they both had families: “Remember, we met at Podil, by the Boat Station! And you were telling me at the time that I hadn’t read any books after school! Actually I had read those you hadn’t!” Sociologically speaking, Andriy Yarylo had long since ceased to be a star in any social category; he was an unremarkable man who had also ceased to be a creative woman’s muse. Her new story The Sad Epilogue would have its readers too. But for some reason she was reluctant to publish it.

Perhaps it was just to get away from pointless conversations with Andriy Yarylo that Yaryna Andriychuk agreed to go to America with her husband for a year, because it had previously been agreed that he would go on his own, while she remained in Kyiv. But here she is. Distance heals and adjusts. She began to correspond with Andriy. Unexpectedly, however, the tone of the correspondence became tense, rather like their conversations during her illness. She began to put more effort into her letters to him than into her story.

Her husband went to New York for a few days on business and she was left alone in the large American house they were accommodated in for the year. It was just then that Andriy Yarylo appeared in her dream.

No, he wasn’t asking her to come to him. She would live as long as destiny allowed. There was a great deal worth living for in her life. But she and Andriy Yarylo would meet in some other parts. After all, as Lily Maiko said, he had given them all unique communication skills. And he had also given Yaryna Andriychuk the joy of creativity, that divine state which can be appreciated only by those who knew him. But he was the cause of the greatest suffering in her life too. It was because of him that Yaryna was trying to prove something during her sleepless nights, emitting crazy impulses into the unknown, and that was hell for her, a time when she bit her hands until they bled, bitterly gritting her teeth and shuddering as though she was

48

Eugenia KONONENKO undergoing electric shock treatment. And then she began to write a new story. The more tormenting her inner monologue became, the better the story turned out, the one Andriy Yarylo had not read much of, but which other readers received with greater understanding.

Now it was all over. No, now it was all just beginning! Her best writing was yet to come. Because he had arranged their meeting on other shores in a few days’ time.

THERE time is non-existent, however. THERE people aren’t kept apart from one another either. Her stories will involve eroticism and mysticism. But her husband will still just shrug his shoulders with a sigh. Because there is no way her writing will be suitable for glossy magazines.

Translated by Patrick John Corness

« THE GHOSTS’ GRAVEYARD » The house stood overlooking the raging sea at the edge of a sun-scorched plain and it was indecently spacious. I stayed there in distant Soviet times when in our country people lived three or four souls to a room. In those days, if a couple had a room to themselves they were considered lucky. Suddenly I found myself in a residence where there were more rooms than people. This house had none of the numerous unsightly extensions which were so common in Crimean resorts. That building overlooking the sea was built on a grand scale from the outset.

Slippery stone steps led straight down to the sea. There was no beach. The foaming waves crashed on the sharp rocks that menacingly surrounded anyone daring enough to go down there. The only place you could spread out beach mats was up above, next to the cliff edge. The owner of the house, a highway engineer who left the house before dawn, could drive you to the beach in the village on his way to work.

But you would still have to return on foot, and that would mean walking several kilometres in the blazing sun.

This was my most wonderful seaside holiday. Even if there was no wind, the sea below was incredibly wild and uncontrolled and the spray splashing onto the sharp crags reached as far as the edge of the cliff, just where this wonderful house stood.

I don’t remember whether it had a garden. I think there were several trees. But I clearly remember the large sitting room with no windows, just a glass ceiling. And numerous doors to adjacent rooms, painted in various colours.

The landlord’s daughter lived in Simferopol. His son was disabled. He moved around in a wheelchair or on crutches. He was a good-looking long-haired young man of about thirty. He was infirm in the legs, but they were not grotesquely misshapen or disproportionately short like those of many disabled people I had seen on the Crimean coast. He just had poor control of his legs.

He occupied a few rooms in his father’s house. I never was in his bedroom, and didn’t actually know what colour its door was. He invited me into the library, where

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Eugenia KONONENKO the windows looked north towards the steppe, and the door was purple. Or into the office with the red door and windows looking out over the sea, where the walls were hung with paintings of urban landscapes.

“What use are pictures of the sea to me?” he asked. “It’s always before my eyes. I don’t know whether I’ll ever get to a city. When it’s dark outside the window I wander around those cities. Until I feel that I’ve got my feet wet.” — He nodded towards a city in the rain, painted in oils.

“What city is that?” I asked.

“I don’t know. That doesn’t matter. But I know very well what’s round that bend in the road and what’s in the courtyards of those buildings. Until the sun sets, I look out of the window. At the steppe, or at the sea. It’s no coincidence that down there by the sea, for several kilometres to the left and to the right of the cliff, it isn’t possible to swim. That’s to keep visitors to the resort away from here. Except those we invite ourselves. There’s no beach, because over there” — Roman pointed the edge of the steppe — “is the ghosts’ graveyard.”

“The ghosts’ graveyard? What’s that?”

“Over there, next to the steppe, there’s a big ghosts’ graveyard. Perhaps the biggest one in the world.”

“Do ghosts really have graveyards? Is this some sort of anomalous zone?”

Roman did not answer these questions, so I asked another one.

“Well, whose ghosts are buried in that graveyard?”

“This is the story I am working on now. But not in Russian,” — he spoke the second sentence in a whisper.

“In Ukrainian?” I asked him.

Roman and I conversed in Russian. But his massive library included quite a number of books in Ukrainian. In Kyiv I knew several people who spoke Russian but wrote poetry in Ukrainian.

“No, I write in that language,” said Roman with an odd sort of smile, gesticulating in the air.

“Which one? — That one?”

“You’re a programmer, aren’t you? I’m sure you know that besides Fortran and PL you can write programs in codes.”

“Yes, of course. I can’t do it myself, but in our office there are lots of people who actually do write programs in code.”

“There are codes in natural languages as well, of course.”

“Are they common to all languages?”

Roman nodded and his eyes lit up. I have never seen anyone’s eyes blaze with such enthusiasm.”

“And do you know that, er,… proto-language?”

“Living for many years between the sea and the steppe, and even close to a ghosts’ graveyard, never setting foot elsewhere, you discover whatever you want to know.”

Then it occurred to me that it was not only Roman’s legs that were disabled, and I was rather scared. I did not ask what characters the codes of the proto-language were written in. I was afraid he would start showing them to me. It was comforting to know that the mistress of the house, Roman’s mother, an extremely friendly, gentle

50

Eugenia KONONENKO woman, was always nearby. She came to the library or to the study where Roman and I were meeting, and she would bring a bowl of cold fruit drink or a weak dry wine.

That woman inspired total confidence. Even if her son was crazy, her presence would ensure that he would not cause any trouble.

At supper, Roman mentioned the ghosts’ graveyard and the owner of the house, the highway engineer, said he could take me there on his day off, as it was very close by.

“What is it?” I repeated my question — “Is it an anomalous zone?”

“It’s a ghosts’ graveyard,” replied the highway engineer. I glanced at the landlady and she nodded — that’s right, a ghosts’ graveyard.

“We can go there on my day off and you’ll see for yourself what it is.”

Early on the Saturday evening, when the scorching sun had subsided, the highway engineer reminded me about his proposal. I asked whether Roman would be going.

He replied that there was only room for one passenger in the cab of his truck and that Roman often went there anyway. Just the two of us went. It did not take long to drive into the middle of the peninsula — about fifteen minutes. We stopped in the middle of the steppe. To begin with, I didn’t notice anything apart from some sort of fallen pillar amongst the motionless yellow grass. But Roman’s father nudged me towards a large hollow. I took a few steps down the gentle slope. I felt a powerful wind whining in my ears. That was all the more astonishing because there was a deathly silence in the steppe. That wind whining in the hollow drove me crazy; it did my head in.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Roman’s father.

If it hadn’t been for this man’s confident voice, I really would have been scared.

But his “Don’t be afraid” was so reassuring that I took several steps across the scorching ground, which just slightly, but noticeably, shifted underfoot. The whine in my ears grew louder and I felt a momentary desire to proceed and discover the ghosts’ graveyard.

“Does Roman tell all your visitors about this place?”

“I don’t remember who else he has told. He trusted you so much, you see.”

“Is he really writing a book about the ghosts’ graveyard?”

“It isn’t a book, and he isn’t writing anything down; he is creating something though. Mother says when I am at work he often sleeps in the daytime, but gets up in the night and goes hobbling to his study.”

I did not venture to ask what was meant by “It isn’t a book, and he isn’t writing anything down.” I had been let into some bizarre secret, but I couldn’t quite grasp what it was about.

“When Roman and I come here, we sit on this hot stone. It’s very beneficial for his bad legs,” said the highway engineer, pointing to the fallen pillar.

“But what’s this pillar doing here?” I asked, bending down to touch the fluting with my fingers.

The highway engineer shrugged his shoulders.

“Roman says it’s the remains of a gateway.”

“So there once used to be a wall here?”

“Roman will tell you more about that. He says that if there’s a gateway a wall isn’t actually necessary.”

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Eugenia KONONENKO That is how my last evening went in this strange house. In the blackness outside the window, was it the sound of the sea, or perhaps the steppe, or the whine coming from the ghosts’ graveyard in the stillness of the night? I would have expected it to be eerie, but I recall enjoying how enthralling it was. Tomorrow at dawn — probably it’s today by now — I would be leaving this place.

“Have you packed all your things? Well, don’t go to sleep, because you haven’t even heard the night-time sounds here. You’re leaving, and I’ll once again sleep in the daytime and at night I’ll do the things I told you about. It requires so much effort — you’ve no idea!”

“But Roman, if you mean a book in some heavenly, angelic language, or a proto-language, don’t you think such books actually already exist, and that the authors re-create them in their own languages rather than writing them?”

Roman’s eyes lit up with joy. Probably because his companion had touched on what disturbed him most of all. He stood up, retrieving his crutches from the back of the wheelchair, and took a few steps towards me: «It’s like this. Look.» Roman pointed to the shelves of his bookcase. «Amongst these books there are not so many that are scanned from there. But there are some.

This one here, for example.» He showed me a small book; I had the impression that it was a translation into Ukrainian from Japanese.» I just had this feeling about it, although it is a translation! Whoever undertook the translation of such a book must know whether it was an original work or scanned from Heaven!

“Evidently, most writers don’t have access to these timeless books.”

“The texts, not the books; you must use the correct words,” said Roman, slightly irritated.

“Yes, that’s right. There they aren’t yet books. Whereas here, on Earth, there are so few good books. But in your wonderful home one can find one’s way into heavenly libraries. Nowhere else have I had such dreams; now I understand…”

I was interrupted by a crash which made me jump, and I paused. It was Roman’s crutches falling to the floor. He stood before me, looking like a prophet, even though he was wearing a shirt and jeans, not a long gown. But his long hair, the enthusiasm in his eyes! I had never seen such a look on anyone’s face in real life, be it one of inspiration or of insanity, such intensity of feeling; no, only in world-famous paintings.

He shuffled towards me with difficulty, telling me in a hoarse voice: “Look, I am not scanning a timeless text! I am creating it! When I have created it, I will be totally drained! It will exhaust my arms, my throat, and my capacity for human speech.”

What happened next? Next, Roman’s mother came running in and supported him under his arms to prevent him falling over; I would not have known what to do with him. She dragged him to a chair and I rushed to pick up his crutches, but she said, gently but firmly: “Go to your room and get a little sleep. You have to travel tomorrow.”

The following day, at dawn, she came out to see me off. She gave me some dough pasties and a small jar of stewed fruit. The highway engineer gave me a lift to the village, where he left me to wait at the bus stop to catch the bus to Simferopol.

52

Eugenia KONONENKO I never visited that house again. I never again had the opportunity to see Roman’s sister, who I met on the programming course. It was thanks to her that I had found myself in that Crimean house on the cliff-top. No material trace of my stay there remains — no souvenir, no photograph. And yet that is not true. I do have one memento, and it is actually more than that. Roman told me he always gave guests the gift of a book from the library. The one the guest chose. I had unashamedly chosen a collection of poetry by Marina Tsvetaeva which in those days cost more on the black market than my monthly income.

“May I?” I asked.

“You may,” said Roman, with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders, and I accepted this book and placed it in my suitcase. When I took it out at the bus stop while waiting for the bus to Simferopol, in the corner of a page I noticed two symbols carefully inscribed in purple ink. They were not Armenian or Georgian characters, nor were they Hebrew or Hindi letters, nor Bengali letters, and not Chinese, not Japanese and not Korean characters. They were the heavenly characters of the ancestral mother of all earthly languages which Roman, the son of the highway engineer, used to create the text about the ghosts’ graveyard. And if he succeeded in creating it through his incredible exertions, perhaps in years to come some writer will be fortunate enough to scan it from its heavenly carriers and record it in some earthly language.

Translated by Patrick John Corness With thanks to Svitlana and Bogdan Babych of the University of Leeds for their helpful review of the translation.

Oleksandr MYKHED «Pontyyizm»

Calvaria Publishers 216p.

ISBN : 978-617-719-200-7

« THE BLOOD » The war reached on and on with its tentacles, taking new casualties. The gods demanded fresh blood, and so did the wounded soldiers.

Life-long lines of propaganda-driven patriotic youths who cared more about ads than their parents crowded blood drive stations.

Blood was in abundance. Soldiers, though, were few and precious. Propaganda slightly juggled the facts, turning hundreds wounded into hundreds of thousands of heroes.

This feeling of an imminent global end turned the last days leading to the catastrophe into an insane carnival. Those days, people exchanged not only clothes and status, but their very bodies, fornicating in all imaginable ways and positions, at times forming long human centipedes arching in ecstasy. It seemed like people crossed the last threshold of lust. They were ever desperate for new and risky ways of getting high. And as it often happens, medics were the ones who helped them satisfy this vile need. When it came to a new drug or other ways of intoxicating oneself into a delirium of pleasure, medics were the first to offer a solution. Besides, they, like nobody else, always have access to all the right stuff, don’t they?

54

Oleksandr MYKHED For several months now, they have been possessed with what they called Bloody Mary. «Half blood, half alcohol, no shaking or stirring», they told each other, passing the good news further and further. The vast stockpiles of blood and alcohol gave a feeling of security — a thing almost impossible in this country.

When this simple recipe hit the social networks, in went viral overnight. At that time, social networks have seen many glorious rises and painful falls. Every war refilled them with new life, making them the way to pass information about guerrilla flash mobs behind enemy lines. When the wars ended, social networks went back to pictures of cute kittens and crude political jokes, gradually fading away until the next war exploded.

Tired of cyberwars in cyberspace, people looked to reach out to each other in real life. This brought about a protest movement called Fakebook that organized sports clubs and mountain hiking trips. All these clubs, though, eventually moved back to cyberspace, creating interest-based social networks. Their users were not as numerous, yet the sheer quality of the discussions pulled people from real life back into cyberspace.

The two major forces uniting people were the same as always — sex and religion.

The former united people into a social network called Facecock, and the latter — into Faithbook. Later on, they integrated into a network that high-brow intellectuals believed was all about «prostitution of spirit» and loathed viciously, secretly registered at the new Faithsuck anyway.

Inspired by these websites, two young geniuses who had less than thirty years of age for two, created Bloodbook, a network where anyone could leave information about their blood type and warn of all possible risks, and most importantly, their preferences as to whose blood they wanted to drink, or suck in, as it was cool to say in this emerging subculture.

The network grew exponentially. Users exchanged contacts and sent vials of their blood to others, just to try, — testers, as they called them.

This didn’t last too long, though. As usual, the postal service intervened — first, taking these suspicious vials from the mail, and later, when its employees got the hang of it, hunting these letters with more vehemence than war mail that occasionally contained especially loathsome and thus valuable pictures coming straight from the battlefield.

Eventually, Bloodbook started its own network of boutiques with a dedicated delivery service, where everyone could pick a flavor — the donor’s blood type, appearance and a variety of alcohol to suck in with the bodily fluid.

The stuff was called different names in different parts of the world. Some called it oil, others knew it as Rodina, but most called it fairytale, and its fans became known as fairies.

The business expanded, and the two juvenile founders who purportedly «have never even tasted this shit», registered the «Blood-Ties®» trademark, expanding their blood ties further and further, contacting ever new dealers and eventually supplying their product to the nation›s leaders, who have been longing for their people›s blood for a while now.

55

Oleksandr MYKHED *** Fairytale became especially popular among homosexuals, who have already won their battle for every right imaginable and continued their blissful existence developing their own philosophy of life — a philosophy that inadvertently led homosexuals to perceive themselves as the next stage of human development, defying boundaries and transnational corporations, ages and ideologies. They called each other simply homo, or playfully — homie.

The understanding of their superiority was inevitable, partly due to a critical mass of high-brow intellectuals constituting the mainstay of homies.

They explained the popularity of fairytale among themselves very simply, albeit using fairly convoluted language. One of the spiritual leaders of homies explained it this way during an on-line sucking ceremony: — The homie nation was made in a way that our sexual life becomes the reflection of our spiritual life, and vice versa. What am I talking about? It’s very simple.

When explaining this world’s phenomena, going through your masses of knowledge, we artificially obtain new sense from our intellectual organs, which, by the way, at times appear to be our most sexual organs. We suck in essences of new knowledge, new theories, thoughts of others, making them our own. And we do all of this while standing on our knees in this miserable and regressing society. Finally, let me say this. The sum of our knowledge and experience doesn’t allow us to enter a normal relationship with this society. No matter what lubricants of philosophical views we attempt to use, it will always be painful for us to come together with this world. No matter how great our desire is to grasp the whole axis of creation, — the spiritual leader made a long pause, letting his words sink into his audience, — fairytale gives us a chance to redefine our relationships. We give other fairies our very selves, our bodily fluids. But at the same time, we consume, we suck in, others. We complement each other through these blood ties, — the leader raised his cup-styled vial and solemnly continued, — I suck to the very bottom! *** Social networks did their job, giving faceless masses an illusion of real communication. Afraid of the omnipresent war, few had the courage to leave their homes.

At times, when propaganda eased its slimy grip, people reluctantly returned to blood drive stations. But when rumor went that the blood they donate went into state reserves that were instantly embezzled by corrupt politicians, the stations went empty again.

But this was no hurdle to true love and fairytale delirium. Those who preferred especially twisted pleasures formed a new network based on Bloodbook, calling it Facecook, originating from an ancient phrase — “cook that face”.

The media even found an antique word in its archives to describe those people — extremists. The few enemies of the homies instantly called them excremists. Facecookers left their contacts in the Net, but they didn’t wait until the next delivery.

They made it to the right place, in the right time.

56

Oleksandr MYKHED They broke the wicked circle of virtual self-isolation that kept kids home from school, substituting it with distance learning, their parents at home teleworking, while instant messaging their kids. The same went for imaginary wars, increasingly often created in film studios like genetically engineered germs.

The so-called extremists broke the unseen walls that have gradually formed between people. They would come together deep in the night, take their half-broken bicycles and go miles and miles seeking one thing and one thing only — a new flux of fresh fairytale. Like predators, they were drawn to the smell of fresh blood and alcohol. These extremists, as always, had many intellectuals among them, just as thirsty for new theories and experiences as they were for blood. *** They continued to keep the secret. Although they visited each other quite often and their real names were just a few searches away, they were determined to keep the mystery and use their nicknames in real life. XeSuck and VitAnal were seeing each other for a few months now. They were like two old friends, believing that there’s nothing better in the whole world than a drink with an old buddy. A drink with a bit of blood, that is — but that’s only to spice things up a bit.

There was no need for physical contact. They could just watch another porn video on their own — XeSuck even had the words «Everyone is lost in loneliness of his jerk off» intricately tattooed on his arms. They didn’t even want to waste their time for the filth of the body that they have learned to carefully avoid during the long times of self-imposed isolation.

What was interesting, though, was sucking in some fairytale and tale-telling, as it became known among homointellecuals. They would often sit on-line, each with his own laptop, and searched for different questions. People have long lost the ability to answer questions on their own, preferring to address them to a faceless crowd of carefully retouched profile pictures.

Often, they would talk about the stupidity and treachery of women of the country: — The ones who are already on their knees have nowhere left to fall — one of them said, and the other nodded. *** The other time, they talked about men.

— Here’s another story. A man helped his wife, giving her his kidney. Like, he saved the bitch’s life and all. And guess what she did? A few months after leaving the hospital, she ran off to another guy. Now the donor guy is pondering over the question: “If another dude is sleeping with a part of me, can I consider myself a homie?”

They couldn’t stop laughing over this one.

Through his tears, VitAnal answered: — You know, there’s no limit to these women’s tricks. I heard about one who went around teaching others how to live. Like, she went for a ten-day vacation abroad.

57

Oleksandr MYKHED There, sha managed to marry and stay. Now she sued half of her fool of a husband’s house. “So here’s how you gotta live, mah ladies”.

Their conversations weren’t much different to weekly celeb gossip with a bias on human stupidity. They looked like a pair of old friends, always trying to impress each other with more and more and more unbelievable stories: — Remember that boy who wanted to get oral from a star before he died?

— Something like that.

— Well, remember, this boy, like a teenager, got this terminal blood disease. And his last wish was to get oral from some movie star. His parents went all around the world, got this whole media scandal going. Like, what does she care? She has a life to live and the boy didn’t so why did she have to be so mean?

— True. There’s no limit to women’s treachery.

— Tell me about it. They say the boy never forgave his parents cause they couldn’t give him his last wish. *** Another time, high on fairytale they talked about blood and extremists.

— Your blood is you. It’s your ideal identifier, something like a fingerprint. It stays like this forever. It’s constant.

— Homie people. We’re like blood. We go beyond races, beyond borders. We’re like blood. Blood divides people into blood types. We divide them into two types only.

— You know, blood divided people since times immemorial. Cut people into classes, castes, groups. Like, the rumor went they were looking for a cook in some village with this or that blood type, or a banker with some definite type.

— There’s more to it, too. I read that a person with A-blood type is a universal donor. And those with AB+ are universal recipients. You see where I’m getting at?

— Not really.

— Blood defines you. You can give it to others, or vice versa — you can receive it.

Before they invented the tale we had to decide whether we take it in ourselves or give it away to someone else. See? But this is the next level...

They were on the same page, love blossomed between them and they shared thoughts without words — like there was a wireless network between them.

— Then, a step towards life — the second one continued. You can be a creator and give your work to the world. Be a donor, invest yourself. Or you can be an ideal recipient.

— Exactly. Born to receive. And depending on the era, one ore the other group survives. The same book said that blood defines our ability to survive. To transmit diseases. To resist them. Whole countries died in epidemics. But just a few...

— Just a few survived — the second one continued, as if reading his friend’s words from his eyes. — Now is the same. We’ll see who ends up surviving todays wars and germs and stuff.

— Recipients or donors.

Pause.

— We’ve got the same blood, VitAnal said.

And they kissed for the first time, smearing blood over their lips and beards.

58

Oleksandr MYKHED *** They talked about art.

— What’s real art about?

— Love and blood. Which is what we’re doing. *** They talked about their country.

— I’ve been thinking about life here and remembered about this wife who took a dump missing the toilet. And her husband made her eat all of it. And she, all in tears and shit, turned to the anonymous crowd with retouched faces, asking: “Should I live with a man like this?”

— Yeah, we haven’t even missed the toilet yet, and the state is already making us eat shit every day. *** Another time, a different story came up.

— Remember this dude who had surgery on his eyes and he started seeing again?

— Yeah, he had to rebuild more than half of his house right afterwards…

— And divorce his wife. You know, if only we regained sight all at once thanks to some kind of great revelation, we’d rebuild our country.

— And get that cheating bitch of a wife to resign. *** Then, they talked about other worlds.

— If you look closer, you’ll see that this isn’t even the third world. No. — This is a real end of the world.

— An end affected by some deadly disease, where we all jump over the abyss. *** They talked about death.

Never before has there been such a mix of Eros and Tanatos as on these sites. Vids of gruesome bodies of soldiers and victims of war torn apart. And the words “You might also like:” on the sidebar, with links to porn videos with their slutty widows.

— Libido and mortido have never been so close, but such content makes great traffic for moderators.

— Your thoughts have gone haywire under this fairytale stuff. Did you OD or something?

The other one laughed and answered: — Nah, I just can’t find any other words to describe this smut.

And suddenly:

59

Oleksandr MYKHED — Why does it happens that once we start getting something in this life, we are instantly crossed out from the list of the living? Like, erased from the book of life.

And what are gonna leave in it? — his voice turned into yelling, — hundreds of accounts? Thousands of likes? A pile of shit, that’s what!

— After you die, all that’s left are your undeleted comments, an unviewed news feed and tens of low-quality, miscomposed snapshots of your funeral, where everyone tagged themselves and wrote even more comments, shedding virtual tears.

He said the last couple of words almost silently.

In a moment, both started laughing.

— Come here, come to me.

They hugged for the first time, amazed at the tenderness and warmth streaming from their bodies. Somewhere deep inside, they felt a rising tide of desire — an antidote to death.

— Let me suck you in, dear.

They smile. Their eyes meet and they need no more fairytales. No more words.

They’re of the same blood.

Translated by Anton Shpigunov