Touch of Christmas
Now, snow began to whirl and wail. That not the way it had snowed in the morning – timidly it had been falling, very-very softly as if scattered in occasional handfuls. And now the yard became hard to discern through all those snowflakes, and everything became hazy and unsteady. Philipp watched the winding movements of snow and thought that, at last, almost everything was all right, and he had just started to feel quite normal. So then he did well. He broke out hard drinking and got a job though a poor one. …He had voluntary retired from the law-enforcement agencies, but he always was a skillful technician so he decided to make both ends meet repairing different cellphones and digital cameras. And the heart although played pranks, but still was OK, on the whole. Forty days passed since he had buried his wife Ida, so it was quite the time to enter some limits, after all, there was no point in going off his head. She definitely wouldn’t like this sniveling, she would already knock on a table top with her little fist, with the middle finger bone: “Philya! Come on!”
He looked back. Did she really call him or did he think he heard that?
He ought to go and pick up the son from aunt Elina. Why was he there, attending some other school instead of his own? Here everything was customary and close, but the aunt harped on her “no, no” and “there it would be painful for him”… But no one knows, whether it would be painful or not. Here all his friends are, and there? What has he got there? When Borka calls (mother taught him to report), everything seems to be as it was. But when he forgets to give a telephone call, that’s where a gap begins.
Well, and aunt Elina was too sly; she could easily prevent Borka from returning home. She had already made those hints for dozens of times, even when Ida had been alive. For dozens of times: let you have a rest from him, oh, let him stay with me. And what if the child doesn’t want? It would end nothing good then.
It was almost the middle of December, bur Philipp didn’t want any holidays, he averted his thoughts from them, pretended not to care about it…
What kind of holidays could there be? And who had told that it was obligatory to celebrate any? And why, damn it, the custom of the New Year feasts and New Year booze-ups is so catching? You know, you eat and drink the whole night through. And what does it lead to? It leads to your inability to get up the next morning and nothing more: the fridge is choked up with food, but you don’t want anything. You don’t even want salmon, that obligatory minimum of the holiday. …And, by the way, what was he looking for, something, connected with fish?
He sighed, because with Ida he had followed all that customs like a good little boy. Ideally, it should be done now, as well. Idea Martova, that was his wife’s maiden name – probably she had got that name because of the whims of her high-ranking daddy. But yet how many times did Philipp make fun of it, he had to confess that the name was just for her – so honest and noble she was. And all that she heard on TV, she took at face value and became all eyes. And when in passing having entered the kitchen, she came across either family soap opera or political show on TV; she began to breathe deeply, being excited. Well, to tell the truth, he tried to ram home his idea about death squads, because in many political assassinations, say, in those of Starovoytova, Schekotchikhin and Kholodov a common trace could be found. Oh, no, that thought was not connected with his former work, he merely compared some facts. But she always only waved her hands, having meant she didn’t want to hear all that.
Slow and unhurrying she was, with her grey eyes, usual outdated pony-tail and locks that constantly came out of the hairdo and fell on her cheeks. She was so cozy, that he couldn’t but catch her and make her stay near…
“Philiiiipp!” “Well, yes?” But again it wasn’t she; it was the memory that called him. The eyes became hot from coming up tears. “Enough, stop it!” - He pulled himself up. There it was, he found it at last, the recipe of salted salmon! Ida never wanted to buy it ready-made in the shop, but always salted fish herself. Say, three weeks before the New Year, they bought raw salmon or, sometimes, even trout, and their kitchen was turned into a real saltery! He peeled the fish’s skin and she cut it into pieces and put them into deep dishes, richly sprinkled them with salt and sugared a little bit. Borka used to drop in at the kitchen (it always attracted him when they cooked together). “Why so? It’s watching. Ugh!” – And he pointed at the fish’s head. “Borka, we will cook it and it will be super on the New Year! See?”. And then they cooked such tiny rolls with cheese and olives. That was delicious…
At that thought Philipp got dressed and rushed to the supermarket. It was weekend, the shop was overcrowded and long lines were standing for the checkout counters. But, well, if he had come, then he had to stay and stand in the line. Except salmon, he also took a beetroot, some dried apricots, some nuts, macaroni in the form of a bird’s nest, ham “Tambovsky okhotnichiy”, a pack of tomato juice for himself and peach juice for her. It was important to remember that spicy and smoke-dried food was forbidden to her … well… he meant… Surely, he could take smoke-dried eel for himself. And not to forget a chicken for making some broth, chicken broth is healthy for both children and grown-ups. …While he was waiting in a line, he made faces to glass showcases. Those were cretinous expressions with slanting eyes and the tongue hanging out. But he called himself to order, when noticed several people glanced at him with disgust. That was right, and if Ida had been there, she would have rebuked him for that. But he was bored almost to death…
He walked back slowly and watched the park nearly buried in drifting snow. As a rule they had done it in a different order – first they had been walking and recognizing the same old trees, benches, counting crows and pigeons…Only after that they had entered the supermarket and later on… Ah, it didn’t matter anymore!
At home he was peeling the salmon for a long time, then cut it, sugared and salted. Afterwards he quickly ate some macaroni with slices of ham and tomato. He went to the balcony.
“Idea Marksovna, - he thought in some tender kind of confusion, - I’ve done everything. I didn’t eat a cold meal and prepared fish. Tell me, I did well!”. Light snow powdered hid beard and the black curly hair touched with grey but he continued to stoop and smoked on and on. And for some reason he looked towards the park again, although it was unseen in the snow blizzard.
It was already time to return into the warmth, but he didn’t move. “Ida, I’ve also made all the church ceremonies. I had attended the service. But where are you? Did the service make you better? Let me know you hear me, Ida”.
Rush of wind brought a dry twig, that knocked a cigarette out of the hand. The cigarette flickered in the air and fell down on the balcony floor.
Aha. Did she mind too much smoking? But, at last I stopped drinking. Well, O.K. It’s enough smoking. Sorry, Ida.
He was staring at the computer screen, mechanically surfing sites.
There was her blog. Well, he would read it later. But wait what the password was? Somewhere in the computer memory there were her parodies and short-stories, he ought to find. Of course, he had read all that. But nowadays it was a thread, connecting with her. Ida had been writing short sentimental stories, with no plot, only certain mood and descriptions. All those droplets and raindrops, you know. And everything was so fine, so tiny, and so colorful like a grandmother’s cross-stitch embroidery. Ida had always wanted him to write something either, for them to had had a common game to play, but he had just snarled.
“Why should I? I have no talent”. -“But you have an artistic way of thinking, just remember, how witty you interpreted my story yesterday…” - “That’s the only thing I can. To explain and nothing more. I can’t write from inside. No, I can’t follow yours “Your fingers smell of la-abdanum”… and all that sugary lies”. - “And how would you say?”. – “Your hair smelled of cutlets”. – “Terrible! – Ida had smiled, - You are saying that for fun!”. Yes, that had been for fun, he knew, he had the habit to depreciate and scoff at everything. He was always ashamed of high-faluting words.
Philipp gripped the head with his arms. It was she, she called him.
What was that? A dove came and sat down on a ledge. He was trying not to frighten it away. The dove was ruffled up and powdered with snow. It stirred there and slightly hit the window with its beak. With its white head and grey body it resembled a man in a fur coat. Bird’s round eyes looked with interest straight at Philipp. The dove, the symbol of the Holy Spirit, why did you come here? Did you hide from the nasty weather or did you bring a message? A message from who?
“Philya! – The blizzard called in a thin voice. – Phiiilya!”
He stood up and opened the balcony door by jerk, having put his hands to the mouth he shout as if in a megaphone:
- Ida! I hear you! Answer me! Let me know…
Something had dropped with a crash in the entrance hall. He rushed there: an old barometer, which Ida had brought home from some second-hand shop, fell down; it had been hanging there for, say, ten years. When Ida had been alive different things had been falling down, but never the barometer. Who, who would drop it if not she?
He picked the barometer up and hung it back. Made an awful face to the mirror - having opened his eyes wide he stretched the mouth with his fingers and grinned. That was horrible.
But at the next moment he became confused, because it looked like being off his head. It was necessary to calm down immediately. He came up to the fridge, opened it and took out a bottle. “Zhitomirska na brunkah zholota” was a label on it. His hands trembled as if hands of a chronic drunkard. So he started to read the label very attentively: “… made of pure grain alcohol “Lux” and specially filtered crystal-clear water according the original recipe. The peculiar taste and flavor is given due to the additions of lime blossom, white honey and flavored birch buds alcohol”. No one knows, how long was he standing there like that. Finally, he understood what he was reading; he noticed that the fridge door was opened so he slammed it. If he started drinking, even a little spurt of it, he wouldn’t stop until he finishes off the whole bottle. And that meant he would conk out right here, in the kitchen and wouldn’t be able to go to aunt Elina and take Borya home the next day. And his son Borya would forget his father’s face. So he’d better not to drink at all… Having put vodka back into the fridge, he pulled a face, trying to cope with tears. But that grin was not a grimace anymore; he was trying to resist the pain.
It seemed to him, he had lived the long life since that morning, but the clock only struck eight in the evening. The time froze, especially when he was sober. He took a pack of dried apricots and came up to the computer. It was the only living thing in the house.
There still was a log in window at the screen. He began to enter some random password … and it appeared to be the correct one. He was so glad. He really didn’t know any password. But he was lucky to enter, after he changed the password he saw an inscription: “New post of the user “ideya”. And his fingers started to print even in spite of himself.
“Now I’m far away from home, but with special eyesight I can see and deeply feel all the charm of the soft winter, that came. Perhaps, the pond in the park hasn’t frozen yet and mane of reclinate branches touches the water dark and still, gleaming at one moment with light silver at another with coal black. The first snows weak and wet have fallen on the town, on houses, on sleepy rowan trees near my house. And the balcony floor is again covered with dark red berries. I ask you not to sweep them away – let the birds peck them and make noise, flapping their wings… But the farther I move away from my home the closer become those people I have left there. Although I can’t see them, I still feel them but in a different way. In the past it was a sharp feeling of anxiety and even melancholy caused by the foreboding of some danger. And now I feel only surprising peace. Some warm waves reach me – I know what they are: the thoughts of my nearest Philya and Borya, they think of me, they call me”.
He couldn’t print the word “died”. This word hit him like a stone. No, let it be not that straight. He found the “post” button. It would be the first post after three months of silence. The blog looked usual again: the text and her userpic next to it. In the pic she turned her back to the camera, dressed in a striped Turkish dressing gown, her hair fallen on a shoulder. But what a hell had he written there? Some sentimental rubbish, really. What on earth he meant by that pond and berries? He walked to the balcony, the snow had already covered all the berries, but they would fall again the next day. She had always paid too much attention to the details, watching them carefully for a long time, as something could be understood from those bits and sparkles. She had seemed to create her own world from those sparkles. Well, that post he tried to write for her, but he would write in a different manner for himself. Certainly, if he was going to write anything at all.
The first comments began to appear at her page.
“Hi, glad that you are finally out of hospital, girl. I’m happy for you”. “How could you leave us for such a long time? Sonya lesnaya is currently the admin of your group, please, look through the news…”.
Let her life last a little bit longer. Certainly he wouldn’t be able to write short stories for her, but let this last as long as possible. If she hadn’t flown away so soon, as she had said it herself, he surely would have known what she would do or think about. Frankly speaking, she had always thought of different trifles. For example, why wasn’t he wearing his scarf, although it was new and quite soft; or when would he learn to dry his boots in time; and when did Borka manage to tear his new leather gloves and how could she darn them without stitches being noticed?
Ida, we wouldn’t switch off the computer, we’d only put the chicken to boil so that our son had something to eat the next day. And then we’d go on…
It might happen that aunt Elina would once again stand up against his returning back, cause the school term was coming to an end. But she should certainly allow him to come on a visit for Sunday…
Philipp started bustle about the house as every normal person does before receiving the guests. He examined all the cups in a cupboard and realized they all were dirty. While the broth was boiling she washed the pile of dishes from the table and that from the sink and cleaned the microwave oven at once. She would say “smudged with dirt up to the eyes” about that oven.
There was something unusual about the house. Ah, the TV net was cut off, it would be necessary to renew the connection the next week. He didn’t need it, but Borya did. Besides, Borka had been asking for a new garland even the previous year, the old one had been repaired for thousands of times, so it began to go dim suddenly. They’d go together and buy a new one.
A thermos fell down from the shelf of the cupboard. Well then. Ida, I had understood that already – it was standing not at the right place. He examined it, the thermos was not broken. He poured some boiling water inside to check.
Splash of water, jingling of the dishes and the sound of broth boiling in a saucepan together with dim winkling of the broken TV-set and the noise from ventilation – all the sounds pleasantly echoed in his heart. They were the sounds of real life that led him out of the grief spasm. She might have flown not so far away, she was sending messages for him, so she should be somewhere near. Who if not she was leading his hand, when was printing that post to her blog? Her warm waves would reach him. As well as the touch of Christmas had already done.
(ïåðåâîä íà àíã. - Íàòàëèÿ Áîåâà)
Îðèãèíàë - http://proza.ru/2010/12/21/707