Copyright. Reprinting without the consent of author is forbidden.

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Anna Dashe

Selected short stories from "Bonbonniиre"*

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* Box of sweets (Fr.)

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Frog

Two respected and pompous men of letters made a bet on whose story was going to be shorter. One of them put up his new car, the other bet his family relic against it - a golden snuffbox in the shape of a small frog, studded with rubies.

The next day the first man was abandoned by his wife. A coincidence. She just got into a brand-new shiny Ford, dropped in on her lover to pick up some of her things - and among everything a golden frog she had been given a long time ago - and went away to stay with her mother for a while, near Cannes or somewhere else. Do women understand much in literary bets?!

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Hat

An English duchess had a romantic affair with a poet, who was well-known in London and had dedicated to her quite a few beautiful lines. As it usually happens, the husband found out about it when the play approached the dйnouement and put an end to it, confining the disloyal spouse within four walls - fortunately, the age of feminism was half a century ahead. However, the correspondence between the two lovers continued.

The infuriated duke put his wife under twenty-four-hour surveillance, bribed the servants and her own housemaid, and unleashed three ferocious pointers to roam about in the garden. But all in vain. Judging by the duchesss face, it was as clear as noonday that the letters had become even more charming.

The spouses never went out anywhere, except paying a visit to their close friends once or twice a week and going to the theatre. And every minute of these outings the duke stayed inseparable with his wife, and at times he even held her by the hand, as if refusing to believe his eyes.

The duchess was never in robust health and died young, in the flower of life and beauty. After her unfortunate decease the poet, who was already famous and acknowledged by everybody, published a separate volume of their affecting correspondence, supplying it with a truly immortal dedication:

"To you, my tender and memorable, like I met you in your lifetime and will carry you away in my dreams after it. To your delicate fingers running over iris, to your amber locks in patches of sunlight, to your one and only hat in the world, the confidante of our thoughts, which presented me with a precious letter in the dark of the wardrobe, while the head, which had composed it, was listening to Puccini or small talks. To you and only you, while I live and remember".

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Manuscript

I was on my journey to the East, which I had cherished for a very long time, and, returning from Nimrud to Basra, I bought almost for a song a patch of ancient parchment in a crowded and stuffy corner of a bazaar, in a dusty shop of a junk dealer. It was no more than three inches long, and the inscription in an oriental language broke off in the middle of the word, however, apparently, it was the very thing that attracted my attention, as the incompleteness gave some scope for fantasy.

On the very day of my arrival home I took it to my acquaintance, an orientalist from the British Museum, and started waiting patiently. My imagination drew the pictures of fantastic discoveries and prophecies and the memory provided the examples of miraculous findings of those ages, but my friend stopped this flow of visions, having declared that he could not translate the phrase without its continuation. It is hard to describe how upset and disappointed I was. I had never had a stronger desire than this persistent and all-absorbing need to fathom the essence of the thing I possessed. But I found myself standing before an impenetrable wall.

Many years after this occurrence I was still at times tormented by the curiosity of an amateur researcher, and one day, at the whim of our tourist route, I found myself around the same parts, and with the same insatiable desire to enjoy antiquities I wandered about under resounding arches of sheltered galleries and stores. In one of the showcases I saw something familiar and could hardly believe my luck - among various ancient junk there was the twin brother of my manuscript.

I could hardly wait till the end of the trip in order to reunite the family, separated by the time, and I couldnt sleep all night after I had given the pieces to the witness of my first purchase. And after so many years and such great excitement I was holding the precious sheet with the translation. I wiped my forehead, unfolded the paper and read: "Sauli is an old fox".

It was a note like we used to write about our teachers at school. Many centuries ago a mischievous boy tore it off and discarded it as useless, and another one, a bit older, covered thousands of kilometers, picked up the pieces and joined them. What else did I have to do?

I called the waiter, asked for chianti and drank to Saulis amazing "immortality".

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Voice of Pushkin

It was in the middle of 1950s. When you reach any midpoint, it seems that the mark will remain at it for an infinitely long period of time, but then, once exceeded, the time is going to fly even faster than when it approached it. Just a moment passes and somebody moves out either to celebrate their centenary or to settle down in a different place.

As soon as it started freezing and my work slowed, I immediately took a weeks holiday, and in two days on the evening of September 19, I was sitting in a long corner room of my friends in Odessa, at a table, covered with a starched cloth, picking up with a silver fork some herring snack with oily onion rings. On the right somebody was talking about Brunov, on the left there were hot steaming potatoes in duck fat, and from time to time the hostess with a caring hand put the guests some more of them and then again covered the dish with a porcelain lid.

After the main course everybody took part in the conversation, and Misha Chestnov read the latest thing he had written under the impression of his trip to Kineshma. I am not sure that the rest of us understood it more than me, but everybody liked it, especially the way he recited it. He did it very artistically, without raising his voice, on the contrary, he made it quieter and clearer. Finally, I was asked to recite, too. It had been ten years, since I wrote anything myself, but I knew almost all Pushkins works, which were assorted in my head according to years and moods, so I always tried to stick to the season as well as the surroundings. And the surroundings were indeed inspiring, so I was at my best.

My reciting included the following combination - on top of it there was a picture of a winter fairy-tale and inside there was heat, mirth, bitterness and even ringing of glossy bells. One thing is when you read to yourself, but if you are offered an opportunity to read aloud, the verse renews, disperses in your breath, becomes longer and wider, taking in new sense. And there is no former triteness, nor yellowness, nor greasy stains.

Everybody was listening with such attention that at first I felt timid. Especially the hostess who favoured me over the others - I cannot even explain, how I managed to win her over. At tea they started making enquiries about the news from Moscow, recollecting the suburbs of the former capital - Petersburg and the postwar restoration. Some of those present had taken an active part in it and were giving such a detailed description, that I was almost distracted from a huge home-made cake. The oven was old, spacious with wide baking trays, on which you could even iron a shirt at full length. Little Serafim Gavrilovich, who was sitting in front of me, could not help kissing the hand, the owner of which had baked such beauty. Then he was chewing for a long time and every now and then cast an occasional glance in my direction, and at last he asked me an unexpected question.

- You did the reading well, very close to the authors temperament, although you wouldnt

sleep after his reciting. And how do you think - was the intonation the same?

He asked in a gentle and benevolent way, but there was some catch concealed in the question he had posed.

- But can anyone know it now? - I objected. - Maybe, only in outline, judging by descriptions. The Grand Duke Vyazemsky had...

- And if not in outline? - he interrupted an extract from a letter, which had so luckily been conjured up in my memory, and was quick to add something, which for a moment made me lose sight of the white table, the late hour and the guests. - And if not judging by descriptions?

Because of my young age, I was fiery and quick-tempered and was always ready to respond to oral provocations, but now even I was taken aback and could not say anything in reply to the evident pleasure of the opposite party. The eyes of Serafim Gavrilovich were glinting with mocking yellow sparks, but there was not the slightest desire to offend me, and, looking at him, I started smiling as well.

- Tomorrow at four near Pushkins house, - he set up an appointment with me, when the coat rack in a long packed bowel of an entrance room started to disencumber.

- At four at Sikars, - I repeated after him, memorizing it.

- Young man, - said my companion with graying hair reproachfully, - the hope of pushkinists, Sashenka lived in the hotel at Sikars the first three weeks. And the remaining eleven months, allow me to ask, where?

I was no longer surprised at his mocking awareness, which I happened to witness more than once that evening, I just kept silent in a bashful and expectant manner.

- He lived in Volkonskys house, which is to the right of the chariot. Well, I see, you dont happen to raise your head to the sky very often, - he sighed with a smile, tightening up his thick woolen cloth with an astrakhan collar.

- Not really often, - confirmed I, - only when the weather is favourable.

- But you will find the Theatre Square, wont you?

- Ill show him, - answered the hostess, carrying a pile of dishes to the kitchen. - Orik will draw up a plan for him. Hell find.

- Im very obliged to Orik. Maybe, he will even lend me his compass, - I thanked her and went to help with "dashing the dishes", as my disinterested assistance was called by the one, to whom I offered my service of a dishwasher.

The following day at five minutes to four, I was already at the agreed place with Oriks draft in my pocket, but Serafim Gavrilovich was already there, ahead of time.

- Will you look up, please?

I looked up and indeed I saw a stone chariot with four panthers. It was beginning to snow a little, and there were white threads stretching among the columns - it is high time to dry the apparel of a naked king.

- Come here, - my companion brought me down to earth, and I followed him, keeping up with his brisk pace.

- Tell me, did my words get to you yesterday? - he turned around after we had got deep into the house through a door, which I had hardly noticed.

- To tell you the truth, I have never viewed poetry from this perspective.

- Well, yes, though a poet, he was a real man. Here are historical facts, and there should be no room for fantasy, - added my short companion angrily. - And what about the inspiration? High spirit?! Do you think, - he suddenly started whispering, - he could have written if he had known only obvious things? And what determines the limits of this obviousness for everyone?

I felt like discussing it with him in detail, but I was distracted by the unusual appearance of the staircase we started ascending. In fact, there were two of them, but they occupied the space, designed for one, for they were interwoven with each other like phantasmagoric spirals, audaciously exaggerated at someones will. I felt dizzy and nearly stumbled, trying to understand to which storey each of them led.

- If one visitor was going up, another one could be going down at the same time without

encountering him, - informed Serafim Gavrilovich. - In the whole world they could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

"Id say on the ribs", - I thought to myself.

- Please, hold on to the baluster, - he warned me, seeing my gait change.

I took hold of the old painted banister, and it was then that I realised that I didnt know, nor did I have the slightest idea why and where we were going up this quaint staircase-like structure. And why my companion, like reciter Misha, lowered his voice and in an old-fashioned manner called the enclosure balusters. And why does he refer to Pushkin as "Sashenka"?

I lingered for a while, looking at his broad back, as prominent as that of a beaver, but then I asked:

- Are we going to pay a visit to someone?

- Well, yes, in a way, - answered Serafim Gavrilovich, without turning around.

- Will it take long to get to the top?

- Weve come, - he answered willingly again and stopped at a landing between two floors. There were no doors there.

- We wont go any further, there were no upper floors in those times.

His rather short polished boots made a creaking sound, he drew a chequered handkerchief out of his right-hand pocket and went to the corner. But instead of blowing his nose, which was only natural to assume, he rubbed with it a small area of the wall at shoulder level and applied his ear to it.

The face of Serafim Gavrilovich, which had previously been anxious and intent, was beginning to soften and light up with a blissful smile.

- What is there? - I could not wait. - Mice feast on sugar?

Filled with awe, he wiped the wall with the handkerchief again, then he stuck it back into his pocket and with a gesture he suggested I should try it myself. I pushed my hat to one side and, holding it with my hand, I repeated his manoeuvre.

The heavy brickwork appeared to be thin in this place, or it had been cut on the inside by the air channel. The stone felt unpleasantly cold and coarse, and the wind was whining inside. On seeing that my facial expression remained the same and that I was about to straighten up, my friend whispered anxiously:

- Wait, wait. Here it comes.

I neared the wall again and became absorbed in dismal winter roaring. At times it weakened and turned into slight cracking, as though somebody was kindling slivers in a fireplace, then its force swelled again. But every time its tonality changed. Suddenly, something swept past inside the wall and I heard a muffled "Bah!" sounding like a sigh. I moved even closer to the wall while Serafim Gavrilovich started smiling and nodding his head like a Chinese figurine.

I waited longer and either with horror or with delight I heard a new phrase quite distinctly. The voice was high-pitched and rather fine, but it was tinged with warm tones and was not indifferent. I recognised it.

- He said: azageese! - I exclaimed with excitement, stepping aside from the wall and looking into my companions bright eyes. - He... I heard it! I heard it myself!

- A sa guise, - he corrected me. - He is explaining it to somebody in French.

And he put his ear to the hollow in the wall.

- No, he is composing it... Sunny man!

We stayed there another ten minutes. I was standing at the banister while he bent to listen to the mysterious sounds. It was quiet in the house, as though nobody had lived there, but, indeed, somebodys will may have prevented plebian souls from violating this place.

- At times somebody else joined in, his acquaintances. We knew all of them without exception when we were children. Children can hear everything, but there are hardly any adults who can do that. You can hear. But before it used to be better, clearer, now everything is increasingly blending with the sound of the wind. Nobody listens, that is why voices are becoming a thing of

the past.

I remembered playing with a rag doll as a child, and no one, except me, could see how much it

was like Madonna from my grandmothers icon, and they were surprised when I called it the Most Holly.

- I suppose, you dont know French, do you? - I asked, once again realising the drawbacks of my collective scanty education.

- Young man, you dont know French, while I learnt three languages at home and at gymnasium, and though I wasnt the best pupil, I still remember them. "A sa guise" means "his own way". Your idol wrote many verses in French, - he added and started descending.

I would rather stay, but some force made me trust and obey this wonderful man. And I followed him.

He was treading carefully, without hurrying, and he didnt tell me about the things he had heard in the roaring of the wind.

- Tell me, - I asked him, when we were already downstairs, - what was that? How? Is there any explanation for this? At least a name?

- Cela ne nous regarde pas. Ce sont les choses de Dieu*, - he answered.

Feeling embarrassed, I did not venture to reveal my ignorance again, so I didnt ask for the translation. But he felt that my mind was filled with questions. He stopped and, pensively staring ahead, he said:

- In the past on New Year's Eve you could even hear loud balls. There used to be the first ballroom in the city here!.. You should have seen the ladies who came here!.. Music... Silk shoes walking on the parquet...Ostrich plumes fluttering in a draught...

He lingered. It seemed that at that moment he saw it with his own eyes. I looked at him as at God. If only he could take me with him!..

When we returned back to the present, it was still snowing outside. Night was falling, somewhere glass lanterns were beginning to light up. We reached the corner together, at which our roads parted, we took leave of each other without saying a lot, and my six-winged Seraph dissolved in the dark, running crowd.

I stood for a while, then I raised my head, my right cheek chilled, and saw mascarons. One of them resembled him, and in the open mouth with down-turned corners of the lips there was a white-toothed smile emerging from the snow.

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* It doesnt concern us. It is disposition of God (Fr.)

Translated from Russian by Denis Pozdnyakov.

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_________________To Selma Ergec*

Not a face, but really rose,

not the eyes, but stars, encoloured

with sundowns rays of hope,

not the hair, but golden cloud,

not a virgin - angel dear.

How will they raise hand in daring

make him dust for grave and tears,

as with any word of being?

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28 March, 2014

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* Turkish actress and model of 2010th.

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Declaration of ardour of

feelings to my darling, peerless...

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Sweetest dream and fond arousing,

bliss of hands and shine of eyes,

lightest winds the lightest blowing,

burning flame and trumpet cries

of the white-maned, heaving flood tide,

secret Hades, Heavens Gate,

wonder, sin, temptation, delight

is dark-bitter chocolate!

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28 January, 2013

Translated from Russian by A.Dashe.