Невозможность роман перевод на английский

Prologue
He woke up with the feeling that he had forgotten to do something very important. Not to turn off the iron or close the door. No. Something more. Something existential. Something that should have been done a long time ago, even before he was born, and now this debt hung on him like a heavy, invisible burden.
Anton opened his eyes. The early morning light, grey and indifferent, was seeping through the cracks in the blinds. Lena was breathing quietly next to him. He looked at her relaxed face, at the familiar mole on her cheekbone, and a thought, sharp and cold as a blade, pierced his brain: “I can’t love her. Not the way I should. Not completely.”
It wasn't true, of course. He loved her. He cared for her, made her coffee in the morning, laughed at her jokes, felt the warmth of her hand. But somewhere deep down, beneath layers of habit and attachment and the desire to be a good husband, there lived another truth. The truth that the complete, absolute merging of souls is a myth. That between two people there is always a wall. Transparent, thin, but impenetrable. A glass wall of loneliness.
He called this feeling - Impossibility.

Part One. Glass Wall
Anton was an architect. He designed buildings in which people were supposed to feel happy, protected, free. He drew lines that became walls, windows, doors. But the more he worked, the more clearly he understood: he was not building houses, but cages. Cages of concrete and glass in which people would fence themselves off from each other, from the world, from themselves.
His own life was a project he was trying to perfect. A beautiful apartment with panoramic windows, a view of the city, a successful wife who worked as an art critic in a prestigious gallery. They went to vernissages, dined in trendy restaurants, their photos collected likes on social networks. From the outside, it looked like an ideal life.
But an emptiness grew inside Anton. He caught himself mentally drawing geometric figures in the air while talking to colleagues. That when kissing Lena, he analyzed the angle of her head. That when looking at masterpieces of world painting at exhibitions where his wife dragged him, he saw not the artist's genius, but cracks in the stretcher and miscalculations in the composition.
One evening they were sitting on the couch, each with their own tablet. Soft music was playing in the room.
“Listen, what a melody,” Lena said, tearing herself away from the screen.
Anton listened.
"E-flat major," he answered automatically. "An interesting transition to the dominant."
Lena looked at him with either surprise or disappointment.
- You always reduce everything to dry theory. To formulas. Can't you just feel?
He wanted to answer that for him these formulas are feelings. That the beauty of mathematical harmony excites him more than formless rapture. But he remained silent. He saw that same glass wall in her eyes. She asked him to climb over it, to touch it, and he could only state: "The glass is five millimeters thick and has a refractive index of 1.5."
Inability to understand. Inability to be understood.

Part Two. Event Horizon
The crisis came with the project of a new cultural center. The clients wanted something "special", "spiritual", "rising to the heavens". Anton spent weeks over the sketches. He drew cubes, pyramids, spirals, but everything seemed flat, dead, devoid of meaning.
He realized that he cannot create anything real because he feels no connection with the one for whom he creates it. He is a black hole in the world of human emotions. He absorbs everything - pain, joy, love, despair - but radiates nothing back. He has reached the event horizon of his own soul, beyond which all the laws of the usual physics of feelings cease.
He began to lock himself in his office. He stopped going to social events. Lena was angry at first, then scared, then resigned. They began to live parallel lives in one apartment, like two satellites in different orbits.
Salvation, as often happens, came from an unexpected source. He was found by an old woman, a neighbor of his late grandmother, Marfa Semyonovna. She lived in an old house in a neighborhood that was about to be torn down. Her apartment was the last fortress that had not surrendered.
Anton arrived, thinking that it was about some minor repairs. Marfa Semyonovna met him, dry as an autumn leaf, but with incredibly lively eyes.
- Grandson, - she said without preamble. - They are throwing me out. They want to demolish the house. I won’t allow it. You are an architect, you must help.
- Marfa Semyonovna, I am not a lawyer, I...
- You must come up with a project so that this house becomes a monument. So that it cannot be demolished. So that it becomes Necessary.
She said the word "Necessary" with a capital letter. Anton wanted to object that it was impossible, that the mechanisms had been set in motion, the money had been allocated, that one architect could not change anything. But he looked into her eyes - stubborn, full of faith in a miracle - and his own Impossibility suddenly wavered.
He agreed.

Part Three. Chaos Theory
Marfa Semyonovna's house was not just a house. It was a time capsule. Oak parquet, creaking in a certain way, the smell of old books and dried mint, photographs on the walls, where young people in formal suits looked into a bright future. History. Someone's lived life, grown into the walls.
Anton walked through the empty rooms (the other tenants had already moved out), and for the first time he didn't analyze the thickness of the beams or the degree of wear of the utilities. He felt. He touched the wallpaper, from which the paint had long since peeled off, and imagined how children had run here. He sat in the kitchen, and it seemed to him that he could hear the muffled hum of old conversations, arguments, laughter.
He did not design something new. He began to study the old. He realized that the uniqueness of this house was not in its architectural delights, but in its “soul”. In the patina of memories. His project turned into something else. It was not a reconstruction plan, but a manifesto. A manifesto in defense of fragility, imperfection, the human trace.
He spent days in the archives, collecting stories of residents. He found the descendants of people who once lived here. He created not a drawing, but a narrative. The house turned from a real estate object into a subject of history.
Lena, seeing his obsession, did not understand at first. Then she became interested. She came to his office and saw old photographs, maps, letters hanging everywhere.
“What is this?” she asked.
“It’s a project,” Anton replied, and there was a fire in his eyes that she hadn’t seen in years. “It’s a project of the possible.”
He explained his idea to her. Not to fight the developer, but to offer something more. To create not a cultural center from scratch, but to preserve the existing, living center of memory. To make this house a museum of the city's microhistory.
“But that’s impossible,” Lena said automatically. “They’ve already planned everything out, approved it...”
"And I'll prove that it's possible," he interrupted her. And for the first time in a long time, he took her hand. Not out of habit, but because he needed to share this impulse with someone.
The battle was hellish. Developers pressed, officials laughed in their faces. But Anton, this silent, withdrawn architect, suddenly showed incredible resilience. Lena supported him, using her connections in the art world. Together they organized a public campaign, attracted the press. The story of the old house and its last custodian touched many.
And a miracle happened. Public pressure worked. The city authorities made concessions. It was decided not to demolish the house, but to include it in the new complex as a memorial wing.
It was a Pyrrhic victory. There was no real preservation, the house had to change anyway. But it survived. Marfa Semyonovna received a small apartment in the new building and the lifelong right to come to "her" house as a caretaker.
On the day the decision was finally made, Anton stood in the vacant lot in front of the house. He had won, but he felt a bitter taste. There is no absolute victory. There is always a compromise. There is always the Impossibility of preserving something in its original purity.
Lena approached him.
“Are you crying?” she asked, surprised.
He touched his cheek and actually felt moisture.
“No. It’s just rain,” he lied.
But there was no rain. These were tears. Tears not from grief or joy. But from understanding.

Epilogue
Several months passed. Anton sat in that same old apartment, now almost a museum, and drank tea with Marfa Semyonovna. Work was in full swing around, but here, in this room, time flowed slowly.
“Thank you, grandson,” said the old woman. “You stood your ground.”
- I didn't defend anything, Marfa Semyonovna. I just found a way to slow down the inevitable a little.
- This is the most important thing in life. Not to stop time, but to learn to keep up with it, sometimes having time to look back.
That evening Anton returned home. Lena set the table. They ate in silence, but this silence was different. Not a wall, but a bridge. A bridge of silence that they had learned to cross.
Before going to bed, Anton went to the window. The city was shining with thousands of lights. Each light was someone's life, someone's love, someone's loneliness. An endless universe of Impossibilities.
He felt Lena hug him from behind and press her cheek to his back.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
- That I will probably never be able to fully understand you. And you - me.
She was silent for a moment.
- No need. Just be with me. That's enough.
Anton turned and looked at her. He no longer saw formulas and angles. He saw a woman. His wife. With all her secrets, fears, hopes. And he suddenly accepted his Impossibility of loving her absolutely. Not as a sentence, but as a given. As a law of nature. As a condition of the game called "life".
He did not conquer Impossibility. He befriended it. Because it was she, this eternal companion, who made every momentary, fragile, imperfect touch Possible. And that made it infinitely valuable.
He hugged his wife, and they stood there by the window, behind which lay their entire impossible, fragile, infinitely beautiful life.