Guardian Angel. 2. 8. the point of No Return

"A GUARDIAN ANGEL"
a mistical novel
by Alexandra Kryuchkova

PART II. A DREAMS TRAP

2.8. LOOKING for the POINT of NO RETURN

December 1988, Moscow

I entered the living room. Mom smiled, got up from the sofa and walked over to me.

«I’m so glad to see you, Alice! It’s good that you’ve come!» Mom said and pierced me with her bottomless black eyes, filled with horror at the realization, «Am I dead?»

«Yes, mammy,» I couldn’t lie to her.

She frantically shook her head, not believing, or rather, hating to believe it, and her voice broke into a cry, «No, no! No! I’m alive! I didn’t die! People never die! You yourself told me that!»

«Three days ago,» tears appeared in my eyes, but I couldn’t lie, «at 8:20 in the morning. Today is the funeral. Don’t you see anything there, on the table?»

Mom turned to the table with her motionless body on it, sank helplessly onto the sofa, and then suddenly said, «I have to return before it’s too late! Alice, we need to rewrite this nightmare! I didn’t die! You see, I’m here, alive! We still have this night. We have to change something so that I can get back before they bury my body. I don’t want to leave. I don’t! I want to live!»

Mom came up and looked at me pleadingly, «Please! Help me rewrite this dream! Alice, you can do it! I know you can! You’ll definitely succeed!»

I shook my head, «I can’t rewrite dreams.»

«You can! You just don’t know about it yet! Let’s try together! No one sees or hears me but you! Alice, I’ll do whatever you say!»

«Okay, let’s try to go back to the day before you died. What can we change about it to make you stay?»

We fell into that day. And its events passed before us as if in reality. We saw everything that had happened from the outside. Mom was trying to do something differently. She didn’t take pills at night, but then the fateful morning came. Somewhere to the right, the clock was ticking. And as soon as the hands reached 8:20, her heart stopped. Mom looked at me doomfully.

«Alice, we need to get back even earlier!»

So we returned, day after day, step by step retreating into the Past, trying to change something in it. Every time Mom made some changes, we flipped the calendar back to December 21, 1988. But every time at 8:20, her heart stopped.

«No! No, I don’t want it so! I want to live! Alice, help me! Think of something!»

My heart was breaking with pain. I couldn’t change anything. We managed to rewind the calendar until December 1987, but the result for December 21, 1988 was the same.

«How much time do we have left?» Mom asked.

«Five minutes. Your sister set the alarm clock for 7:30. And she’ll immediately wake me up so that we can arrive here, to you, by 9.»

«We won’t make it in five minutes.»

Suddenly, I remembered! Yes! I realized what date we needed! There was the Point of her No Return! By an effort of will, I caused the events of that day, and it pulled us into its space. Once I had told my mother what had happened that night, but of course she hadn’t believed me.

We found ourselves in the intensive care ward near the lifeless body of a girl under droppers. Mom looked at me with a silent question. I kept silent. I knew what would happen next, but I wanted her to remember herself and made her choice here and now — again. We still had 5 minutes, no, already 3 minutes left.

Suddenly, Mom noticed herself, as a phantom at the door of the ward. The phantom of the girl went away from the lifeless body and approached the door, «Mammy! Get me out of here!»

«I can’t, Alice,» she said. «You must remain and I must leave.»

Watching the picture from the side, my mother suddenly remembered that day and shifted her gaze, filled with the horror of realization, to me. She wanted me to disprove her guess. But I quietly said, «Yes, mammy, yes, this is the night on September 3rd to 4th, 1987, the date of my death. The only date you can make changes to wake up today by changing your own decision to die instead of me.»

«Alice, but in this case…»

«Yes, in this case, I won’t come back from my sleep.»

«No, Alice! Tell me, it’s not true!»

«It’s me who should have died, not you. Change your decision, and I won’t be offended. How can I live alone now, mammy?»

We returned home. She approached her motionless body on the table. She wanted to go back into it, but she turned to me and shook her head negatively. I had never said that I loved her, and I was already about to say those words, when suddenly I heard the alarm clock ringing in the next room. My mother heard it too. The Mist started shrouding our dream. Everything dissolved in it, but her last words reached me, «I’m sorry I didn’t believe your dreams, but one day…»

I didn’t hear what my mother had said next. My aunt was insistently pushing me, «Alice, wake up! Wake up, sunny! It’s time for us to go.»


***
March 2012


In March, for the victory in the international competition «New Pleiades» 2012 in the field of literature, my book of poems «This is Love!» translated into Hungarian was published free of charge in Budapest. A little earlier, I had recorded two CD, with my songs and my poetry, since in Hungary they had asked me for a CD in Russian as an appendix to the book.

I was invited to the «Booker Laureate School» and to the international conference «The New Russian Revolution in Literature», both in Milan, and to the Paris Book Fair as a member of the official delegation of the Union of Writers of Russia. At the same time, I learnt that my German employers no longer had work, because the largest customer had switched to another supplier. I met with certain people in the Union of Writers and asked if there was an opportunity for me to get a job at them. They promised to think about it.

Meanwhile, looking through vacancies on the Internet, I suddenly saw an updated one by the Man in White. I had pondered for a long time whether it was worth to step on the same rake again by sending him my CV. Why and what had led me to that man again? Hadn’t we really played our script to the end? What was left not played yet? Maybe it would be enough for us to meet in order to give him the icon of St. George. «He needs this icon like the Devil needs incense,» I cut the train of my thoughts. But what if the Man in White was the Man in Black burying me in Venice?

«Alice, dreams are deceptive. Sooner or later they will definitely deceive you,» my mother’s words sounded in my mind. Who, in fact, said that the dream should come true? On the contrary, many people assured me that it referred exclusively to my past life. But could it be proven? Why did the Man in White make me scared? I had tried to tell him, that I wanted to be with him so much, but during our implausible, but not invented communication, I hadn’t dare to utter those words. Why? Why, despite my fear, had I been so drawn to him since the first time he had called me? How many men in my life had I experienced such a magical attraction to? I knew absolutely nothing about him, except for his first and last name, and the name of his company. But did I really want to know about him?

«You must defeat your fear, otherwise it will defeat you,» I heard my mother’s voice again and… I remembered that, as in all previous cases of our bumping into each other, I had to fly away in a week, first to Paris, and then to Milan. It was realistic to start a new job only on April 1. I added a comment and clicked the button «Send CV to employer».

At midnight, I received two letters. The first was sent via the job website service from The Man in White, «Ok. Call me Tuesday at 19:00!». The second one was from the Union of Writers, three months after my appeal to them about the job, «We are waiting for you to talk about it on Tuesday at 17:00.»

I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes. The Union of Writers had become almost my second home, where I was known and respected as a person and appreciated as a writer. I took part in various projects, and for the victory in Hungary I had just been awarded the medal of Derzhavin. I had asked them for a job myself. And the Man in White, who was he?

I arrived at 17:00 at the Union of Writers, where, after a meeting about the trip to Paris, we discussed what I would be interested in in terms of work. «Alice, you are going with us to Paris and Milan! You won’t be able to start working until April anyway. Let’s discuss it abroad and come to an agreement there.» I couldn’t believe my ears! Was I given a choice at five minutes to 19:00, the time I should call the Man in White?

I left the Union of Writers and slowly walked towards the subway in the pouring rain without an umbrella. I tried to force myself to press the call button. I was shaking with panic fear to hear his voice, sharp as a knife, cutting me into pieces. He would, of course, thunder again, «Who are you?» If he answered my call. But I had to overcome my fear, defeat it.

«Who are you?»

«Alice. You said to call you at 19:00.»

«I don’t have much time now. In half an hour?»

«In half an hour, I’ll be on the subway. In an hour?»

«In an hour, I’ll be at the negotiations. Then now.»

I stopped at the corner of Bolshaya Nikitskaya street, in the pouring rain, without an umbrella.

«Everything is the same,» he said cynically and quickly. «Just my office has moved at another metro station. And one more thing, you have to work seven days a week. Do you hear me?»

«I do.»

«The employee is needed urgently.»

«I’m leaving for Paris, then for Milan.»

«When are you leaving?»

«In a week, until the end of March.»

«I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll fly back in a week and a half, then I’ll fly out again. Well, I also wanted to tell you that… I live in another city now. I come here sometimes.»

He named the city. I was standing in the pouring rain without an umbrella. I slowly sat down onto the ledge of the underground floor window of the corner house.

«Do you hear me?» He was annoyed by my silence. «I can’t talk anymore. I’m leaving for negotiations. I’m selling a business today. Let’s talk then later. And one more thing, the employee must be well versed in plumbing. To make the pipes out and like that. How are you with plumbing?»

«No way,» I admitted, trying to light a cigarette with trembling fingers, which the pouring rain was putting out.

«I can’t talk anymore. I’ll call you back.»


***


In Paris, I met the Minister of Culture of France and gave him my books. We performed a lot, including at Rossotrudnichestvo. One day, a famous writer, Viktor Erofeev, came to our stand with TV and immediately asked, «Alice should be here, where is she?»

Everyone stepped away. We said hello, and he exclaimed, «I’ve been told a lot about you admiringly! Sign your books to me!»

We had common acquaintances, in addition to those who had told him about me. I knew well enough his personal translator into Italian, Marco Dinelli. The TV was filming our conversation.

«We’ll meet in Milan, Alice. You are going to Milan, too, aren’t you?»

In the evenings, all alone, I wandered around Paris, the city where my father’s mother, my French grandmother, had lived. I tried to get into Notre Dame, but at that time it was already closed. The Man in White was back in Moscow. They said it was snowing there. And when I returned, he would fly away again.

In Milan, I met Evgeny Borisovich Rein. Giving him my book with a brazen title, with the names of Tsvetaeva, Akhmatova and mine, separated by commas, I still didn’t know who he was, and I felt ashamed. His wife Nadezhda, who had high standards of poetry, flipped through my book and said, «Evgeny, there’s something in her poetry.» We would communicate sometimes later. Nadezhda, knowing about my introversion, would say, «Write to us, Alice!» But after the Man in White, it was difficult for me even with letters.

In the evenings, Viktor Erofeev, the teacher of our prose seminar, and I used to sit in the bar at the villa (practically, a palace) of the millionaire who had invited us, and discussed contemporary literature. Erofeev asked me about my novel about Another Reality, offered to send him a chapter to read. I thought about the chapter dedicated to Woland, but it would be too much honor for the Man in White.

Rein was the teacher of our poetry seminar, at the end of which he would declare me the winner, and I would be awarded with S. Yesenin «Golden Autumn» medal, and they would publish my book «My Favorite Poems» in autumn for free. Winning in Milan would be a priceless gift for me. But it would happen the next day.

We were going to Venice for the whole day with the Reins. First of all, the guide suggested visiting the cemetery where Joseph Brodsky, a friend of Evgeny Rein, was buried. The cemetery was located on an island not far from San Marco.

We got on the boat and sailed to the left side. Suddenly, I shuddered, remembering my dream with the boat sailing from San Marco to the opposite island. However, I had known in the dream that it would have sailed further to the left. Did someone decide to show me the place where I would be buried or had already been buried in my past life?

We arrived to the cemetery island. Silence. The Sun was shining. Springtime. Just like in that dream! I slowly followed the group to Brodsky’s grave, trying to feel my own. There were three parts in the cemetery — Orthodox, Catholic, Protestant. I was surrounded by lots of walls with cells for ashes and ordinary monuments on the ground. «And there’s enough free space here,» flashed in my mind for some reason.

We returned to San Marco. The group continued the tour with the local resident, but I preferred solitude. Not a cloud. The Sun was shining. Springtime. I wandered through the narrow streets, crossing bridges, taking picture of a pigeon walking along one of them. I knew every turn there, being madly in love with that city…

In the evening, we met at the pier at San Marco. While not everyone had gathered yet, I asked to take a picture of me at the mysterious place, by the boats overlooking the opposite island.

«You were right, mammy, dreams are deceptive. The Man in White, called Woland by me, has nothing to do with my funeral!» I let go of my Past, looking at the opposite island I had never visited before. It was a pity I hadn’t given Woland the icon of St. George the Victorious, but what did he need it for?

The guide called us with her umbrella. It was time to go back. I came up to her and asked, «What is that island over there?»

The guide glanced at the island and replied, «St. George’s Island. There is the Cathedral of St. George the Victorious. But why do you ask?»

It’s all gray here — clown, kings,
and frames of purity and morals,
and even Kremlin chimes of Tsars
don’t brighten up my daily longing.

Look, Paris, London and Madrid
are sadly chatting in the albums.
At meeting Master once by chance,
say that the Motherland is moping.

Me too… With cups without tea,
I’m catching ghosts, since all is boring.
At giving Devil business cards,
say that I fall in love with demons…