Guardian Angel. 2. 9. Escaping to the Past

"A GUARDIAN ANGEL"
a mistical novel
by Alexandra Kryuchkova

PART II. A DREAMS TRAP

2.9. ESCAPING to the PAST

January 1989, Moscow

It was a magical Christmas fairy tale outside the window. Inside me, there was a bottomless black void. We came with my grandmother to our cottage on Rublyovka and, having nothing to do, went to visit her relatives, who lived there all year round in a small wooden house.

We were sitting at the table, my grandma told them about my mother’s funeral, and her cousin Shura poured us tea from the samovar, gave us gingerbread and, after many sighs, began to share their latest news. I thought about my mother and heard almost nothing.

«Yesterday, it was 9 days for our late neighbor,» Shura pointed to the window at the house on the left. «He died suddenly, his heart stopped. The rest is the same as before.»

I didn’t know their neighbors. Neither to the left, nor to the right… But it was a pity. Not their neighbor I pitied. His relatives. He was at home, finally, but they didn’t know that, they worried, crying. They thought he had really died.

I thought about my mother. How was she there? How would I live without her?

«In general, what do people live here for? To get There to sleep dreaming? Why do they come here? In a dream, there is no such pain as here. You can instantly do and get whatever you want. But here, you can’t. Even to get to the cottage, you first need to get to the metro, then get to the train station, buy a ticket for the train and go again until… Everything here is created by someone too complicated, confusing. The world is a huge maze. One is thrown into it like a blind kitten. He is born, and he has to learn to live according to earthly rules — to walk, speak some language, finish school, university, work to earn money to feed the body, and all like that… What is it all for, if sooner or later, the result is the same for everyone, return to sleep? Or vice versa, do we sleep here in order to wake up There?»

Suddenly, the Mist appeared in the kitchen. It silently penetrated inside from the street, freely passing through the walls, window panes. It spread on the table, hugging the samovar, crawling closer and closer to me. It swallowed everyone who was present there, and I no longer saw their faces. And then it reached for me…

I woke up. Early morning. January holidays. It was a magical Christmas fairy tale outside the window. Inside me, there was a bottomless black void. I got up, went to the bathroom, then silently came to the kitchen. My grandma poured me tea and asked, «What did you dream, Alice?»

«Yesterday, on Rublyovka, they celebrated 9 days to your cousin’s neighbor. The one on the left. His heart stopped suddenly,» I answered in a detached voice.

Having thought about something, my grandma said categorically, «Let’s go to the cottage, to visit my cousin!»

We were sitting at the table, her cousin Shura poured us tea from the samovar, gave us gingerbread and, after many sighs, began to share their latest news. I thought about my mother and heard almost nothing.

«Yesterday, it was 9 days for our late neighbor,» Shura pointed to the window at the house on the left. «He died suddenly, his heart stopped. The rest is the same as before.»


***
April — May 2012, Moscow


I started my work in the Union of Writers on April 2, on Monday. As soon as I returned from Milan, I was called by the Union of Literary Workers, «Jump, Alice! The Decree was signed by the President! You are now our outstanding person of arts and culture!»

They had passed my documents for the state scholarship. As they explained to me, the President had to sign some paper stating one of two categories a writer belonged to, young and talented, or outstanding figures of arts and culture of the Russian Federation. By age, I was older than the young and talented, and much younger than the outstanding ones. But I found myself into a certain magical Flow. It was carrying me somewhere far away at breakneck speed, and for some reason I got scared.


***


I was sitting at the laptop, looking through the outdated database of the writers. My colleagues were discussing a project for businessmen «Writing a book on demand».

«Alice,» Olga turned to me. «Has any of your acquaintances a desire to get a book written about them?»

I automatically answered «no», as suddenly remembered the Man in White. He had told me then…

«Although, I have one,» I said for some reason.

«So call him!» Olga exclaimed joyfully.

«I can’t,» I sighed heavily.

«Have you quarreled?»

«I’m afraid of him.»

«Why?» Olga was surprised.

«He’ll kill me,» I replied involuntarily, «but I can give you his phone number.»

Olga wrote it down. I warned her, «He can send you to hell. He is generally very rude. And he has a voice knocking you down.»

«Let him try!» Olga smiled and…

I immediately got up from the table and left the office. Just the thought that the Man in White would appear somewhere nearby caused me a panic horror, as if he could kill me even at a distance! But Olga came out after me, «Alice, relax! There’s an answering machine! Your friend has changed his phone number. I wrote down a new one, but he doesn’t respond to it either. Shall I dictate it to you?»

I wrote down his new number. What for? «Stop, Alice, erase it to hell and cross yourself! Your Subconscious diligently takes you away from something catastrophically bad! Why do you stubbornly stand your ground?» No, it was just my fear that I had to defeat, otherwise…

After a while, at the next table, I heard the phone trill. Olga, who was constantly called (however, like me) by many writers and those who considered themselves to be writers, habitually answered, «Hello!» But I shuddered, it was him! And she already pronounced his name and patronymic! I flew out of the office and hurried somewhere into the distance. I couldn’t defeat my fear. Sometime later. Not then. Not that day.

Olga found me in the canteen in the basement of the Central House of Writers and, joining the meal, said with a smile, «Alice, why are you slandering that man? He was very kind. And he didn’t send me anywhere. He said he wrote down my phone number, and in case, he would call and we’ll meet. He’s a sweetheart! By the way, who is he?»

I looked at her with undisguised horror, «Every time I ask this question to the Tarot cards, they show me the Devil.»

«You have a nice Devil!» Olga said with a smile and took the conversation to another plane.

«Everyone has their own Devil, that is one’s own fear,» flashed in my mind.

All April I tried to force myself to step on the throat of my fear. That couldn’t go on indefinitely. The fear of something inevitable that would happen in my life sooner or later, invisibly connected with the man I knew absolutely nothing about, gradually devoured me from the inside. On my inner screen, I kept seeing Venice. Early morning. The pier at San Marco. The boat sailing away to the island of St. George. And the Man in Black, who looked like the Man in White, in the boat with my dead body. I wanted to decipher my dream, to find out why, how and when I had died or would die. Did the Man in White have anything to do with my death? And if so, what exactly?

Every night, falling asleep, I tried to re-enter my Venetian dream in order to see the face of the Man in Black. But I didn’t succeed. I had had quite no dreams while sleeping for many, many years. Only two or three dreams per year, but they used to come true.

Desperate, I remembered that I still had the icon of St. George at home. Perhaps, if I gave to the Man in White the intendent, but still in my possession, the unfinished chain of events of the unknown scenario would finally be brought to its logical conclusion, and we would part once and for all, and I would get rid of my fear and solve my dream.

For several days, almost like a spell, I kept mentally repeating to myself, «You have to call him. To call. Yes, to call. Nothing bad will happen. You just dial his phone number, Alice. He won’t kill you for it. Your conversation won’t cause you any pain. You’ll remain safe and sound, alive and sane. Only one call!»

So I went to a coffeehouse and for about two hours, savoring all that time just a small cup of espresso, I looked at the phone at the bewitched number and couldn’t force myself to press the call button. However, I started to get angry, «Who is he to bring me to such a state?! I’m a young, talented, pretty, smart, kind girl who has gone through fire, water and copper pipes in life. I’m appreciated, respected, loved. I have a lot of fans who dream of sitting next to me in a coffeehouse. And this man — the hell knows who! — a rude, cynical, power-hungry and narcissistic monster…»

I broke the chain of thought by pressing the call button. The Man in White didn’t answer. I breathed a sigh of relief, went outside and headed home, but the usual trill was heard from my bag. My heart raced. I took out my phone and saw the identified number on the display.

«Hello,» I said in a calm voice.

«Who are you?» thundered in my ear.

«Who would have doubt that!» I grinned from what I had heard and suddenly, unexpectedly for myself, in an even voice, but with an ironic smile, said, «Alice, an outstanding figure of arts and culture of the Russian Federation.»

A pause and a sigh, he remembered me! It was very nice of him!

«Ah, Alice… Hello,» he said, even with a note of apology for the pause. «I have a new phone. I haven’t had time to transfer all the contacts.»

Funny! He hadn’t even thought about transferring my phone number. Probably, he hadn’t had it in his ex-phone either.

«How are you?» I asked with a slight grin.

He replied something and asked how I was doing, where I worked.

«Due to the lack of offers from those who promised to call me back in March, I went to work in the Union of Writers.»

«Yes, I got a call from you, from Olga, if my memory serves me well. But there’s no money, just investments, investments!»

I wanted our conversation to go on forever. I told him about my negotiations with TV, the opportunity to make a film about someone or one’s business, or anything else.

«No, there is no money for this now…»

Fool! I said the first thing that had come to my mind, just not to be silent, and I could’t say aloud why, in fact, I had called you. To meet you after all and…

«I’m getting on the plane right now, I can’t talk,» the Man in White suddenly said. «I’m flying from the city A to the city B, and then to Italy. I’ll be in Moscow for the second May holidays. Shall we meet then? To sit somewhere and talk? Coffee or tea?»

«Coffee,» I said not believing my ears and practically jumping for happiness right in front of passers-by.

«Well, I’ll call you on the 5th or 6th of May.»

And we both said the same phrase at the same time with a slight difference,

«Very glad to hear from you, Alice.»

«Very glad to hear from you, Mr. Woland.»

We said goodbye. I was neither killed, nor dismembered, nor eaten. I was looking forward to the May holidays.


***


The closer to the May holidays, the more often I felt that we wouldn’t meet. It wasn’t yet the Man in White who made me fear, but the fact that I wouldn’t be able to see him in order to cut the Gordian knot, putting an end to that story.

From the melancholy, I decided to escape into my memory, into my Past. So, on May 1, I went to the countryside, where I had spent my childhood in the cottage that no longer existed.

Any train can be used as a portal. I arrived at the Belorussky railway station. It was cold, but the Sun was shining. I entered the train and took a place at the window on the right. The train counted down the stops. Each of them was a step down, in the Subconscious, immersion in my Memory, in childhood, almost not existed for me. Half an hour to go. With each step, tears more and more insistently came to my eyes. There was already the distant pond outside the window, then there would be the nearest, a small one, all covered with greenery. I stood up, went to the doors in the vestibule. The doors opened in the Subconscious.

The Sun was shining, but it was cold. I turned right, crossed the road. A huge store building. It had changed its sign. Old ladies had always been sitting at its entrance, selling flowers, apples, potatoes and greens. I kept walking to our «house» slowly, because every step was difficult. I approached small market stalls and read the signs. A cool car entered the asphalt parking lot, and I couldn’t even step on that damn asphalt. It looked like a tombstone to our grass and trees that had forever remained under it. The tombstone to our burned house. I walked a little further.

A small patch of surviving land of our garden. A huge tree, miraculously left uncut by the heartless monsters, who had deprived me of that thin thread connecting me with the Past. I came up to the tree. It was behind the new fence. I would like to hug the tree, and everything floated before my eyes out of the impossibility to do it. That tree had always been struck by lightning, I had been afraid for it, but it was the only thing survived there. The tree was growing near the place of the entrance gate which my mother had always used, returning from her city work in the evenings. After her death, the gate often seemed to me to be about to open.

There had been many trees there — oaks, elms, bird cherry, aspens, ash, — and a garden, with different species of apple trees, cherries, plums, countless bushes of raspberry, red and black currants, gooseberries. It was easier to say what we hadn’t had.

I remembered, after the death of my grandfather, I had got a nightmare and called my friend, who had two cottages in that place. And she had said, «I just wanted to tell you that…» I had immediately arrived to the ashes, sat down on the bricks and wept. I had found only a wheel of my kid’s bicycle. The other things inside the house — connecting me with my mother and childhood, untouched by time, as frozen decoration! — had been burned down, as if even such a thin invisible thread had been forcibly cut off. The keys to the house could be thrown away that very day, but I had kept them for many more years.

I remembered a frying pan full of fried mushrooms with potatoes «sizzling» on the terrace in the evenings. The mushrooms, we had picked up with my grandfather almost a whole sack of. On the terrace, there had been bunches of healing herbs on a rope along the wall. I remembered the smell of a kerosene lamp, my grandma laying out cards, rains outside the window and us making bonfires, fog and smoke, fallen leaves, autumns. I associated the word «nostalgia» with the countryside bonfires, autumns and the Mist.

I walked along the highway towards the monastery. I was greeted by a familiar sign, perhaps as old as me, or even older, «TRANSIT ON THE RUBLEVO-USPENSKY HIGHWAY IS FORBIDDEN!» — for some others, not for me.

I reached the monastery. The gates to the monastery grounds were open. I entered the territory and walked along a long alley. There were trees, grass, bee hives and… not a soul around. I came up to the church, but it was locked. I sat on a bench, «What did they let me in for? There must be something there, like a clue, a sign.» Walking back, and already almost at the gates, the inscription on the notice board in large red letters caught my eye, «May 6, St. George’s Day.» I stopped and thought, «What do you want to tell me, Saint George?»

...The Man in White didn’t call. On May 8, somewhere around lunch, I did what he had once forbidden me, I wrote him a message, consisting of just one word, «Coffee?» I knew he would kill me. And he called me back and pounced, like a hungry beast on a thrown piece of coveted meat! His voice — rough, harsh, cutting me into pieces — thundered into my tender ear, «Who are you? You wrote to me about some coffee! What coffee? Who are you?»

And I started laughing, «Yes, it’s me who wrote it. You were the one who had offered me to drink coffee with you.»

He convulsively dived in his memory to remember everyone to whom he had promised coffee. He got angry and wild, and even louder, almost deafening me, barked, «I’m busy! Already out of the city. I’m on Rublyovka. Today it won’t work. Maybe tomorrow. At lunchtime. I’ll call you.»

On May 9, I called him at lunchtime myself. He didn’t answer. So then I wrote to him in order to make him jump as if scalded from my impudence and finally remember me once and for all, to never ask me again, «Who are you?» I congratulated Woland on Victory Day and sent him very far away in a damn beautiful way, erasing his phone number from the memory of my phone.

It’s too late to check routes with God’s plan,
even crosses have gone from the curb.
What’s to lose for us now, my friend?
Lives expired their dates long ago.

Karma’s holding the helm of True Love.
Death still threatens to dissipate ghosts.
Every city — you’ve been to — will sink
in oblivion as a mirage.

Can the frames of the earthly prevent
poor spirits from meeting again?
People choose other’s small birds. The crane
took offense and dissolved in the flock.

All the fabrics of fate are so dark.
Facing South, my wings follow birds.
Look, a window’s floating up,
and some pages are swirling within, —

That is me.