Story 4. The Cherry gum

 
Why does it happen that some tiny little thing becomes the key to incredible experiences and sensations that cannot be evoked by any other means? Where do the origins of this lie? In ourselves, or in these very little things? Or is it a combination of both, happening in the right place and at the only suitable time? There is no answer. Or rather, you could ponder this for a long time, but it would lead nowhere. So let's just consider it a magical trick, a greeting from the magical world, a messenger that managed to break through the fabric of everyday life to remind us of a miracle – the miracle of life, the miracle of being human, and the miracle of living in this beautiful, mysterious world.
 
My life has not been easy. But my childhood was wonderful. It fell during the late Soviet period – the so-called era of stagnation under the rule of Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev. Nowadays, it's fashionable to criticise everything Soviet. They say this was wrong, and that was not right. But you know what I'll tell you? Ordinary people, who weren't trying to push their way to the top of the power structure, lived quite well. In fact, even more than that – they lived very well. Calmly and happily. They were confident about the future. Confident that they had, and would have, work. Confident that they could feed and raise their children. Confident that they could give them a good education, and that if necessary, they would receive qualified medical care. All of this was the self-evident foundation of life. The very basis, without which it is impossible (well, alright – very difficult) to think about anything else – about art, love, "about distant worlds, about magical gifts that will one day fall at their feet," and all the rest from that song. After all, every art historian knows well that an explosion of art is possible only when society is stable, when basic biological needs are met, and there is even some abundance. That's when there is strength and means for creativity, for joy, and for inspiration.
 
To a minimal extent, I experienced all this myself during my childhood. We had a cheerful and, on the whole, close-knit family. Moreover, by the standards of the time, we were fairly well-off (within the circle we belonged to). There were no dachas, no Volga cars, or anything like that, God forbid. But we did have annual trips south, to places like Sochi or Gelendzhik. There were family holidays and frequent parties with friends, with an abundance of tasty food (Mum was an excellent cook). There were no problems with clothes either. Yes, you had to travel to Moscow for them or for groceries, and stand in three or four queues. For bananas, for instance, our whole family would queue – each person in their own line. But then they – green, packed in thick plastic – would keep for a long time in the darkness of the wardrobe, filling the hanging clothes with their exciting aroma. Our parents would give my sister and me one or two bananas a day – and we were absolutely happy. And this despite the fact that our whole family lived in one sixteen-square-metre room in a communal apartment. We went to wash once a week at Grandma's, just across the road; from the tap, winter and summer, only cold water flowed; and besides the four of us, the apartment was also home to another family of three and, in the smallest nine-square-metre room, a lonely neighbour – a good-natured, fat man called Uncle Volodya.
 
And everyone was fine. Holidays were holidays: with guests, music, fun games, and dancing. I have no idea how we all managed to fit into that one room! But it's a fact. And after the feasts, we'd all go for walks together, sing songs, and our hearts felt truly joyful and light. It was probably in this atmosphere of universal celebration, carefree merriment, and high spirits that the little miracle occurred, which stayed in my memory for many years.
 
After my previous descriptions, I think you more or less understand how holidays in our family went. Especially my beloved New Year. To that, you need to add the decorated Christmas tree, blocking almost half the window; presents hidden here and there around the room; the festive table set with Mum's finest porcelain, crystal glasses, decanters with berry juices and compotes also made by Mum, various salads, appetizers, and, of course, mountains of tangerines. With aunts and uncles – Mum and Dad's guests – all dressed up, fragrant with perfume, engaged in their incomprehensible adult conversations. With the children darting about among them all, squealing with joy at the sight of presents solemnly handed out by the adults as the clock struck twelve. With toasts, the clinking of glasses, laughter.
 
Mum – thin, fragile, sparkling with merriment. Dad – smiling contentedly into his moustache. Music, lights, then someone picks me up, someone gives me a peck on the nose, presents are given, they whirl me in a circle dance. My head spins from the abundance of new impressions and the universal joy.
 
For the first time in my life, I'm not sent to bed right after midnight. (At home, we children were always put to bed. Then our parents and their guests would go off to friends who lived either upstairs or downstairs. And there they would laugh, dance, and have fun until morning.) I'm sitting at the table with everyone else. The fatigue from so many unusual impressions is beginning to tell. My eyes are drooping, but I bravely try to keep them open. And then someone gives me some cherry gum. To clarify, back then in the Soviet Union there were only two types of gum: mint and orange. In the south, in Abkhazia, we once got to try coffee-flavoured gum – we brought loads home and treated all our friends and acquaintances. But cherry gum I was seeing for the first time. And it wasn't Russian; it was Czechoslovakian. The wrappers had strange symbols instead of familiar letters. A dark burgundy cherry on a white background. I remember it all in the minutest detail. And the smell!
 
Ah, what words can describe this magical fragrance? It combined the notes of a velvety southern night, cherry resin, distant lands, but the main aroma, of course, was the aroma of wonderful, ripe cherries. How could so much magic fit into one thin, little white stick? I wasn't even in a hurry to taste it. It was enough just to smell it. And then, behind the red glimmers of the Christmas tree lights, I began to imagine cherry orchards on the banks of cherry rivers. Cherry-coloured houses in all shades of pink, with tiny little cherry people. A cherry-pink sky. A pinkish-cherry sun illuminating a fully-ripe cherry world. A wondrous fragrance flows in this world and seeps in waves through the open window vent, past the Christmas tree, into our room. Pinkish-cherry shadows from the pine needles fall on the white tablecloth, on Mum's, for some reason already clean, dishes.
 
Why is no one around? Where has everyone gone? Ah-h, they must be over there, where the laughter and clinking of glasses are coming from – in the cherry-pink world. Someone carefully covers me with a soft blanket and carries me to bed. It's Dad. He smells of cherries too, and of something else exotic. He's probably only here briefly, just to put me to bed. Then he'll rejoin the dancing cherry people and my laughing, pinkish-cherry Mum. I smile in my sleep. In my hand, I'm clutching the stick of cherry gum. It won't melt away by morning – I know this. I'll breathe in its fragrance again and return to the cherry world tomorrow, when I've rested. But for now, let the pink light spread and fill everything in this world – the light of the rising winter sun. The light of the first day of the New Year.