Housing Question

;"My old friends suddenly discovered that I'm a believer—and a Catholic to boot, God forgive me.
— ...Are you serious, Lelya? Do you actually go to church?
— ...What, converted to Catholicism? Did the priests brainwash you? Ha-ha!
— ...Do you really believe in God? You used to be so normal!"
;Here is my answer.
Yes, I go to church. Yes, to a Catholic one, that’s just how it turned out. Yes, I truly believe in God. Yes, I used to be an atheist.
;When and how did this mysterious, mystical transition from disbelief to faith happen?
You can't grasp it with the intellect. In fact, the mind is often the greatest obstacle. Take my mother, for instance. Brilliant, with a PhD in engineering, she just cannot bring herself to believe in what she calls "old wives' tales."
;Yes, it is difficult. The only thing that matters here is your own personal experience of communicating with... let’s call Him God.
And it’s not mysticism that convinces you, but supernatural help in simple, mundane, seemingly unsolvable matters—like the notorious housing question.
;"— ...Meet Lelya. Look at her hands," that was how my colleague, Vovka, used to introduce me to his friends.
We worked together at a public school. I was the music teacher, and this fair-haired, skinny, incredibly youthful guy taught art.
The school was trendy and very strange. There were more psychologists than teachers, and more teachers than students, and everyone was busy writing a thesis on so-called "developmental education." Everyone except Vovka and me.
;Having downgraded to teaching music to toddlers despite my conservatory degree, I was "paying in sweat" for my daughter's tuition at this advanced school—that part was clear. But what kept Vovka there remained a complete mystery to me.
Whenever I accompanied the dancing kids during rhythmics class, and Vovka had a gap in his schedule, he would sit down by the piano and stare intently at my hands.
After classes, our little group—me, little Inga, and Vovka—would walk to the bus stop along a snow-cleared path through the woods of Akademgorodok.
;The guy was anything but ordinary. For one thing, Vovka was an astrologer, practically a professional one.
Back then, I didn’t believe in God, the devil, or pseudoscience like astrology. Still, out of sheer curiosity, I asked Vovka to explain the essence of this "thing-in-itself."
My friend pulled out a mammoth book and, after asking for my day, hour, and "preferably exact minute of birth," began flipping through the pages, muttering under his breath, sounding exactly like Woland: "...Mercury in the second house... the Moon has moved..."
I watched him with irony—right until Vovka actually started speaking.
He began telling me such intimate, nuanced details about my life, with such staggering accuracy, that there was absolutely no way he could have known them.
;"— But how... do you...?" I asked, profoundly shaken.
"— It’s all written right here."
"— Is this magic or physics?"
"— Well, the way planets affect one another is pure physics. They are energy fields, and incredibly powerful ones at that. But you should know that you shouldn't mess with this. I do it, but I know it's a sin."
"— Why?!" I asked. I had been just about ready to become a hardcore astrology fan.
"— Because the Catholic Church forbids practicing astrology."
"— Wait, you're a Catholic too?" I stared open-mouthed at my enigmatic friend.
"— Yeah."
"— And you believe in God? Seriously? Like, you actually go to church?"
"— Yeah. In fact, I'm going today. I’m going to pray and ask God for a place to live. I’m tired of couch-surfing and crashing wherever I can. But I need an apartment right here in Akademgorodok, close to work, so I can walk home."
;I burst out laughing.
"— Maybe you should ask for it in installments rather than all at once? What, is there a restaurant menu up there in Heaven where you can just place an order?"
"— You shouldn't laugh," Vovka replied in all seriousness. "The Gospel says: 'Ask, and it will be given to you.' Have you ever asked God for anything?"
"— Ha-ha-ha! Of course not. I'm not a fool."
"— What’s stopping you from trying?"
"— What’s stopping me... Well, God doesn’t exist, that’s what," I stammered, struggling for an answer.
"— How do you know He doesn’t?"
"— And how do you know He does?" I countered.
"— Just ask—and you’ll find out whether He exists or not."
;Indeed, why not give it a shot?
My life back then was so unsettled and chaotic that if I started asking, the list would be endless.
;...After graduating from the conservatory, we returned to my hometown. Shurik, our daughter, a mountain of luggage, and I moved into my mother’s tiny, one-and-a-half-room khrushchyovka apartment, much to her horror.
At that time, Perestroika was in full swing, which in practical terms meant the country took absolutely no responsibility for us. It meant a total lack of money, non-payment of wages, and an inability to keep up with inflation.
Even though we managed to get jobs at the university in the Cultural Studies department, it did nothing for our financial well-being. They piled every single music theory and music history subject on us, plus solf;ge, plus piano accompaniment, and they even forced Shurik to sing in the University Choir. For all of this combined, the two of us received a monthly salary equivalent to eleven and a half Snickers bars (to be fair, Snickers bars were very expensive back then, and we couldn’t afford them anyway).
On top of that, we worked at the school in Akademgorodok because of Inga, which meant commuting there every single day. I was losing my mind, spending an hour and a half a day crammed into a suffocating bus with a young child...
Oh, I certainly had plenty to ask God for—if He existed.
;...Vovka himself was born in Bolotnoye.
On the Tomsk–Novosibirsk highway, right at the turnoff to Bolotnoye, lies a famous intercity bus stop. It achieved widespread notoriety because of its restrooms. Anyone, especially a foreigner traveling through Siberia—and especially in the winter—would carry the memory of those long wooden outhouses with their row of filthy holes for the rest of their lives. And the smell! A stench of astonishing density and potency!
And that was without me even stepping foot into Bolotnoye itself.
It was no wonder that Vovka, having earned his degree in Tomsk, had no intention of returning to his hometown.
In a situation like that, you’d pray to anyone for a place to live, but what was the point... Miracles, alas, don't happen.
;...One day, Vovka, Inga, and I left the school as usual and walked briskly through the fresh, frosty air past the snow-covered fir trees.
Suddenly, near the bus stop, Vovka started saying goodbye.
"— Wait, aren't you riding with us today?" I asked, surprised.
"— No, I'm not. I'm heading over there," he said, waving his hand toward a residential block. "I live over there now."
"— What?! You actually got it?!" I gasped, unable to believe my ears.
"— Of course. Did you doubt it? I didn't."
"— But how? What actually happened?"
"— Oh, it’s quite simple. My friend Dasha lives in that building. Her mother is on the institute's waiting list for an apartment. She said that if Dasha and I get married, they’ll give them a four-bedroom apartment instead of a three-bedroom. So, I’m getting married soon," Vovka explained, offering a perfectly plausible reason.
;It didn't sound like a miracle, and yet... it had worked, hadn't it?
"— Wow..." I was at a loss for words. "Can anyone just get a place there? Maybe I should ask for an apartment too?"
"— I told you so," Vovka reminded me. "And you didn't believe me. You should definitely ask, and make sure it's in Akademgorodok too. Why on earth should you shake about in a crowded bus every single day!"
"Well, what have I got to lose? Why not try," I thought, wavering.
;That was my first serious experience with prayer.
...A few months later, Shurik, Inga, and I moved into a dormitory in Akademgorodok.
Granted, it wasn’t for long. Our next stop was Novosibirsk.
And now, it’s Ko Chang island in Thailand. And why not? After all, nothing is impossible for God.
So, I assure you, it works. Though not always the way you expect: sometimes the Lord simply says, "I have a better idea."