It was enough to stall the court proceedings—it even put a halt to tallying the votes from Chicago, Illinois. The ex-President's lawyer, in a public statement (immediately following the release of the footage of the ex-President on the horse), was able to use the fact that the votes "for" and "against" were not tallied by hand. The lawyer insisted on a recount. It would be more fair, more humane. After all, we were talking about one of ours, a man who gallantly sat astride a horse, nonchalantly holding the reigns with one hand...
But in some states they were fairly burning with a desire to put him behind bars.
The lawyer was planning to contest the hand recount as well, declaring the challenge to one staffer after another. He would (in a retreat this time!) invoke the propensity for human error. He would emphasize the biases held by various re-counters. Untrustworthy government employees—they're a dime a dozen! Their mother or father (or fiancée) had been killed by the "crazy" missile. How could this person be expected to correctly place the tallies "for" and "against"?
By this time, the war was being called the "one-day misunderstanding," "an unfortunate accident," "a historical comma," and so on. The moral of the story being that it needed to be forgotten as quickly as possible. People from Chicago and the surrounding states were still escaping to the East and West—as far as possible from the strontium and enriched uranium fallout.
The world expressed its sympathy. Unscathed Europeans, Swedes, Germans, Spaniards all called Americans to their safe shores. Even the freezing Russians invited them with open arms. The utter cold (even the Siberian cold) was preferable to acute leukemia. Those who, for one reason or another, could not house Americans, expressed their sympathy in kind words. Letters upon letters were sent so that the victims wouldn't lose their fighting spirit. The largest number of letters came from Hiroshima.
The ex-President was the recipient of a very different variety of letters, ranging from condolences to insults, from every corner of the States. All Americans were familiar with this address, "To the Texan who couldn't multiply by three." Even schoolchildren knew of his ridiculous error.
He had no place contending with Russians if he couldn't even do basic arithmetic.
In Europe and in the far reaches of Africa, when children learned how to multiply by two, they would already start giggling in anticipation of the threes, knowing their teachers would soon take the opportunity to back up their lessons with an example from recent history.
He, the man who hung the sky with strategic missiles, was being called an opportunist! He, who had laid awake night after night in those terrifying times, was being accused of being carefree—and guilty of the death of hundreds of thousands... Or, they were incapable of seeing that his decision and his will was indeed their own decision and their (and no one else's) will. They (the people, his countrymen) did not want to think for a minute that turning their thoughts in this direction would be seeing the truth. All they wanted to do was see him in court. Without hesitation, posthaste, they wanted to see him as a salivating old man. They were already intoxicated by the pursuit—out of the gates, no holds barred. Life in prison would not be enough. Some thought he would get 21 years, one source calculated a total of 322... The people relished these figures, but they were too small... Far too small.
Sometimes, he would get phone calls (in the middle of the night), and people would outright scream at him about his approaching trial, "It's coming soon!"
Sometimes, it would be as though they were asking for information, "Hey, buddy. I was wondering, where's half of Chicago?"
Obviously, they were referring to the half of the population of the city that had died in the One-Day War. The victims had died instantaneously, within two or three seconds of impact.
The question "Where are they?" was purely rhetorical. Some religious members of the population persisted in posing the question in the sense that the massive destruction of Chicago had given the Lord a job that was both unfathomable (to us) and urgent. He was responsible for each individual soul! Some were intended for heaven, others for hell... We would be perfectly capable of taking apart the concrete ruins, clearing the brick and the rubble, but could He, sorting through such a great mass of the fallen, separate the millions of sinners from the righteous?
Since the time (recently) when philosophers, and with them other wise men, realized that Time was a man-made construct, created for its convenience (so that comparisons could be drawn), since that time, Time had become simply time. Tick-tock, tick-tock. For this reason, any troubling idea could now be replaced by a set of rules and regulations—fine-tuned and infallible Procedure. Why should humanity wait for the hand of Time to judge? It wasn't enough—let time do its job—just time, just a day, a month or so, even a year or five. Tick-tock. We'll get what's coming to us.
So, in sadness, thought the old security guard—the same one sitting in the entrance of the St. Petersburg building where the ex-President was under house arrest. The former Petersburg engineer (though that was so very long ago) and current security guard yawned at his nighttime post; he was bored, but at least he was warm! Exhausting his own insomnia, out of sheer idleness, the old man contemplated Time... and the fate of the former President... and how sorely old men were defeated (finally, his thought turned on something important!)
Why, he wondered in the still of the night, does this chase reek of spiritual carrion?... Indeed, indeed, a good and naïve question (while in Russia whole blocks are freezing to death!). Right now is the perfect time for this question... at this very moment. That untalented, self-aggrandizing, jeering, heartless horde—what are they so happy about? And why do I, an old man, who has no love for them, take them seriously? Why do I, so full of trust, run ahead with them into our common future?...
He spit off into the corner of the room. Old men are grumpy and rarely happy with the present.
"Who's next?" The question underneath the picture in the newspapers appeared forebodingly poisonous.
Newspapers flocked out from St. Petersburg, again full of pictures of the Russian ex-President. This time, he was not in karate uniform towering over tatami mats. His torso was no longer belted by that familiar black belt. And he wasn't throwing anybody over his hip. This time, the Russian former President was in a wheelchair, out of it, with his characteristically glazed-over eyes and a half-open mouth. One of his devotees was pushing his wheelchair forward with difficulty, hurrying to disappear into the courtyard of the building complex.
One of the faithful had not been careful enough. It was a Tuesday, and they were taking the ex-President (and ex-fighter) home from his practice room. One of them let the hood fall, revealing the old man as he really was. It's possible that the hood was simply pulled off by the wind. But it is also possible that somebody who was aware of what was going on had been bribed and "accidentally" pulled the hood off the ex-President's face. Someone had been bought off. A photographer couldn't have landed in the bushes outside of the building of his own accord. And two more near the building gates, with flashes. Somebody's extra cash had done its job. (As they had also done in the American case. As soon as an old man is betrayed, someone nearby is in the money. As reliable as snow in winter).
The photograph of the weak old Russian man was greeted with sighs of relief and even cheers of long-awaited victory. People in cafes jumped out of their seats and waved bundles of newspapers over their heads: finally! He didn't get away! See what he really is! His time has come!... The Hague immediately set a court date. The Russian government, as is their wont, was still dissatisfied. They remained reluctant to give up their wilted ex-President just like that. But there was already talk of Russian officials making some secret deal with one of the Baltic states. They (NATO members despite it all) were prepared to kidnap the ex-President and put his extradition on their own cool consciences. From Petersburg to Tallinn? It was just a stone's throw away. And from Tallinn to The Hague, on a good private jet—he wouldn't even have time to finish his coffee!
All
of the calculators—on the desk, the rug, and the one by his bed—were telling the American ex-President that his hard-earned money, set aside for his battle against Time (with the approaching Court), had been spent. It would no longer be difficult for someone to pay one of his entourage more than he could pay them. Someone's loyalty was bought. At first, all bribery suspicions fell on Gary, an old boozer (one of his oldest friends). Gary, embarrassed, shot himself. The man who had really betrayed the ex-President to the photojournalists ran off to another state without looking back (and from there, he wrote his memoirs justifying his actions).
But there was no fixing things. That black Tuesday (the very same day that the Russian ex-President was hit), the American ex-President fell off a horse. The feeble cowboy couldn't even stay in the saddle for a minute. And right then and there, hiding in the bushes, some rake of a photographer snapped the picture.
The pitiful, lost face of the fallen American greatly resembled that of his Russian colleague. This coincidental day (a Black Tuesday for both), the journalists also began to call The One-Day War—one which both old men had suddenly lost.
American newspapers, more than others, disseminated images of the lifeless expression on his face. The old man, with a confused look and an open mouth. Steps away from the grazing little horse, he was slobbering like an infant and being lifted up, carried, pushed away in a wheelchair (resembling the Russian one), so he could get home and to bed.
Now even the formerly neutral states were voting to take him to court as soon as possible. The Head of the Supreme Court set the long-awaited date.
The night passed like any other, the night when the American ex-President put the phone back in its base and decided not to be upset by the rude voice—he even tried to smile. And why not? The moon was high! He went up to his window (just like his transatlantic counterpart) and looked out at the still nocturnal landscape. This was not one of the worst minutes in his life. It was a good minute! It's not very often that the heavens allow old men moments of such clarity, and a modicum of strength. When it does happen, it is at night.
On the street—on the opposite side of the road—he saw a cheap car stop and a girl hop out of it. This was maybe fifty feet away from him, maybe more, but his sharp though elderly eyes saw it all very clearly. Looking around and deciding that the coast was clear, the girl ran behind some bushes on the side of the road and disappeared from view. She was probably relieving herself. It happens!
Happy, she returns to the car and (raising her eyes) notices the yellow glow coming from a window in the building across the street, framing a man's silhouette. It's night. The street is asleep. Just in case, the girl gives him a friendly wave. The palm of her hand lights up with her motion—hurray! Hurray!
The ex-President sees (in the silvery moonlight) that she is young. He sees that she is well-built, with a good figure. Through the veils of old age, he remembers something, and whispers to himself, "If only I could screw her right now."
He feels no desire to get closer to her. His psychoanalyst once taught him to do this—as soon as he sees a young woman, he has to say how he wants her—as though he was letting himself lick the very desire! That's how a man can stay young. This gives him the strength to fight for his life. Though it didn't end up helping the psychoanalyst. He was dead. But maybe that was because he was unlucky, thought the ex-President. Or maybe he didn't see pretty young women often enough.
The old man returned the young woman's friendly gesture. Her car set off into the night, and a moment later it disappeared. She was gone. There was nobody else left. She was gone... but at least the dog was still there. The ex-President felt how behind him, pressing to his shaking leg, the dog was begging for attention.
Without turning away from the window, the old man reached behind with his left hand and pet the dog's head.
"Ouuuu—ouuuu," the dog answered, swooning from affection.
The room's echo quivered. And, as though from the other side of the world, the other end of night, the cheerful whine of another dog replied, "Ouuuuu—ouuuu!"
Translation by Bela Shayevich
Trash Can for the Diamond Sutra
(fragment)
Marina Moskvina
And here's another interesting novella about an unexpected enlightenment, whose events began unfolding right before the Great Fatherland War. Back then, the same kind of "black Marias" would drive up of a black night, not only to the doors of such unfettered personages as my grandpa Stepan Gudkov, and others who were teaching their fellow citizens Pure Land Buddhism, but also to the doors of the most absolutely normal residents of the towns around Moscow, people who didn't stand out in any way.
Now several esteemed and respected figures will pass before your eyes, figures not related to me by blood. However, they were Stepan and Matilda Ivanovna's close neighbors at the dacha in Kratovo, therefore the threads of these people's fates are weaving into the pattern of my narrative all by themselves.
And so, to begin: a mother and child, Matilda and Stepan's neighbors, lived in Old Bolsheviks village. Their last name was Bronstein.
One fine day they come along and arrest that mother, Sara Naumovna Bronstein, and send her off to a camp for political offenders. What's going on, you might ask? Well, it appears that they had started suspecting poor Sara Naumovna of being in a very bad situation; to be exact, they suspected her of being a close relative of Lev Borisovich Trotsky, the oppositional Party member and main Trotskyite, whose real last name, it turns out, was Bronstein.
But Trotsky didn't have anything to do with this Sara Naumovna! All the more so since by this time poor Lev Davidovich, hiding from Yosif Vissarionovich somewhere, either in Mexico or in Brazil, had been killed, on the order of our Soviet government, it seems, by a man who had been worming his way into his trust for a long time. He came over, drank tea with jam, and acted as though he wanted learn the way of the world from Lev Davidovich, dip into his encyclopedic knowledge. He was so polite, so charming, and had such a totally open heart, that the awfully suspicious Trotsky, who by the way already suspected they'd try to assassinate him, relaxed his watchfulness completely, and became warmly attached to the nice young man and always gave him the very best seat and the very choicest food.
And that one chatted with him, chatted away on different philosophical topics, until one fine day the right moment came along and he whacked his respected friend and teacher in the head with a hatchet.
The arrest of our Sara Naumovna Bronstein, the innocent bearer of that low-prestige last name, was an echo of that distant Mexican event. They slapped a good solid sentence on her, too, for such a little thing!
Anyway, I won't be talking about poor Sara, or about Mr. Lev Trotsky, but about Aunt Sveta, Sara Naumovna's daughter, who back then wasn't an Aunt at all, but a young girl, who at one fell stroke had been divested of both her mother and her bright future, seeing as how she'd acquired the status of the daughter of an enemy of the people.
But I should tell you that, regardless of her unhappy fate, Aunt Sveta was a great lover of good jokes and witty anecdotes when she was young, and, due to her jolly disposition, she even attracted the attention of a very thoughtful student from the Institute of International Relations who was studying to be a diplomat.
Of course, Aunt Sveta fell desperately in love with that future representative of our country abroad, and so, every time they met, she'd go and shower him with jokes and stories about all kinds of things, so that their love would grow ever stronger and more enduring with each passing day.
They were even going to get married, but suddenly she was arrested. There was this article in the Criminal Code, "for the slander of Soviet power."
They asked Aunt Sveta, "Have you been telling this joke?"
Having learned from bitter experience, she answered firmly. "God, no! I'm hearing it for the first time. And I'm actually amazed that you can bend your tongue to pronounce such words about the wise leaders of our Soviet government."
At
this, the door opens and her beloved comes in and says, so gently, even a little reproachfully: "Sveta, what are you saying? Don't you remember how we were standing on Mayakovsky Square, and how the trolley was so late, and you told it to me?"
They led the student away, and he kept on studying to be a diplomat, an envoy of the Soviet land; but they locked up our Aunt Sveta.
So there they were, doing a whole lot of time, Sveta and Sara Naumovna, and neither of them knew anything about the other. Then they were both rehabilitated. Sara Naumovna died soon after that and was buried in the Novodevichy cemetery in the wall of faithful Leninists.
But by now, Aunt Sveta wasn't the same person she was before. She was often sick, didn't talk to hardly anyone, and lived alone for many, many years in that same building in the town near Moscow, the one they'd both been taken from, and whose door had been closed and sealed.
Once, all of a sudden, she put an ad in a newspaper for lonely people and singles. She said, blah blah blah, I'm looking for a life companion, I'm not young, but I'm pleasant-looking, I love good jokes and witty anecdotes. And she got an answer: "intellectual and cultured, blue eyes, former Navy officer, Captain First Rank, now retired, by the name of Nikolai Mikhailovich Oreshkin."
They met. Oreshkin showed her photographs of himself as a young man, where he was standing with other officers on deck; they all had such serious faces, with the thin coating of the eternal on them that you get in black-and-white group photographs, and there was the ocean out past the ship, and seagulls in the clouds.
The cries of the seagulls, frozen in the sky, stirred the hope for simple human happiness once more in Aunt Sveta's soul. She liked the magnificent valor of this Oreshkin, maybe not a young man anymore, but not feeble yet—the valor manifested doing battle on the Black Sea with the Fascist German invaders. And she liked his warm, from-the-heart generosity: when they first met he brought her cake, champagne and flowers.
Life Stories Page 17