Life Stories

by Ludmila Ulitskaya

  The room got quiet. Rodygin squinted.

  "Does anyone know? Be honest."

  "That's what we call our cat," the transparent little girl said timidly, doubting the correctness of her answer.

  Everyone burst out laughing, and then she added, "We used to call her Murka, but we renamed her because of my sister."

  "Whose?" someone asked from the far window.

  "Mine. She's little still and can't say the letter r.'"

  At this the lesson ended when the bell rang. Through the noise of the rain, the bell sounded weak and uncertain, like an alarm clock ringing under a pillow, not telling you to get up but delicately reminding you of that sad necessity.

  The kids fidgeted with excitement. Calming them down, Rodygin raised his hand.

  "Quiet! That signal is for me, not you."

  He tried to end all his lessons like this, so that he left them with two contradictory feelings simultaneously—the completeness and incompleteness of what he'd said. It wasn't enough just to set out a topic and draw conclusions; you also had to instill in your listeners the notion of the subject's inexhaustibility. Rodygin was a virtuoso of this art, but right now the tropical downpour outside distracted him and kept him from concentrating. "Like in Singapore," he thought, and he saw Vekshina suddenly rush for the door.

  She was holding her book bag, but she dropped it the moment Rodygin, who caught up with her in two bounds, grabbed the handle, and she whisked through the door. He felt like a little boy left holding the tail of a lizard that had slipped away. Rodygin tossed the bag on his desk and ran after her; the corridor rushed toward him in a din and shoving, and children's faces raced by, like lights in a tunnel. He ran after Vekshina to give her back her shoe, but she had already dived into the vestibule and flown onto the front steps.

  Even here, under the roof, the air was saturated with a prickly drizzle, streams foamed down below, and clumps of clay plopped into the ditch like frogs. She heard the noise of the chase behind her; the heels of the man's heavy boots thundered over the tile.

  In the vestibule, the smokers shied away from Rodygin, and in the corner a reedy voice said, "The water's run out."

  It was the boy who had gone for water for Vekshina.

  "The hot water," he clarified. "In the pot."

  Rodygin strode by him and stopped in the doorway.

  Vekshina was standing three paces away, at the very edge of the top step. It was as if she had run to the edge of a seaside cliff and was now prepared to throw herself into the water just to escape the person chasing her. The rain was whipping her little face, which was thrown back in infinite despair.

  "Here, take it," Rodygin said in a whisper so as not to frighten her, holding the little slipper out to her on his palm.

  Vekshina turned around, and then he gave her a companionable wink. She looked in horror at his contorted face and horribly screwed up eye and dashed down the stairs. Rodygin leapt after her, and cold streams ran down his collar. He took a running leap over the ditch, nearly sliding to the bottom on the slippery clay, jumped onto the lawn, and was gripped by a chilly presentiment of the irreparable. There was a red light and Vekshina was approaching the thoroughfare as fast as her legs would carry her. In front of her, splashing through the puddles, rushed a solid stream of cars.

  Across the street, hiding under the kiosk awning, Nadezhda Stepanovna saw her and screamed "Stop! Stop!" and ran toward her. Her shoes, stockings, light coat, and under it the back and shoulders of her dress—everything was soaked through instantly; only under her belt was there still a thin layer of warmth. A broad stream seethed and twisted into tails along the edge of the sidewalk. Nadezhda Stepanovna stepped into the street, brakes squealed around her, time stopped, and she felt as if she'd been running in this rain her whole life.

  All of a sudden something struck her hard from the side, an incredibly vivid but warm and soft light streamed before her eyes, and to the sound of leaves, not rain, a familiar two-story building with glass humps on the roof drifted out of the fog. Chrysanthemums were growing right above the ceiling of her small room, which she now saw as clearly and with the same detail as if she'd lived here for years. A narrow bed made up with pink or beige sheets, like on trains, a blanket, and a night table with a lace doily. The stove was hot. Pinned to the wall was a fan of get well cards with little roses and bear cubs from her former pupils. The dinner bell had rung. The doors of the neighboring rooms slammed, and she could hear unhurried steps and quiet laughter. She poked a few pins into the knot of gray hair at her nape and went down the wooden stairs scrubbed white to the dining room. Dinner was the pleasure of other people's company. The warmth of oatmeal and fresh milk and hot tea with jam, but also the warmth that came from understanding, so all the conversations here were about children, every night about children, always about them, the same as in the teacher's lounge of a real school such as she had never had occasion to work in. The abode of the righteous, an island of comfort and love, a heavenly corner extended by the garden that lapped calmly and joyfully out the window.

  "Idiot! Where are you going, idiot!" hollered the muzhik in the leather cap after he jumped out of his Zhiguli.

  Nadezhda Stepanovna stood there, leaning forward, both hands resting on the radiator, but at the same time she had managed not to let go of the two cones of bird cherries. How that had happened, she had no idea. By some miracle the berries were still in the cones, only a few little dark spheres had rolled over the hood and fallen on the asphalt.

  Limping, Nadezhda Stepanovna continued across the street. Vekshina had disappeared somewhere, and the rain was pouring without letup. The city seemed to be rising slowly skyward from the waters' abyss. There had been the sensation of flight, but it had been lost, somewhere very close, barely, pushing the earth down, plunging it back into the deep, and lightning had struck.

  Nadezhda Stepanovna was already stepping onto the safety of the sidewalk and Rodygin was running across the lawn when everything all around was illuminated by white, a brief and terrifying sizzle pierced the air, there was a sour smell, and steam was being thrown off by the grass, but he no longer saw or heard any of it. Even before, something had passed through him ponderously and soundlessly and plunged into the shuddering earth, knocking him off his feet.

  Looking back, Vekshina saw Rodygin being snatched from the shroud of rain by a blindingly white burst, flapping his arms, and collapsing on the grass, where flames were darting. The rain quickly pounded down on them and they went out, hissing angrily, but one little flame lasted longer than the others. It made its way toward Rodygin, danced and bowed, and suddenly turned into that imp who had been sitting in Vekshina's throat five minutes before, jerking its little foot. She recognized him, as he clearly realized, because he immediately got busy and ran off, hiding under the acacia bushes.

  8

  "He's been killed," Filimonov shouted, staggering back from the window.

  Kotova took fright.

  "Who?"

  Filimonov didn't answer. His whole body was shaking from horror and remorse and he wouldn't look out the window for fear of seeing his victim's charred corpse. Finally Kotova guessed she should go over to the window and see what had frightened him so. A second later she was racing for the phone to call an ambulance.

  Thunder clapped mightily over the grocery and school and rolled on, toward the chimney that looked like the minaret of Kalyan. Nadezhda Stepanovna struggled over to the lawn, in the middle of which, like a bonfire site, there was an uneven black spot of burned grass covered with a dissolving little cloud of steam. A man lay on the line between the black and the green. Over him stood a thoroughly soaked Vekshina. She had already found her treasure and wiped it with her hem. The glass slipper was squeezed in her fist with its sharp nose pointing down, like a dagger.

  "He was killed by lightning," Vekshina said with a murderous calm that frightened Nadezhda Stepanovna.

  By this time the rain was letting up, the clouds were parting, their edg
es were brightening, and there was a rainbow. Directly in front of him Rodygin saw its steep, flickering, seven-hued bridge. The rainbow started somewhere behind him, but its other end was set precisely in the ditch. That meant a pot of gold was buried there. "They're digging in the right place," Rodygin thought.

  The buildings and acacia bushes were spinning around him at 78 rpm. He recognized the familiar speed of the old records, which had been replaced long since by LPs, at 33 rpm. Gradually the spinning slowed and then he heard the click of a tumbler: Stop! He sat up. Vekshina's face appeared through the rainbow fog.

  "Take it," Rodygin said, and he held out his empty hand.

  Vekshina recoiled and then rushed to Nadezhda Stepanovna, put her arms around her, and sobbed into her belly, her whole skinny little body quaking. She didn't answer the questions about what had happened or where her coat was, she just held on tighter. The key hanging around her neck cut painfully into her belly. Over the child's little head, which smelled like mushrooms, Nadezhda Stepanovna saw the man who had been lying and then sitting on the grass stand up, staggering drunkenly, and head toward them. She recognized Rodygin and gasped.

  "Lord! What happened to you?"

  "I think I have a contusion. From the lightning," he said.

  The next moment Kotova was bearing down on them, shouting that help was on the way, she had called, and the special brigade was en route, so someone should go out on the corner and show them the way.

  "No need." Rodygin stopped her.

  Vladimir Lvovich came up. Running behind him were the children, with Filimonov ahead of them all. His mouth was open in a soundless scream. When he ran up, Vekshina elbowed him away. She didn't want to share Nadezhda Stepanovna with anyone.

  "Oh, Nadezhda Stepanovna!" Vekshina's neighbor tattled inspiredly. "You wouldn't believe what he told us! He told us how they cut off children's feet and they all get put in jail. With their wives."

  "Wait a minute, wait. Who do they put in jail?"

  "Everyone who, you know . . . Oh, like Vekshina's papa. And they make them walk thirty kilometers."

  "With their wives, too?"

  "No, with policemen on motorcycles."

  "That's how they punish drunk drivers in Turkey," Rodygin hastened to explain himself. "And the wives, that's in Singapore."

  "He said even worse things, he did!" a crafty childish voice rang out in the clearing air. "That in foreign countries they chop their heads off right away."

  "Chop, chop," one of the children confirmed, "and take the corpse away."

  "Filimonov!" someone else clarified.

  "Because he's a bad judge of distance," a third added. "People like that don't live long."

  "That's why he got feeling sick," Vera, mature beyond her years, summed up with feminine perspicacity.

  "I see." Nadezhda Stepanovna nodded and looked questioningly at Rodygin.

  He was silent.

  "What do you have in your cones?" Filimonov asked.

  Only now did Nadezhda Stepanovna remember her bird cherries, which were barely contained in the limp newspaper.

  "It's bird cherries," she said. "Eat, children!"

  When everyone had crowded around her, they heard the ambulance's high bleeping siren, and the white UAZ flew around the corner at full speed, went through the red light, braked, hopped the curb, and drove onto the lawn. Two men jumped out of the back doors and out of the cab, a woman. Kotova pointed to Rodygin.

  "There he is!"

  "I'm fine," Rodygin said, after briefly reporting what this was about.

  One of the doctors squatted, ran his hand over the ashes, looked at his blackened fingers for a long time, rinsed them in a puddle, slapped Rodygin on the shoulder, and climbed back into the van. The special brigade left, Kotova left, and Rodygin watched from a distance as Nadezhda Stepanovna hand-fed bird cherries to her clamoring flock. Filimonov was grabbing fistfuls and Vekshina was pecking one berry at a time. Vladimir Lvovich, who had been standing off to the side, joined their feasting.

  "Remember that crocodile in the museum?" he asked Nadezhda Stepanovna.

  "Yes," and she marveled at how the same memories had flooded back to them on the same day.

  "I think," Vladimir Lvovich said in a low voice, indicating Rodygin with his eyes, "there's quite a likeness."

  "In what way?"

  "He's a specimen, too," he answered in the same intimate half-whisper. "But that's all right, their rule will end soon. Mark my word."

  Nadezhda Stepanovna said nothing, and Rodygin hadn't heard. Right then the boy who knew all about breadfruit popped up alongside him.

  "You promised to answer my question after class," he reminded him.

  "Go away," Rodygin said.

  His head hurt, his bruised shoulder ached, and for some reason his feet had twinges of pain, as if the celestial electricity dissolved in the soil was shooting through his interstitial soles and heels. At the same time he couldn't shake the feeling that there hadn't been any lightning and that the ashen black spot under his feet had been burned by the heat of his soul, so misunderstood, slandered, and locked inside his old, freezing body.

  "Come join us," Nadezhda Stepanovna called out.

  Rodygin came over and took a few berries from the offered cone. The forgotten tartness spread over his palate and tears rose in his throat.

  "You told us lots of very interesting stories," said the cheerful little boy who had sat under his desk for most of the lesson, and he spat out a pit making the sound of a bullet.

  They ate the bird cherries until they were all gone. Their lips, teeth, and tongues turned black. Then they all went to the lunchroom to drink hot tea.

  Translation by Marian Schwartz

  Notes for The Storm

  1. A Russian superstition. It is bad luck to demonstrate on your own body how someone else was injured.

  Contributors

  We wish to express our deep gratitude to all of the authors and translators who contributed their work to this unique effort. We encourage readers to use this collection as a launchpad to explore the authors' other works.

  Special thanks is also due to Galina Dursthoff and Oleg Vavilov, whose tireless efforts spearheaded the original Russian volume, and who arranged the permissions for all the authors included in this special English edition. We also thank Erica Goodoff, who donated her time and effort to proofing this volume. Any errors that slipped through to publication are solely the responsibility of the publisher, who offers his regrets.

  Authors

  ANDREI GELASIMOV was born in 1966 in Irkutsk. In 1987 he graduated from the Foreign Languages Department of Yakutsk State University (YSU). In 1996-1997 he undertook a special course of study at the University of Hull (Great Britain). In 1997, he defended his candidate's (masters) dissertation ("Oriental Motifs in the Works of Oscar Wilde") in English literature at MPGU. In the early 1990s, his translation of Robin Cook's Sphinx was published in Smena. He was a docent in the department of English philology at YSU, and taught English stylistics; at the same time, he worked on his doctoral dissertation about the peculiarities of novel composition at the end of the 20th century. Since 2002, he has lived in Moscow. His book, Fox Mulder Looks Like a Pig ("Foks Malder pokhozh na svinyu") was published in 2001, and the title story in that collection was short-listed for the Belkin prize in 2001. His story "Craving" ("Zhazhda", 2002) was awarded the prestigious Apollon Grigoriev prize. In 2003, his novel, The Year of Deceit ("God obmana") was published. In 2009 he won the National Bestseller prize for his novel, Gods of the Steppe ("Stepnye bogi").

  BORIS GREBENSHCHIKOV was born in Leningrad in 1952. In 1972 he and his classmate Anatoly Gunitsky founded the rock group Aquarium. Grebenshchikov first performed on stage in the spring of 1973, and Aquarium debuted in November 1974. The group attained popularity after their performance at a rock festival in Tbilisi in 1980. Yet the group was still forced to perform largely underground, in apartment parties, without official sanction. In the mid-1980s, with the a
rrival of glasnost and perestroika, Aquarium emerged from the underground and turned into one of Russia's most popular acts. They were allowed to play in large concert halls, appeared on state-owned television and recorded soundtracks for several films, most notably ASSA. Grebenshchikov played the role of a composer and actor in the film Two Captains-2 ("Dva kapitana-2"). Often compared to Bob Dylan for his linguistically rich style and his work across various musical genres, Grebenshchikov has written over 500 original songs.

  YEVGENY GRISHKOVETS was born in 1967, in Kemerovo, and studied philology at Kemerovo State University. In 1985, he began three years of military service, serving in the Pacific Fleet. After his discharge, he returned to university and began to get involved in student theatrical productions and various theater festivals. In 1990 he founded the independent theater Lozha, which adhered to the principles of collective improvization, and which put on several plays based on his works. Eight years later, he moved to Kaliningrad. In 1998 he staged his first one-man show, How I Ate a Dog ("Kak ya syel sobaku"), which received the Golden Mask Critics' Prize and Innovation prize. In 1999, he received the Anti-Booker prize for his plays Notes of a Russian Traveler ("Zapiski russkovo puteshestvennika") and Winter ("Zima"), and the following year he received the Triumph prize. He staged his self-authored plays Simultaneously ("Odnovremenno"), The Planet ("Planeta"), Dreadnoughts ("Drednouty") and The Seige ("Osada"). Since 2003 he has collaborated with the music group Bigudi and with them recorded the album Now ("Seychas", 2003) and Sing ("Pyet", 2004). He has published several books, including City ("Gorod", 2001), a collection of plays, How I Ate a Dog and Other Plays (2003), the novel The Shirt ("Rubashka", 2004) and the prose memoir Rivers ("Reki", 2005).

  ALEXANDER KABAKOV was born in 1943. After the war, the Kabakov family (his father was an officer during the war) lived in Kapustny Yar, in Astrakhan oblast, site of the first Soviet rocket proving ground. Kabakov studied at Dnepropetrovsk University and served four years in the army in a rocket brigade. After his discharge he joined the staff of the newspaper The Siren ("Gudok"), where he worked until the advent of perestroika, when he moved to the newspaper Moscow News. Kabakov began publishing stories in the 1970s, in journals such as Literary Gazette, Moscow Komsomolets and Krokodil. He achieved notoriety with his anti-utopian novella No Return ("Nevozvrashenets"), which was published in the journal Film Art at the peak of perestroika. This was followed by The Compiler ("Sochinitel"), and The Imposter ("Samozvanets"). Two films have been based on Kabakov's works: Ten Years Without Right of Correspondence ("Desyat let bez prava perepiski", 1990) and No Return (1991). His 2004 novel Everything is Reparable ("Vsyo popravimo") won the 2006 Great Book prize, and his 2004 work Moscow Tales ("Moskovskiye skazki") won the 2006 Ivan Bunin prize.