ON THE QUESTION OF THE POSSIBLE INSUFFICIENCY OF PHYSICAL REALITY AS EXPRESSED BY THE RATIO OF HEISENBERG’S UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE
“Everyone I’ve ever loved,” she said, “just didn’t seem to get that when two people begin to constantly observe, discuss, and minutely deconstruct their relationship, the relationship itself starts to change under the influence of these endless conversations; and by the way, none of it produces any answers, though it gradually brings love into a state of appalling disrepair.”
“Jeez,” he said. “Such pathos.”
THE CON IS ON
When business would get really bad—which, strangely enough, did happen, though he was considered a rather important musician and normally didn’t lack for concerts—he would call Gosha, and Gosha would set up two or three performances at corporate events, where it was guaranteed that no one would recognize him. He could afford not to drag out these performances, unlike the official ones, the pathos-filled ones in the conservatory: try as he might to hide it from himself, with age it was getting harder for him to sit cross-legged for long periods. On the other hand, at the corporate events, with their chaotic atmosphere, there was always the risk of losing one of the twenty thimbles, meticulously selected over the years to fit each digit. Mostly, the ones to get lost would be those hardest to replace: the larger ones, intended for the big toes. Fortunately, he had been smart enough at some point to buy three instead of just two of those souvenir monstrosities in Prague, for future use. If worse came to worst, he even had a fourth thimble, a rather oversized copper one of uncertain provenance, from back in the day when he had just invented the chalcophone and was entertaining the enchanted, agreeable tourists in Yalta with “Flight of the Bumblebee.” Sometimes he would use this specific thimble for his performance, and then it wasn’t only his fingers that hummed when they hit his toes, but everything around, everything around would hum.
GIMME TWENTY
He started believing in God when he realized that after every new wave of hoarse shrieking that ended in a hysterical, spit-spurting “Drop and gimme twenty!” he could, face exhaustedly planted into the sickening hash of the October parade ground, for totally inexplicable reasons, smell the dizzyingly pure fragrance of lilacs.
WE CAN’T EVEN IMAGINE HEIGHTS LIKE THAT
All day he walked around with a mysterious look and got on everyone’s nerves so much with his enigmatic hints that during the last break Big Marina pressed him against the map closet and began to tickle him. He yelped, writhed, breathless with shrieking laughter, but didn’t crack, and after school they had to trail after him to the vacant lot. He dragged them past the bottles, paper scraps, past the broken-off mannequin arms that instantly attracted everyone’s attention, past all sorts of off-color trash to a ginormous rock about his own size. He said it was a meteorite.
“Imagine,” he said, “just imagine from how high up this meteorite fell! We can’t even imagine heights like that.”
He told us that according to his scientific calculations, this meteorite fell to earth literally yesterday.
“If the meteorite fell to earth yesterday, then why has it already grown into the ground?” caustically asked Big Marina, a fat, strapping girl forced to live by her wits. Then he said that when a meteorite falls, time around it flows faster. A day is like a month, or maybe even a year. Or three. He said that science doesn’t have the most exact data yet.
That night he returned to the vacant lot, spread his jacket out on the ground, hugged the meteorite and lay there right up until morning. He got very cold, but those seven years were worth it.
EMERGENCY
“Lift your arm, please,” he said. Whimpering, she placed her hand on her head. “A little higher,” he said.
She quickly straightened her arm and even stretched out a scooped-out palm like a schoolgirl trying to get called on.
He slowly palpated the breast in a circular motion. The part that pained her felt totally normal to him, the nipple wasn’t misshapen, there didn’t appear to be any discharge, the pale, soft, smooth skin was cool to the touch. He shifted his fingers to the armpit and then, in circular movements, back to the nipple, constantly repeating, “Good, good,” while she sniffled, trying to inhale a small drop hanging under her nostril; finally, she couldn’t take it anymore and stretched her free left hand to the toilet paper roll, ripping off a miniscule piece, trying not to move her torso and hinder the exam.
“Good, good,” he said. “You can get dressed. I don’t see anything wrong. Really, nothing. You should definitely get checked, everyone should get checked regularly, but I don’t see any lumps.”
She stuffed her palpated breast willy-nilly into her bra cup, quickly unrolled another ribbon of grayish toilet paper, blew her nose thoroughly and heaved a heavy, ragged sigh. He began to wash his hands. She said to his back:
“I’m horribly ashamed. I’m so ashamed. Please forgive me, I’m horribly ashamed. I was just adjusting myself and I thought I felt … and I got so scared. I’m such an idiot. I’m so ashamed, please forgive me.”
He remembered how the waiter began to dash from table to table after she shouted so the whole room could hear, “Is there a doctor here? Please, is there a doctor here?” You would think that the waiter would first rush over to her, instead of running among the tables bawling, “Is there a doctor? Is there a doctor?”
On the other hand, he thought, that’s stupid. That’s what waiters are for.
TOMORROW, LET’S SAY
For Zlata
“I’ve seen with my own eyes how the sky darkens and birds stop singing when the gates of the Prosecutor General’s office open and the six-car motorcade starts to move slowly toward the Kremlin,” she said.
He looked at her—she was small, inappropriately lively in the frozen pomp of his enormous office—and thought: wouldn’t it be great to take this dummy away someplace. To some island. Move all his dough out fast, cash it all in, buy an island, and fucking take off with this dummy.
EVERY SINGLE DAY
Yesterday she had bought an espresso machine and five identical coffee cups—fat, heavy, grotesquely expensive, but she wasn’t sorry about the money. Now all the cups stood before her in a little row, each one on its own saucer, each full of espresso. She had some doubts about the milk, carefully foamed in a special little pitcher: the foam seemed too dense to her, but this, she decided, was better than foam that was too thin. She ruined the first cup literally in two seconds—the hand with the little pitcher faltered, and the line that was supposed to turn into the petal of a large brown flower on the white cap of foam went crooked. On the second cup she managed to create two petals out of four before the foam began to creep over the rim. On the third cup, the phone rang.
“Yes,” she said into the phone.
“Mrs. Darnton?” the phone asked.
“Yes,” she said. “This is Mrs. Darnton.” The phone was silent for a bit.
“Mrs. Darnton,” said the phone. “This is Inspector Milvers. We spoke yesterday.”
“Yes, I remember it well,” she said in a friendly tone.
The phone was again silent for a bit, then continued:
“And the day before.”
“And the day before,” she agreed easily, slapping the sole of her slipper impatiently against her heel: the foam was just about to begin collapsing, and then she’d have to start all over again.
“Mrs. Darnton,” the phone said, “I’m afraid you haven’t understood. We have discovered a body we believe to be your husband’s. It is imperative that you come identify it.”
“Definitely,” she said. “Definitely. I will definitely come by today.”
IF ONLY
Of course, she won’t try to dissuade him—she’ll just say something mild, something totally insignificant, which will make him immediately stop liking the tie all by himself. But what a tie! It’s the ideal tie—just expensive enough, personal too. He knows his brother, his brother will be just ecstatic.
He decided to buy the tie as soon as she headed to the bathroom—he’d suggest that she pop in so that afterwards they could wander the gigantic halls of the museum without a care. They had already spent no less than half an hour in the store, deciding who would get what. It was decided that the little silk doll, no bigger than a pinkie finger, would go to his mother, the surprisingly inexpensive glass brooch to his sister; the notepad with coarse, “writerly” paper would make Mila go into raptures. Before they knew it, the delicate task of acquiring souvenirs was behind them.
He approached his wife (little hands clasped at the small of her back, straight nose almost touching the glass of a tchotchke-filled case), bent toward her in almost the same pose and asked softly, “Want to go to the bathroom? I’ll wait for you by the checkout.” She tore herself away from the knickknacks, nodded, stuck her purse in his hands, and they moved toward the door leading out of the store and into the museum hall.
She had just enough time to sneak a peek at a couple of silk blouses with a Magritte print, to brush the fingers of her left hand, in passing, over a lovely transparent table, to stroke a cascade of silk ties with her right hand—and, her index finger hooking that exact one, in light blue, half turned and said, “Look at that. If only your father were still alive.”
NOTHING SPECIAL
“Do you do anything special for birthdays?” she asked.
He quickly went through the possible options in his head. There wasn’t anything suitable on the menu, their café didn’t even offer birthday discounts, but sometimes Mark would spring for a “fruit bomb” with a little golden candle—especially if the revelers showed up in a big group and it looked like they’d run up a big bill. But at six in the morning Mark naturally wasn’t there yet.
“Sorry,” he said, “I’m afraid we don’t really have anything.”
She stuck out her lips in a sad, understanding half-smile, tucked a short strand of hair behind her ear, and carefully picked up the coffee cup by its thin, inconvenient handle. At that point he went to the back, dug around in his backpack and brought her a little nut-filled chocolate bar left over from his hasty breakfast on the empty train.
APROPOS OF NOTHING
“Our first fight,” she said, “happened on our way to see my mom at the hospital.”
THE LITTLE TENOR
He was facing the audience, but of course he couldn’t see anyone, just hot blinding light. That light and the enormous, enormous music, coming from below and flooding the stage in waves, made him suddenly start floating, almost pulling away from the floor. The sound gathering strength in his chest became unbearably full, he marveled at this fullness and luxuriated in letting the sound out—in a long, ecstatic “Aaaaaaaaaaa!” that made his own ears pop drunkenly. At that moment his mom’s hands grabbed him from behind and actually lifted him into the air, so abruptly that he bit the tip of his tongue and began to bawl heartrendingly. The spots of the stage lights were still in his eyes, he couldn’t see anything in the semidarkness backstage, someone was laughing, his mother kept repeating: “God, I am so, so sorry,” and “Misha, you should be ashamed, how could you just go out there?” and again—“God, I am so, so sorry.” Through the blur of tears all he could make out was Kirill guffawing, then turning serious and crossing into that light with enormous steps, his gold chainmail just flashing once, dimly—like the tail of a golden fish slipping out of one’s hands, like a poisoned needle of envy and umbrage.
ALMOST
The light got brighter, she didn’t feel the pain at all, just an amused and guarded excitement like in childhood when you’re speeding down a hill, and everything around is so unreal, and precipitous, and smooth. The doors swung open before her gurney, those who were pushing it forward were hurriedly exchanging half-understandable phrases that were at once alarming and magical. The person running along on the gurney’s right side was holding a clipboard, the white mask covering the lower half of his face sucked in and puffed out with each breath. She had already given him her age, address, marital status: without looking, he made some notes on his clipboard.
“Mr. Lenter, are you interested in reincarnation, and if so, do you have any preferences?” yelled the clipboard holder, skillfully dodging a second gurney that was speeding toward them.
“Wait, I can become anyone at all?” she asked in amazement, cupping her palm around her eyes and trying to make him out in the intensifying white glow. The gurney flew through yet another door.
“Mr. Lenter,” said the clipboard holder with some irritation, “it’s standard procedure: first we ask for preferences, and then a special committee makes the decision. Concentrate, please.”
WE’RE RUNNING LATE
“Not her,” he said. “Not her, what can I say. She’s going to kvetch. Someone else, come on.”
“Who else is there?” she said lazily, poking him in the shoulder to say: top of the escalator, careful. They stepped off onto the half-empty Saturday platform.
“So what does this mean,” he said. “We were all ready to go—and now it turns out we have no one to invite?”
“This is no good,” she said, craning her neck to see whether their train was approaching through the tunnel. “Other people socialize, invite people, and we don’t.”
His phone rang in his pocket, the ring drowned out by the noise of the arriving train. He took it out hastily and looked at the screen.
“Well?” she asked. “Who is it?”
“Nobody,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her into the car. “Just the alarm.”
CYST
She decided to tell Katrina everything the next morning at breakfast. Then she decided she would tell her on Monday before sending her off to school, so the girl would have something to distract her. Then she decided not to tell her at all—just to pretend everything was OK and tell her the truth in a month or two, when there wouldn’t be any choice. That was the decision she settled on. She opened the apartment door extra slowly, holding her breath, so it wouldn’t creak, but Katrina wasn’t asleep anyway, rose from the couch to meet her, the TV remote plopped on the ground. She smiled with all her might.
Found Life Page 12