A School for Fools

by Sasha Sokolov

  But why are you so angry with your comrades, asks our patient mother; aren’t you the same as they are? If you were different, better than them, we wouldn’t have sent you to the special school; oh, you cannot imagine what happiness it would have been for me and your father! My God, I would probably become the happiest mother in the world. No, Mama, no, we’re completely different people and there’s no connection between us and those weaklings; we’re incomparably nobler and better than they are in all respects. Naturally, from the outside it may appear we’re exactly the same and as far as making progress in our studies there’s nobody worse than us, we’re unable to fully memorize even one poem, not to mention a fable, but then we remember more important things. Not long ago Cafeteria explained to you that we—your sons—have so-called selective memory and it’s extremely true; memory of this kind allows us to live as we wish, since we remember only those things we need unlike those cretins who are insolent enough to think they can teach us. You know, we don’t even remember how many years we’ve been sitting in the special school, and sometimes we forget the names of school subjects and ordinary objects, and we have even greater problems with some formulas and definitions—those we don’t know at all. Once, a year or three later, you found us a tutor for some subject, perhaps for mathematics, and as it’s commonly done, we went to his apartment to study; he charged for each lesson so-and-so many rubles. He was an expensive and knowledgeable pedagogue and no later than during our second meeting he informed us: Young man—no, I made a mistake, he used a strange forgotten expression: Youngling—my youngling, you are unique; everything you know about this subject amounts to nothing. When we arrived for the third lesson, he left us in the apartment and ran to the store to buy beer. It was summer, it was hot, we used to go to our meetings from the dacha, it was unbearable, Mama. The tutor said to us: Well, hello, hello, youngling, I’ve been waiting for ages—rubbing his hands—I’ve been waiting for ages, it’s hot, given that it’s summer, did you bring the money? Give it to me, I’ve been waiting for ages, I have absolutely no money, stay here, I’ll go downstairs and get some beer, make yourself at home, if you want, do some drawing or feed the guppy; the lamp in the aquarium is burned out, the water is murky, but when the fish swims up to the glass, you can see it, go ahead and watch it; yes, by the way, take also a look at Fishman, he’s on the shelf, it’s an answerology, answerology of problems, I recommend number so-and-so, it’s extraordinarily interesting: A bicyclist is riding, can you imagine? He gets from one point to another, quite an amusing situation, the heat is unbearable, I’ve been waiting for ages, no money whatsoever in the entire house, all the neighbors went to the south, absolutely no one to borrow from; well then, I’m out of here, make yourself comfortable, do whatever you want, only don’t look in the refrigerator, there’s nothing there anyhow—it’s empty, and now for beer, for beer, and once more for beer, so we won’t feel the excruciating pain. Absentmindedly. No, deliberately. Turning in front of a mirror. When the tutor returned with beer—thirty bottles, Mama—he asked us if we knew how to play chess. We answered that we knew how. That very day we invented a new chess piece: it was called bishophorse and it could move in a crosswise pattern or not move at all, that is to skip its move, stand in place. In such a case the player simply tells his opponent: The bishophorse moves—but in reality the bishophorse stands as if it were planted and gloomily gazes all over the world, like Perillo. The tutor was wild about the idea of the new piece and when we visited him later, he often sang to the tune from The Children of Captain Blood: Bishophorse, bishophorse, go on, smile now—and drank beer and we never again worked on the school subject; we played chess and we often beat the tutor. Thus we have a pretty good memory, Mama, but most likely it’s selective and you shouldn’t be upset. And at that moment the three of us, sitting in the kitchen, heard the voice of our father and understood he was no longer napping in his armchair but was moving down the hall, tapping with his bedroom slippers and rustling the fresh evening newspapers. He was walking tiredly and slowly, and coughed—that was precisely his voice, this was the expression of his voice. Good evening, Papa in the old pajamas, don’t be upset they are old, one day Mama will make or buy you new ones and Those Who Came will inquire: Did you make them or buy them, did you make them or buy them? Our prosecutor father is very large: When he’s standing in the kitchen door, he covers the entire opening with his plaid pajamas, he’s standing there asking: What happened, why are you shouting here, in my house, what—have you all gone mad? I thought our stupid relatives came again, all hundred of them at once. What the hell for, seriously speaking! Is it so impossible to be quieter; you have spoiled your cub to the extreme; no wonder he gets nothing but Fs. No, Papa, this isn’t the point, you understand, bishophorse entered my dreams like a red masculine fist enters a leather glove and he, the unfortunate bishophorse, has a selective memory. What kind of gibberish is this, I don’t wish to listen to your ravings, Father said to me. He sat on a stool and it seemed that in a moment it would break under the weight of his always tired body, and then he shook the pile of newspaper pages to straighten them out and underlined with his nail some kind of note in the ads section. Listen, he turned to our mother, to what is written here: I’ll buy a winter dacha. What do you think, shouldn’t we sell our house to this fellow? He’s most likely a scoundrel and a rascal, some kind of administrator or farm director and, of course, he has money, otherwise he wouldn’t have placed this ad. I was just sitting and thinking, continued Father, what the hell do we need our shack for; there’s nothing good there: the pond is dirty, all the neighbors are boors and drunks, and repairs cost an arm and a leg. But the hammock, Mama said, how nice it is to lie in the hammock after a hard day, you love it so much. I can hang the hammock in the city, on the balcony, said Father; yes, it would fill the entire balcony, but not even one relative would ever set a foot there, on the balcony, that’s the main thing; I am tired of keeping the dacha for your relatives, you do understand what I mean, don’t you? If I sold it, that would be it, no taxes, no glass installers, no roof repairmen, and so on, especially because my retirement is not so far away, eh? You know best, Mama said.

  And then I—this time it was precisely I and not that classmate who stuttered so agonizingly—I yelled to my father: A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a! I yelled as loud as I had ever yelled in my life; I wanted him to hear and understand the meaning of his son’s yell: A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a! Wolves on the walls even worse people on the walls people their faces these are hospital walls this is the time when you are dying quietly and terribly a-a-a-a-a rolled in a fetal position faces you never saw but will see years later it’s a prelude to death and life because you were promised to live to be able to experience the reverse flow of time to study in the special school and eternally love the teacher Veta branch of acacia a fragile woman in tight stockings that swish when she walks a girl with a tiny birthmark close to her sweet and attractive mouth a dacha woman with the eyes of an easily frightened doe stupid broad selling her body at the suburban platform of the electric train with an overpass and a clock and the electric lines writhing in the snowy wind snowy wind and above a-a-a-a-a falling young stars and tempests flying through summers—am I late? Forgive me, for God’s sake, Veta Arkadievna, I took my mother to the station, she went to another city for a few days to see her relatives, but I assume you’re not interested, honestly speaking I don’t even know what to do to make you interested; well, now I have an idea, let’s take a ride somewhere, let’s go to a park or a restaurant, you are probably cold, button up, why are you laughing, did I say something funny, well stop it, please, what? You’d like to go to the dacha? But we sold the dacha long ago, we don’t have a dacha because Father retired, let’s go to a restaurant, yesterday I got some money, not too much, but I have some, I am working now in a certain ministry, what are you saying, no, I am not an engineer at all, what? I can’t hear, an electric train is going by, step back from the edge, why did I write you a note? What the heck, I cannot answer
immediately, we’ve got to talk, to sit down somewhere, let’s go to a restaurant, all right? What? On the electric train? Of course, there’s no taxi stand here, this is an area outside the city, more precisely, it is the countryside; while we are getting there I’ll tell you everything, everything is very important, more important than you think, it’s more important, more important, just imagine, at one time, apparently relatively long ago, I used to come here with my mother to the snow-covered platform; you probably know that here, if one follows the train, and turns to the left, is a cemetery where my grandmother is buried e-e-e-e-e-e—the electric trains, freight trains, and expresses were going then as they are now—carefully, Mama, don’t slip—or perhaps it was another platform? They are all so alike—a big white cemetery, the church, but before that a market, market, one needs to buy sunflower seeds there; women in peasant kerchiefs; it smells of cows and milk; long tables and awnings, a few motorcyclettes at the entrance, workers in dark blue aprons are unloading boxes from a truck; from the railroad crossing, where the barrier and the striped hut are, one can hear the throaty signal bell, two dogs are sitting by the butcher’s store, a line for kerosene and the horse that brought the kerosene tank stand alongside the fence, snow is falling on the horse from the tree under which it stands, but the horse is white and for that reason the snow on its rump goes almost unnoticed. In addition—there’s a water pump and around it frozen spilled streams covered with sand; also—cigarette butts thrown into a snowdrift, and, furthermore— an invalid in a padded jacket selling dried mushrooms on a string. A wheel from a cart, leaning against the garbage bin. Mama, will we go to grandmother first or straight to the maestro? To grandmother, answers Mother, first to grandmother, she’s waiting, we haven’t visited her in a long time, it’s simply not nice, she may think we completely forgot about her, adjust your scarf and put on your gloves, where’s the handkerchief, grandmother won’t like the way you look. We pass cast-iron gates with scrolled designs, buy a bouquet of paper flowers from a blind old woman by the church, walk out on the central alley, then turn right. We walk until we see a white marble angel in the form of a young woman. The angel stands behind a dark blue fence, with his large noble wings folded behind his back and with his head bowed: he’s listening to the whistles of the trains—the railroad passes a kilometer from here—and he’s mourning my grandmother. Mama is looking for the key to the fence, that is, to the hanging padlock that locks the fence, the gate in the fence. The key’s lying somewhere there, in Mother’s nice-smelling purse—along with a compact, a small flask of perfume, a lace handkerchief, matches (Mama does not smoke, of course, but carries matches just in case), identification papers, a little bundle of paper string, ten old streetcar tickets, lipstick, and change for the trip. Mama can’t find the key for a long time and is worried: Oh God, where is it, I remember well it was here, is it possible we won’t be able to visit grandmother, it’s so upsetting. But I know the key will be found for sure and I’m waiting calmly—no, it’s not true, I’m also worried because I’m afraid of the angel, Mama, he looks so somber. Don’t be silly, he’s not somber, he’s sorrowful, he’s mourning our grandmother. Finally the key is found and Mama starts opening the padlock. It doesn’t work instantly: the wind has blown snow into the keyhole and the key doesn’t go in and then Mama holds the padlock in her palms to warm it up and to melt the ice in the keyhole. When this doesn’t help, Mama bends over the padlock and breathes on it as if she were melting someone’s frozen heart. Finally the padlock clicks and opens—a multicolored winter butterfly that was sitting on the branch of the elder gets scared and flies in the direction of the next grave; the angel only shudders but does not fly away; he stays with grandmother. Sorrowful, Mama opens the gate, approaches the angel, and looks at it for a long time—the angel is covered with snow. Mama bends over and takes a sorghum broom out from under the bench: we bought it one day at the market. Mama brushes the snow off the bench and then turns towards the angel and cleans the snow from its wings (one wing is broken, cracked) and its head; displeased, the angel frowns. Mama takes a small shovel—it stands behind the angel’s back—and cleans the snow from grandmother’s mound. The mound, under which is grandmother. Afterwards, Mama gently sits down on the bench and takes the handkerchief out of her purse to wipe her oncoming tears. I am standing next to her; I don’t particularly want to sit, Mama, not particularly, thanks, no, I’ll stand. Well, so, Mama says to her mother, well, so we came again, hello, my dear, you see, it’s winter again, aren’t you cold, maybe I shouldn’t have cleaned the snow, it would have been warmer, do you hear, a train is coming, today is Sunday, Mama, there are many people in the church, at home—here the first tears slide down my mother’s face— at home everything is fine, I and my husband (Mama says my father’s name) are getting along, everyone is well, our son (Mama says my name) is in such-and-such class, he’s doing better at school. It’s not true, Mama, not true—I am saying to myself—I’m doing so poorly at school that if not today then tomorrow Perillo will expel me—that’s what I’m saying to myself—and I’ll begin selling paper flowers like that old woman—I’m saying this to myself, but aloud I say: Grandma, I’m trying as hard as I can, as hard as I can, I’ll finish school for sure, don’t worry, please, I’ll become an engineer like grandfather. I can’t say anything more because I feel that in an instant I’ll begin to cry. I turn away from grandmother and look far down the alley: at its end, by the fence, a little girl is playing with a dog—hello, girl with a simple dog; I always see you here, do you know what I want to tell you today? I’m lying to my former grandmother, I feel awkward upsetting her and I’m telling her lies because not a single one of us nitwits will ever become an engineer, we are all only able to sell postcards or paper flowers like that old woman at the church, and even that is doubtful: we probably will never learn to make such flowers and we’ll have nothing to sell. The girl goes away and takes the dog with her. I notice that the butterfly, now sitting three steps from me, on the crest of a snowdrift, straightens its wings and is about to fly away. I push the gate open and start running, but the butterfly notices me before I’m able to cover it with my hat: it vanishes among bushes and crosses. Up to my knees in snow, I run after it, saddened, trying not to look at the photographs of those who are no more; their faces are lit by the setting sun; their faces are smiling. Dusk descends from the depths of the sky. The butterfly, that from time to time appeared for an instant here and there, now disappears completely and you are left alone in the middle of the cemetery.

  You don’t know how to return to your grieving mother and you set out in the direction from which the whistles of the locomotive are heard—in the direction of the railroad. The locomotive, dark blue smoke, whistle, some kind of clicking inside the mechanism, dark blue—no, black—hat of the engineer; he looks out from the little window of his cabin, looks ahead and to the sides, notices you and winks—he has a mustache. He reaches up with his hand, there, where, apparently, controls and the signal handle are. You guess that in a second there’ll be one more whistle—the locomotive will bellow, wake up, jerk, pull the attached boxcars, start releasing steam, and, gaining speed, puff and huff. Softly, stooping, and awkwardly embarrassed by its own inexplicable power, it’ll roll across the bridge, vanish—melt away, and from this day forth you’ll never find consolation for this loss: Where can you find the raven-black locomotive again, where can you meet the engineer with a mustache for a second time, and where can you see once more the dilapidated— precisely those and not others—patched boxcars, brown, sad, and squeaky? It’ll vanish—melt away. You’ll remember the sound of the whistle, the steam, the eternal eyes of the engineer, you’ll wonder how old he is, where he lives, you’ll wonder—you’ll forget (it’ll vanish—melt away), you’ll recall it once and won’t be able to tell anyone anything—about all the things you saw: about the engineer and the locomotive and about the train they both took across the bridge. You won’t be able, they won’t understand, they’ll look at you strang
ely: What’s the big deal about locomotives? But if they understand—they’ll be astonished. It’ll vanish—melt away. The raven-colored locomotive, the locomotive colored like a raven. The engineer, the boxcars rocking on springs, the cough of the coupler, and the horn. A long route with houses of cards outside of the rail-way’s right-of-way—government and private houses, with fences and simple apple orchards, with lights or darkness reflected in their windows, with—here and there—life unknown and incomprehensible to you, with people you’ll never meet. It’ll vanish—melt away. Standing in the growing dusk—with your hands in the pockets of your light-gray overcoat—you’re bidding the train a fast railroad night, you wish all stokers, trackmen, and engineers well, you want them to have a good railroad night filled with the sleepy faces of the stations, with the knocking of the switches, with locomotives drinking from T-shaped trunks of water towers, with the shouting and cursing of dispatchers, with the smell of the linking platform, the smell of burnt coal and clean bed linen, with the smell of cleanliness, Veta Arkadievna, of clean snow—in essence, with the smell of winter, of its very beginning, this is most important—do you understand? My God, student so-and-so, why are you shouting so loudly, it’s simply embarrassing, the entire car is looking at you, can’t you talk about everything using a low voice? Then you get up, walk to the middle of the car, and, raising your hand as a sign of welcome, you say: Citizens, suburban passengers, I beg your forgiveness for talking so loudly, I am very sorry, I acted wrongly at school, at the special school, where I was a student sometime in the past, we were taught something very different, we were taught to talk using a low voice regardless of the topic and this is exactly how I tried to act my entire life. But today I’m extraordinarily excited, today is an exceptional case, today, more precisely, for today, I planned a date with my former teacher, having written to her an excited note and so the teacher came to the snow-covered platform to meet me so many years later; she is sitting here in our electric car, on the yellow electric bench, and everything that I’m telling her right now and will tell her later—everything is extremely important, trust me, that’s why my voice sounds slightly louder than usual, thanks for your attention. Excitedly. You want to return to Veta, but at that moment someone grabs you by the shoulder. You turn around: A stern woman stands in front of you; she is forty-something, slightly gray, and wears glasses with thin golden frames; the woman has green eyes and disturbingly familiar vertical wrinkles around her mouth. Look carefully—this is your patient mother. She’s been searching for you the whole hour all over the cemetery: Where were you, you dreadful boy, why were you staring at locomotives again, she thought something happened to you, it’s completely dark already. Answer simply and with dignity: Dear Mama, I saw a winter butterfly, I ran after it and got lost. Let’s go right now—Mother is angry—grandmother is calling you, she wants you to show her how you learned to play the accordion, so play something sorrowful, sad for her—do you hear me? And don’t try to say no. Grandma, do you hear me? I’ll play you a piece by Brahms; it’s called “Potato,” but I’m not sure if I learned it well. I take the accordion—the instrument in its black case stands on the snow of the alley; I take it out of the case and sit on the bench. It is evening in the cemetery, but from where I sit with the accordion three-quarters, I can still see the white angel well—he is close. The angel stretches its wings and shades me with sorrowful inspiration: E-e-e—one-two-three, one-two-three, in the orchard or in the garden, maidens went a-walking, a-wa-al-king, one-two-three, one-two-three, don’t cry, Mama, or I’ll stop playing; Granny is happy, no need to be upset, one-two-three, one-two-three, a-wa-al-king; she also had a selective memory, grandmother, a-wa-al-king. Do you remember what the accordion sounds like in the freezing air of the cemetery early in the evening, when the sounds of the railroad are heard from the direction of the railroad, when from the distant bridge at the very edge of the city the bright violet sparks of the streetcar pour forth and show through the naked branches of the elder, and the workers—you hear this well too—carry away boxes with empty bottles in the cart from the store by the market, the bottles produce glassy clinks and clanks, the horse’s hooves clatter against the icy cobblestones, and the workers shout and laugh—you won’t learn anything about these workers either and they won’t learn anything about you—so do you remember what your Barcarole sounds like in the frosty air of the cemetery in the early evening? Why are you asking me about that, it’s so unpleasant for me to recall that time, I’m tired of recalling it, but if you insist, I’ll answer calmly and with pride: In those moments my accordion sounds lonely. Can I ask you the following question, I’m interested in one detail, I’m planning to test your and, simultaneously, my own memory: In those years when you or I, when we and our mother visited our grandmother to play for her a new piece on the accordion or briefly retell the content of the newly read novella from the series book after book—in those years was our teacher Norvegov still alive or already dead?