Fieldwork in Ukrainian Sex

Not today, she says to herself. Not yet, not today. In the kitchen—a tiny, “eat-in” kitchen (refrigerator, hotplate, cupboard with carelessly tacked-on doors determined to open every time you turn your back like a loose jaw on a paralyzed face, and all this separated off by a medium-height stand made of wooden planks that looks like something you might normally find in a bar—this “counter” allows you to serve meals directly from the narrow enclosure into the room—sure, why not!—like morning coffee, for example, or a little roast chicken for lunch, just like the ones in the television commercials: golden crisp on the outside, juicy on the inside, legs playfully tucked in and presented on a bed of lettuce—these chickens always look much happier than live ones, simply radiating a deep blush of pleasure at the prospect of being eaten—you can also serve juice, or perhaps gin and tonic in a tall thick glass, you can add ice, the cubes sound so funny when they rattle as you pour them into the glass, or you can do it without ice, and in fact the possibilities are endless, but you just need one thing—for there to be someone sitting on the other side of their fucking counter, in which, incidentally, a colony of ants seems to have made a home, because every once in a while you’ve got something crawling around on the Formica that really doesn’t belong in a hygienic American home, nor in a non-American one, come to think of it—someone to whom you could serve all this good stuff as you smile your cover-girl smile. Since, however, there is no one sitting there, nor is there about to be, you’ve gone ahead and decided to create an improvised winter garden on that counter comprising two innocent potted plants—three weeks ago, when you first moved in here, they were: a luscious, deep-green clump topped with orange flowers—that’s one of them—and a thick necklace of shiny, kind of plasticky red nubs on tall stems with elegantly tapered leaves—that’s the other. Now both plants have the appearance of having been watered with sulfuric acid for the last three weeks—in place of the rich clump only a few yellow leaves with unevenly singed edges hang like dog ears, and the former tight red beads more and more with every day resemble dried rosehips that someone has decided to stick on burned-out spikes for some unknown reason—the funniest thing is that you deliberately did not forget to water your “winter garden,” you nurtured it just like Voltaire had taught, you bet, you wanted for there to be another living entity in this apartment, the last of hell only knows how many, your temporary home, where the filth of all previous inhabitants has indelibly settled into every crack so that you didn’t even try to wash it out—however, the damned American weeds turned out to be too delicate to withstand your depression, which thickens, unstirred, inside these four walls day by day, so they went ahead and died on you, and you can water them or not water them as you wish—and you still have hopes of keeping people in here!)—so, as I was saying, in this kitchen you’ve got water dripping from the tap into the sink with a taunting dumb burble and there is no bloody way to drown out that sound—you can’t even play a tape because your portable cassette player has gone on the blink. True, somewhere outside the window, which is as narrow as those cupboard doors that keep opening, and quite dark at this hour (you don’t bother lowering the blinds, because across from you there’s a dead wall anyway), on the other side of the screen an invisible grasshopper chirks like a distant telephone, as though it’s stuck right in the screen itself—just the same way that that thought keeps chirking inside your head, or maybe that’s in fact the only thing that’s chirking—why not do it today, after all, why wait, what for?

If you think about it logically, there’s nothing at all to wait for. Nothing whatsoever.

Half a bottle of sedatives plus one razor blade, and—please forgive the unsuccessful debut. I tried my very best, with best of intentions, and since the result was a total disaster the honorable thing is to do is fold your cards—I’m not much of a player even now, and it’s only going to get worse from here on in: no relief in sight, and my strength’s not what it used to be: not a kid anymore.

And yet—no, not today.

Wait a bit longer. See how this film ends. Unlike those that they broadcast here on “public channels,” where in the tensest moments as you watch, with involuntary chills of fear, as the hero races down an empty tunnel where from around the bend the most frightening of monsters is about to pounce on him, it suddenly hits you—shit!—everything’s going to turn out just fine—another two-three minutes, a confrontation, a pile of swinging limbs, some rolling around on the floor, and the beast, with an outlandish cry, by some miracle transforms to dust, while the masculine and only slightly ruffled hero, enveloped in smoke from the conflagration and breathing heavily, draws the rescued Sharon Stone to his chest, or that other beauty, what’s her name, the brunette—and your overwhelming surge of fear is suddenly revealed in all its ridiculousness: once again those Hollywood guys have succeeded, if only for a moment, in suckering you—unlike those, the film that you still can’t bring yourself to shut off does not necessarily have to have a happy ending. Still, turning it off is unforgivable bad taste. And foolishness. And childishness: I’m not ready for the test, so I won’t go to school. No, sweetie (“sweetness,” she ironically corrects herself: that’s what that man, who’s probably feeling shittier that she is right now, used to call her, but that doesn’t matter anymore), you’re not allowed to duck out, you deal with this properly, step by step, and then we’ll find out what you’re really made of. Got that?

Write down those words, I’ll tattoo them on me, a rough, surly voice pipes up from within, a very different woman, cynical, with in-your-face street-smart mannerisms picked up “on the inside” somewhere, quite capable of knocking you off your feet with curses should the need arise: if a person in general (every one!) is one big prison, then up to now this bitch inside her has lived tucked away in the remotest cell, coming out rarely, only when things got especially bitter and tough, and even so mainly for show: P-pisses me off—she’d hiss at moments of irritation, shaking her head and calming herself with an acrid smile; or else, digesting the aftertaste of the latest put-down (of which there was an overabundance lately) she would relate to her friends, her eyes wide with anger: Trying to make me a patsy—I don’t think so!—right palm slapping hard against the crook of her left elbow as a clenched fist flew up—in America the prison hag learned how to swear in English and was especially successful at rendering the word “Shhiitt!”—a hiss off the arched back of a cat, and also the contempt-laced “Oh come-on, give me a break!” with which she once lashed that man—all in all, it was with that man that this disheveled witch with strangely unhealthy glistening eyes and teeth and some invisible but suspected criminal past would periodically run out to center stage, boldly smashing the fragile vessels of unfulfilled dreams; that man would liberate her, call her forth from the remote jail cell—as soon as she heard, during their first fight, that brutal, fist-swinging intonation of his: “You tell me—what the fuck did I come way out here for, I had enough of this same shit at home—up to here!”—the bitch eagerly rushed out to intercept him, she recognized a worthy partner, it was only here that they were truly partners—and then there was no stopping her as she spread her wings in previously untasted freedom: “I started working on a head yesterday,” he would try telling a fellow sculptor in her presence, and the bitch would tear out ahead, dropping buttons and pins in the insuppressible excitement of verbal excretion: “That’s wonderful, dear, you do need a head—it can only help!”—he’d turn a hue so dark it seemed as though ink rather than blood flooded his face, whispering into her ear, “Stop fucking me up!”—the witch, exhaling cigarette smoke, laughed heartily from deep inside as she felt at least slightly pleased about something for the first time in a while: “Now, now, dear, where’s your sense of humor?”—“I left it back in our old apartment,” he’d mutter (they left that apartment, thank God, and it would be best if the owners could seal it up for about half a year, until the smell of plague had dispersed)—“Well why don’t you run back and get it,” the witch grinned, “I’ll wait here.”—“I’ve turned in my key,” he’d mutter again, thinking that with that he’d put the issue to rest, but he was mistaken: “I was the one who turned in the key, you still have the duplicate,” she shot back: the power and lightning speed of their fencing with clubs was not to be apprehended by an outsider; no, say what you may, but they made a good pair, that much can’t be denied! And now, when the time has come for that bitch—cursed and abused, scorched by misfortunes to the core, with a converted-to-acetone-but-still-extant spirit of survival (where in God’s name does it come from?)—to accede to the throne and assume full reign of the prison, taking responsibility for the further course of whatever life may still smolder in it, dispensing orders all over the place: that door—do not enter, and this trash—get it the hell out of here right now, and that section way over there—air it out, we’re converting it into a museum, and who’s this loser dragging her ass and slobbering up the place, get her out of my sight! (That’s wonderful, dear, you do need a head—it can only help!)—that bitch (and bitch she is!) has abdicated, turned into a smear on some distant wall, neither hide nor hair, and in all the caverns of the now empty prison an entirely different voice sounds, shuttling back and forth with uneven step: pitter-patter-pitter—then silence, and throwing itself against the walls, the same place time and again, each time weaker, while a poor, unloved girl abandoned at a rail station wails, and wails, and wails, eager to take the hand of anyone who says to her, “I’m your daddy,” except who’s going to say that to a thirty-year-old broad—that’s the girl that you yourself hate inside you, you’ve tried to keep her under lock and key since you were an adolescent, in the dimmest, furthest basement chamber, without bread or water, not letting her move a muscle—and still she somehow managed to survive and there’s no shutting her up now—now, when it seems that there’s no one left except for her, that there is no other you.

You’re messed up, “sweetness.” You are really messed up. You’ve hit the end of the line—three months now that tremor has not left your body; in the mornings when you wake up (and especially now, when you wake up alone), the first thing you feel is your racing heartbeat and there’s no putting it down—at least now you’re sleeping without pills, and those horrible attacks of dry heaving you’d get at night remind you of themselves perhaps only when you’re brushing your teeth and accidentally shove the toothbrush too far in—a swift nauseous gag, a subconscious repressed memory of your own dumb submission to those immediate, from the very first time—initially aroused, passionate whispers but after several weeks merely dry admonishments: “Take it in your mouth… Take it in deeper… More, come on!”—a dry spoon scratches your throat, the philosopher once said—here it is, right here. In the beginning she would still try to come to some understanding, to explain that she too may have some preliminary requests, and not just “down there:” is there nothing other than my sex organs that interests you? And: if you had plans for tonight, you might have let me know before I went to bed rather than sitting there scratching away at your engraving, and anyway, you know I don’t like to get undressed by myself… Okay—he cheerily promised—we’ll whip up such a grand overture for you tomorrow!—tomorrow, however, never did come. Come here—but I just took my sleeping pills—so, great, you’ll fall asleep with “him” inside you. God, what a nightmare it was. How is it even possible to comprehend the world of those who contemplate their own sex organ in the third person? When they say to you, and that’s the only way that man said it—“Open ‘her’ up,” all your senses are immediately transported to the gynecologist’s stirrups—because it’s not “she,” it’s you that’s opening up—or in this case, rather, locking down with a dead bolt. You know how many women I’ve had!—and not once was it bad, just plain bad! Sure, not for you, but what about them, ever think of asking? I also never imagined things could be like this—but just how bad it is, sweetheart, if you only knew. Did you just bite me, he asked, fixing you with a strange, glassy stare, as on one of your first nights, after lovemaking, he sat smoking at the foot of the bed, what is this—meanwhile you were sprawled back on the pillow giggling and feeling safe and stroking his head with your outstretched foot, you had lovely legs, all the Dior–St. Laurent models on their spikes would have to run out and drown themselves immediately at the sight of legs like that; it’s only now that you’ve been wearing pants for two months because your calves are decorated like a map of an archipelago of multicolored, reddish and brownish, peeled and peeling spots—scars, cuts, burns, a visual manifestation of your nine-month (that’s right, nine months!!!) “mad love,” from which you emerged as madness itself, but back then you were simply stroking his head with your foot, overcome with tenderness, drooling idiot, the rough masculine “hedgehog” haircut felt good as it prickled your foot—when he suddenly turned and deftly pinned your leg to the bed: Ah-hahh? So you like to bite? And what if I like to set you on fire, what then?—you saw the cigarette lighter pressed against the inside of your knee and, rather than freeze in terror—as you stared down the barrel of that first apprehension of a steady, inhuman, somehow different, malevolently and madly searching gaze, on the edge of a grin of bared incisors protruding steeply from the upper lip, from which you afterward always defended yourself with laughter—you were only mildly surprised, and not all that consciously either—it’s strange to what extent his presence, like dynamite, silenced in you all the previously not-too-badly developed instincts of self-preservation, which all floated to the surface belly-up, while the river kept on convulsing, blast after blast.

No, the premonitions were there; premonitions never lead you astray, it’s only the determined force of our will that muffles their voice, interferes with our hearing them. The very first evening, at the arts festival where it all began—it was then that he rushed toward you as though you were all he’d been waiting for, “Oksana, I’m Mykola K., perhaps I can show you the city, perhaps I can take you to the castle, I have a car”—it was a ten-minute walk to the fabled castle up quiet, cobbled streets planted with plump baroque churches on each side; small-town seducer, you thought to yourself suppressing a smile, provincial dandy in your narcissistic get-up—tiny white collar peeking out from the sweater, manicured nails (and he’s a painter!), an appropriately faint whiff of cologne—a feral cat with a gray buzz cut and roguish green-eyed squint, a slightly worn, threadbare artist’s charm, dry wrinkled smile, furrowed bags under the eyes—“and you said,” he recalled later, when you had entered the phase of creating the common mythology that no couple can do without (together with the legend about the Golden Age of their love with its own petty customs and rituals), the phase ended as quickly as it began—“you said, hit the road, Jack”—well, maybe not like that, or rather not exactly like that, but you showed no interest, that much is true—so it was all the more strange when on the evening of that same day you were visited by a glimpse of clear, penetrating insight, which, it would be a crime to say otherwise, has never stood you up in a tight spot, but you tried to smother it, didn’t you, many times, many! That evening, when the program was in full swing and you descended into the thick vapors of sweat and alcohol after reading your piece—two poems, two damned good poems projected straight into the intoxicated din of splotchy yellow faces congealed into one encompassing mass of flashing lights, or, more precisely, projected straight over it—holding on to the sound of your own, oblivious-to-all-around-and-subservient-only-to-words voice, a public orgasm, that’s what you call this, but it does it for the crowd—every time and every place, even when they have no clue what the words mean, even in a foreign-speaking environment. You first discovered this at a writers’ forum in one Far Eastern country where out of politeness they asked you to read in your native language (“you mean, it’s not Russian?”)—and you began reading then, in insult and desperation listening only to your own text (you were sick to death of their “Russian” even then), concealing yourself within it the way one slips into a lit house at night and locks the door behind, and midway you suddenly realized that in the frozen silence you were being heard: mova—your language, even though nobody understood it, in full view of the public it had concentrated around you into a clear, sparkling sphere of the most refined, crafted glass inside which magic was happening, this could be seen by all: something was coming to life, pulsating, firming up, arching into broad billows of flame—and then misting up again, as happens with glass that is exposed to heavy breathing; you finished your piece—enveloped, crystal-clear, protected, now that would have been the time to realize that your home is your language, a language only about a few hundred other people in the whole world can still speak properly—it would always be with you, like a snail’s shell, and there would not be another, non-portable home for you, girl, ever, no matter what you do. And afterward all those people—round-faced, balding, dark- and curly-haired, with turbans and without—shook your hand long and with feeling and not letting you, incidentally, get to the bathroom (your stomach was giving a decided thumbs-down to their musky-spicy cuisine and was trumpeting, the bastard, precisely at the moments when gracious thank-yous were called for)—after that there was no audience you couldn’t handle, even hardened criminals!—whether you call it exhibitionism or not, it was your own text that would always protect you from abuse and humiliation, you read it the way you wrote it—out loud, led by the self-propelling music of the verse, one normally does not allow witnesses to this process except in the theater, and that’s why, in fact, it’s so powerful. And that festival rabble, too, piped down somewhere in the middle of your reading—it surrounded the glass sphere and breathed in unison, and then when you, cooling off from the applause, were no longer on the platform but down below in the half-darkness in some tight, friendly circle: it’s humid, smoky, someone was pouring a glass, someone was laughing, faces flashed by like film frames—you were stretching out your hand to get either a cigarette or a wineglass, that man appeared beside you for an instant as though he’d tripped over you accidentally, cat-eyes gleaming in the dark and excited whiskey-breath whisper: “You were great!”—and, equally casually, without pausing, he tried to squeeze your hand, reaching for it as it stretched toward the cigarette (or wineglass)—and you remembered this because (after all, who didn’t shake your hand in that teeming multitude!) with that awkward grasp, that perpendicular chop across the thrust of your own arm, the same way he later raced up a one-way street the wrong way and got the police sirens after him, he managed to bend your thumb back in a particularly painful way, and your sirens also instantly started screaming—a lightning-quick flash through your consciousness—strange, how in that confused moment the message was so clear and you knew, as if some bystander in your head uttered a calm, meaningful, grammatical sentence: “This man is going to hurt you.”

Precisely in this way, in other words, it was not the hurt thumb that was at issue, and you understood that perfectly. And that’s the point, my dear—you knew everything right from the start; no, you knew it even before the start: about a week before that trip to the festival there was one evening when your bared nerve ends, painfully-thirstily, as only happens in the fall, exposed to the outside world—out to meet its faltering autumn colors and mysterious rustle in sleepy leaves—captured this passage, which you didn’t grasp then and so left it unfinished:

—and now it has all come to pass, down to the very last word: go ahead, learn, learn now the lessons of parting—with life, with yourself, with your ill-fated gift, because it’s unlikely that you’ll now be able to raise it up—you’ve never yet managed to raise this barbell to full extension anyway.

Ah, damn it all…

No, I would really like for someone to explain to me: why the hell would one come into this world a woman (and in Ukraine, yet!)—with this fucking dependency programmed into your body like a delayed-action bomb, with this craziness, this need to be transformed into moist, squishy clay kneaded into the earth’s surface (always, always liked the bottom position—sex from below, flat on your back: only then could she be eliminated completely, merging with the rhythm of her own body cells and the translucent pulsation of universal expanses—nothing even remotely like that ever happened with that man; at the moment when it seemed that she was just about to take off, he, without stopping, would awaken her from above with the harshly exhaled: “Hmm-yeah, you’d need an infantry platoon to finish this job!”—she had found this funny, but no more than that: “What kind of talk is that?”—she’d be offended: not at the words but at their detached tone—“Silly, it’s a compliment!—you should really consider trying it with two guys, you know what kind of rush you’d get?”—it’s quite possible that she might, she did, after all, like to bite during lovemaking, to suck hard at either a finger or a shoulder, to inhale a kiss until it made her head spin, a temple whore—that’s who I must have been in my previous life, but in this life—in this, my dear, it is so much not all the same to me who I’m with: I remember sitting on a New York subway once, my head stuck in Toni Morrison’s latest novel, and someone flopped down on the seat next to me pressing my whole body to the metal bar—and instantly I was electrified with a pure charge [like a high musical note] of such a powerful erotic urge that my body responded with an aroused swell, all buds bursting open inside like a tree in springtime: simultaneously I realized that this man had been hovering over me for a few subway stops already and had we not been people we’d already be fucking on this spattered floor, lovemaking for real, fusing not with your partner, no—with that wild, anonymous force that penetrates all living things with its current, you plug into it in order to, if only for a moment—aahhh!—catapult into the fiery-contoured darkness that has no name, no limit, on which all pagan cults lay their foundations, it’s only Christianity that has classified this as union with the kingdom of the black god, sealing all exits for humans except for one—through the top, though not for our age, already essentially post-Christian, already cut off from the path of return back to the orgiastic feast of universal unity: we, each on his or her own, hopelessly infected with a cursed consciousness of the heaviness and density of his or her ego, and that is why the victoriously pure, loud, and high musical note broke off and extinguished itself in my body at the very moment that he, the one on my left, began talking: he spoke up after about one subway stop, some kind of uncivilized accent, asked what I was reading: am I in school or something, a student?—that’s when I first looked at him, he was a young man in his late twenties, not tall but compactly built, a “Hispanic” hewed from a single block of wood, his gorgeous eyes the color of dark plums softened by a sensuous grayish mist, that’s the way hundreds of men of different nations and skin colors have looked at me, each one from behind the bars of its own life, one can get out for a while, but not for good; “Pardon me?” I asked with that deliberately sharp voice one uses to dispense with insolents, and that Juan or Pablo or Pedro immediately realized that—it’s over, the line’s been cut—“Nothing,” he blurted and continued to mumble something under his nose, now in his own language—the powerful animal voice of his body wilted, contracted, quickly-quickly went out, and beside me sat an ordinary immigrant lech—and anyway, he soon got up and headed either for the exit or elsewhere, I was no longer looking and back to reading to my book: the person, having peered out, broke the spell of the sex. Perhaps, really, the only way out of this prison is to go out at night, hiding your face deep in the hood of your coat, to get into strangers’ cars without giving your name, the hand of the driver on your knee, a low, husky chuckle, a feverish rustle of excess clothing, no need to turn on the lights, just listen to the rumble of your blood, the male percussion part and your no-longer-your-own dissolving, dispersing, spreading, ah, you’ve opened up so nicely, yes! yes! more! more!—it’s just that they all want to talk, splattering saliva and sperm they want a gulp of you: what are you reading, where are you going, are you married, you have to dream up a story—What’s your name?—Irina—there was one incident when after locking into a strong deep steely kiss in an apartment entryway she slipped out and ran away, chuckling to herself, they all need to vanquish, that’s the point, the give and take of a fair exchange like carbon dioxide–chlorophyll–oxygen is not for them, they don’t know how to do it, and that man who’s about to croak somewhere out there in the Pennsylvania wilderness currying favor with his diaspora blood brothers without a penny to his name or a word of English [which he was supposed to have studied up a little before coming, moron!]—boy, did he ever jump up, did he ever jerk his face up like a damned horse that’s just been lashed when you finally sat him down in the coffee shop and, summoning all your fortitude to your aid, tried to introduce at least some kind of therapeutic clarity into your mutual physical and mental sickness—yes, everything you say is true, dear, and the fact that I no longer love you is also true: “So you—what,” the click of a jackknife blade popping up: “feel like a ‘victor’ here, that you’ve won?”—I think you just sat there with your mouth wide open: Mykola, you think we’ve been playing tug-of-war?… “You know,” again that steady ominous stare as though something else was peering through those eyes, rimmed by swollen red eyelids, like through the slits of a mask, “if you were a man, I’d smash your face in!” Very charming of you, dear—I, too, oh so often regret that I’m not a man).

—so she murmured to herself during those frightening winter months, frightening in a different way from these-here autumn months: the middle of January, February, March—no news and no way of finding anything out between Cambridge—and a small Ukrainian provincial town, a studio heated by firewood in the attic of an abandoned house without an address or telephone, without a toilet or hot water, with only a bare lightbulb strung with a cord from the ceiling, with a stick of sausage and a jar of instant coffee on a low table greased with paint, would you like a sandwich? oh, and I’ve got a tomato here, too, would you like some? My God, the man lives like a stray dog, stays up until six in the morning checking out the window on that fancy automobile of his (sans garage) from behind the easel, at twenty-five or thirty you can still handle that kind of life, driven by sheer animal energy—but at forty! Meanwhile back at the Cambridge apartment, crisscrossed God knows how many times from one end to the other by senseless pacing—from the main door through the bedroom to the kitchen (the work that she purportedly came to the States to do collapsed like a crudely assembled house of cards)—something incomprehensible was happening with the phone: time after time she was awakened at dawn by random calls, she’d jump up and rush for the receiver: “Hello!”—somewhere in the distance on the voiceless line a wind howled and an ocean roared, for a few seconds the uninhabited, unpopulated space over the northern hemisphere announced itself as if in fact “someone was crying out her name at night as though from a torture chamber,” and the cries did him no good, after which the mute signal would cease: the eyes of the buttons on the receiver lit up with a green, underwater glitter and from its mouth bubbled up a soulless dial tone—ah, you both had enough will to screw up all the phone lines over the Atlantic, that fierce, hungry force stormed out from his paintings and from your poems, you recognized his at once as soon as you ended up in his studio, put on your thick glasses, and stood before his canvases, and likewise he must have recognized yours—yours, which during those winter months was so unexpectedly and totally knocked off its newly discovered axis (because you were a woman, and a woman, damn it, is a climbing plant that without a vertical support, even if it is imagined—without a love with a concrete living face to it—falls to the ground and wilts, losing all inspiration for upward momentum: every poem was a delightful bastard baby of one prince or another with a bright star on his forehead, the star, of course, inevitably went out, the poem remained)—abandoned on its own, that force tore you to bits from within, fiercely scratching at the walls of your being and bursting out in desperate freefall—

—until one March day your whole insides were scalded by a frightening thought: that he’s dead, that he just “hit the wall” the way he wanted to (he confessed this to her practically at the beginning—smiling a crooked smile as he hit the gas, racing the car like a plane on the runway, on a country road in the middle of the night, and the wet streetlights in the fine-needled silvery frames, and the black olive flash of the approaching puddles—everything merged, rushed forward in a race against itself, taking your breath away, one hundred, one twenty, one forty, one… one hundred and sixty?—you’re not afraid? don’t you get the desire to—hit the wall?—no, I’m not afraid, I never really experienced real fear and truthfully, I don’t feel it even now—strange, incomprehensible actually, especially if you take into account my whole, damn it to hell, slave-gang life, no wonder it began with a clinical death at birth, Mother even recalled a piece of feces hanging from my bottom, and the tiny body had already turned blue: the poor soul poked its head out into the world and lost its nerve—Hey, no way, let me go back!—but thanks to some kind folks it was revived, quite quickly really, no need to snivel, there are things scarier than death, I know them, it’s just that that fear—seductive and dark, the bewitching, intoxicating excitement of perdition that lives inside him, and I’ve discerned it in others, too—that I don’t have, period, that’s why he would look at me with that spark of unconcealed excitement in his eye, even when it was all over: “You’re a brave woman!”—and that “wall” jumped past me then without scaring me)—but this thought—that he died, that those mysterious phone calls really were from him: from “the other side,” and that means then that her love did not protect him, that she herself, she herself, narcissistic egotistical bitch with her stupid pride, her cheap pomp, her empty strutting had pushed him toward that “wall”—a princess, no less: oh, so that’s how it is? Fine, then I’m off—America, as everyone knows, is “the land of opportunities,” half of Europe, and not just our godforsaken part but the purest, from Britain to Italy, is dying to get over there, money, career (“Music, women, champagne…” he had ironically echoed then), and what is there in Ukraine, Ukraine is Chronos chomping away at his children, tiny fingers and toes, I’m supposed to sit and wait for what, to suck a frog’s tit, or rather that of a menopausal diaspora gramps—the Antonovych prize? Oh my God, what the fuck is all that to me if he’s dead, what, what, what has happened to him?!—the thought was so unbearable that jumping out to the back porch and raising her face to the mutable, rapidly darkening Cambridge sky that was thickening into a cloudy gouache, opening her lungs, sticky from motionless sitting and cigarette smoke, to catch the barely felt ocean breeze, she started to pray—yes, the way she had only prayed twice before in her life, once for her father, who was spending his last days lying in a hospital after the by-then-unnecessary operation, convulsing for hours from the metasthasis-induced stabs of pain (they had not yet put him on the narcotics)—for God to send him a speedy end, and then a second time, embarrasing to recall—for independence, then, on the twenty-fourth of August 1991, when everything was decided in hours, as generally happens in the lives of people and nations: Lord, she begged, trembling—help—not for our sakes for we are unworthy, but for all those who have died before us in this cause, of whom there is no count—and both prayers were heard, prayers like that always reach their addressee; and here now she was begging: Lord, please make him be alive!—he can forget me, he can return to his wife, he can betray me with whomever he wishes, I don’t have to have him for my husband, and I don’t need anything at all from him, and if it is your will, Lord, I will love another, I’ll have children with another, just—O Lord, let him be alive. And healthy. And happy. Only that, Lord. Only that.

Well, “healthy and happy”—that would be kind of pushing it, sweetness, because not even God can force somebody to be happy, so the final version of your desperate telegram had to have been accepted without those two words—it’s not like God is going to take orders from every fool! (And I wonder, how do they run this business up there—is there an angel-secretary selecting these earthly messages as they come in, retrieving the sincere ones from the stream, the hot and the heavy, and calmly dropping the incalculable masses of empty words into a black hole?—poems work pretty much the same way: you’re disgusted as soon as you feel the empty sort coming out, you drop the poem without finishing.) And there was one other point where you lied— “he can forget me,” you babbled half-consciously, knowing firmly all the while that never will he forget you, not now, not for as long as he lives: pinching a cigarette butt between finger and thumb and flicking it backwards so that it lit up an arc through the air: “And have you considered how long it’s going to take me to get over you? Huh?” he hissed, barely holding himself back from hurling her after the cigarette butt (“Keep in mind, the flesh is weak, I could hack you to bits before I know it,” he had once confessed, and your lightbulb went on: watch this, watch this! he’s not lying, this is the truth!—and, with an instantly switched on impersonal interest—invisible wires hummed, droned, nimbly transmitting information—you squeezed it out of him that time, despite his iron-clad resistance to all kinds of cuddly, mumbly, purring, come-on-tell-me boobie interrogations—a taut, point-form account of how, a long time ago, when he was decorating a church together with a “fucker who was really getting to me,” he got into a state where he was chasing the fellow around the grounds axe-in-hand—really, around the church, you wondered, somehow imagining that this must have taken place in the dead of night, because there is nothing more frightening than a church at night with a full moon reflected in the dark windows high above—and it’s since then that he’s always been on guard, ready to run at the first sign of that particular mood coming on—I see, you hm-ed, interesting, although the only thing interesting about it was the total absence of fear on your part, dope—it’s as if it were all being told to you through a window in the visiting room of a prison or an insane asylum: you hear it out, and then you leave, and behind you the leaden doors screak violently as they close shut, as the dry clicking of the key turning in the lock showers your back, injecting itself under your skin). How long will it take me to get over you, how long for you to get over me, “How much longer are we to walk thus, Father?” asked the wife of the defrocked Avvakum trudging behind him, outcast and banished, across the endless plain, and sitting down on a hillock, exhausted by the pointlessness of the trip, she heard in reply: “Until death, Mother.” Eastern fatalism, oh yes—the Russians have it; we’re in worse shape, we, actually, are neither here nor there, Europe has managed to infect us with the raving fever of individual desire, faith in our personal “Yes I can!”—however, we never developed a foundation for such faith, those structures that might support that “I can!” and thus have tussled about for ages at the bottom of history—our Ukrainian “I can!” helpless and alone. Amen.

What is it that made you think that you can pull him out of that hole into which he (it was obvious!) was so determined to sink? Actually, you should have taken heed on the first night—when, still undressing, he squinted attentively, as if determining a price: “Can you come before I do?”—you laughed, overflowing with frothy confidence like a bottle of young wine: “I can do anything!” Fool, you should have seen right there that he was no partner for you, that, petrified inside from years of permafrost, he was simply incapable of being not alone—even in lovemaking (“You’re such a good fuck!” was all he could squeeze out of himself after a long and cumbersome back-and-forth, after tortured convulsions, after all those pathetic lamentations—“Oh, why did I drink so much!” and “Ah, damn, I wanted you so badly!”—after falling into a momentary sleep, a solitary sleep, deadly removed from her presence beside him: he never moved once as she strained to extricate herself from his embraces, so fuck you, you miserable impotent, I’ll get up, get dressed, make some coffee, the buses will start running soon, and I’ll get back to the hotel, in the windows of the studio the blue tint of dawn grew inescapably paler, more watery, contours of angular piles of canvases stacked up against the walls emerged from the quivering protoplasmic twilight, a terrible hour, hour of the ill and the forty-year-olds, it is probably in this kind of gray murkiness that dead souls are tormented—that’s when he woke up and hurt her, hurt her for real, forget the pain of losing your virginity, painful intercourse, that’s how the phenomenon is defined in the medical literature which she, the browbeaten Soviet dolt, began studying only in America, she even went to see the doctor, swallowing utter humiliation, to find out whether there wasn’t something, Dear God, wrong with her sexually, and bugged out her eyes in disbelief when the doctor shrugged her shoulders, “I don’t see any problems”—but back then, as she shrieked wildly and jerked back, kicking out her legs [her battered uterus ached a full twenty-four hours afterward, like bad menstrual cramps]—“You’re hurting me, you’re hurting me, you hear me?”—she also felt, over his fierce and victorious cry: “And how about marrying me? And how about having my child? You silly girl, can’t you see I love you?”—his moist, swollen hotness kindling and distending inside her, yes, this moment is everything—and for its sake stay, oh please stay a bit longer, don’t go, deep sighs, he emerges from her with so many years washed away from his face, smoothed with a moist sheen of happiness, her own eyes misted over by involuntary tears of tenderness and in those tears his thin, sharp features, pointed ears and cheekbones of a postwar village urchin [father liberated from a Nazi POW camp and off to the Gulag, mother working the beetfields on the collective farm] standing in the pasture with a stick in his hand, dumbstuck for the first time by the crimson gold swirling over the horizon as far as the eye can see amid smoky-gray clumps of clouds, the world was on fire, ever-changing, all this was in his paintings, oh to free that lad from this taciturn, thin-lipped, carefully groomed and clean-shaven man—“You’ve never given birth? Your lips smell of fresh milk—I’ll give you a child, you hear? A little boy”—that in itself was a completely satisfying work of art in which your personal physical dissatisfaction did not weigh all that heavily—left alone, because he, wrapping himself into a long-flapped robe resembling a trench coat took off right away to wash up: the ritual of an asshole, if you stop to think about it, but even that didn’t particularly jar you then—you purred and stretched, cracking your entwined arms over you head and admitted to yourself with a raspy giggle—well, you’ve finally been properly fucked, girlfriend, uncensored version—properly fucked for the first time in your life, because until now it was more like a service, aimed to please, fussed over you like over warm dough, asked what kind of words you liked to hear in bed, but here someone just took you and screwed the living daylights out of you like a thug, no dither—and strangely, this thought, too, was not unpleasant, and when you pulled your compact out of your purse frightened of what you’d see in there—after three nights of no sleep, countless cigarettes and midnight cognacs, very successful arts festival!—you found yourself flushed with pleasant surprise: a clear, suddenly youthful and doing justice to your authentic beauty, delicate, thin, almost childish face peered out at you, dark eyes darting out ahead, a face you always knew was in there somewhere but hadn’t seen in the mirror in God knows how long: you had come home, you were home—and he sat at the foot of the bed, smoking and watching, his luminously enchanted face, riveted on you, lit up the still dim studio—occasionally he would lean over you gently, concealing a smile, in order to kiss your nipples poking up from under the rolled-back plaid blanket, and to carefully, slowly wrap you up to your neck again, like a peasant tending to his property, and to bring you a cup of coffee, “be careful not to spill any,” and you immediately spilled some as you shook with laughter, “I’ll put this plaid out on display with a sign saying who splattered it,” and unexpectedly his “Why were you crying?”—I won’t tell, I won’t tell you yet, I’ll tell you in time, and once said, I’ll be repeating it almost every minute: in the absence of any other, more potent words—when there’s no cistern large enough to scoop out the bottomless well, one is left to lower and raise the same childish pail over and over—the monotony of repetition, the creak of the crank: I love you. I love you. I love you).

So there it was, girlfriend—you fell in love. And how you fell in love—you exploded blindly, went flying headfirst, your witch’s laugh ringing to the heavens, lifted by the invisible absolute power of whirlwinds, and that pain didn’t stop you—although it should have—but no, you cut the juice to all your warning signs that had lit up with all their red lights flashing and screamed “meltdown”—like before the accident at the atomic station—and only your poems, which switched on immediately and rushed forward in a steady, unrelenting stream, sent out unambiguous signals of danger: persistent flashes of—hell, and death, and sickness,

“In other words, you knew?” he snapped, lighting that wolfish glare in his eye, when she—there was nothing to lose anymore, gathered the courage to read him some of that poetic stream aloud—“you knew this would happen? So why the hell?…” Uh-huhh, my dear, that’s the point…

N-nope, you weren’t a masochist, you were a fucking normal woman whose body took pleasure in giving joy to others, what can I tell you—you were a cool broad, “sweet baby,” “phenomenal lady,” “stud woman,” mull it over and over again in your head now, this guest-comment (commendation) book—made up of those moments when men don’t lie, maybe you’ll get a drib of balance back into your life: it did happen! after all—but no, it’s not coming back to save you—so what, if it’s true, if you always felt, sometimes with more, sometimes with less dark residue of unfulfillment, how much better you still could be—because there are things in life independent of us, because I am as you are with me—it’s a little different with men, but for women, unfortunately, that’s how it is—and, unfortunately, in all things; and no matter how many bras are burned by American feminists, masturbation—whether with a rubber penis or a living person, because with a living person it’s also no more than masturbation if it’s without love—will give you neither poems nor children. And that’s it, period. “That’s you limit.” How was it that Cambridge poem ended?

Yep, exactly, or bien sûr, if you prefer. Yet another reason why this foreign country is doing you no good—it’s clogging up your brain, your nose, with the lint, down, and powder of foreign words and phrases, clogging all the pores and rudely shoving them into your hand even when you’re alone with yourself, and before you realize it, you’re beginning to speak “half this, half that,” in other words, the same thing that happens at home (home? get a grip, woman—where is this place, your home?), fine, okay, I mean in Kyiv, in Ukraine—with the Russian: it seeps in from the outside in tiny droplets, becomes dried and cemented, and you are obligated—to either continuously conduct a cleansing, synchronic translation in your head, which sounds forced and unnatural—or else to role-play, like we all do, using your voice to take the foreign words into quotation marks, place a kind of clownish-ironic stress on them like they were a citation (a good example for students in tomorrow’s class, for instance, would be “So you—what, feel like a ‘victor’ here, that you’ve won?”).

And you also might say—appearing with a lecture at some American university, or at the “triple-A, double-S” conference, or at the Kennan Institute in Washington, or wherever else the ill wind blows you, an honorarium of a hundred, two hundred bucks max, plus travel costs—and thank you very much, you’re not Yevtushenko or Tatiana Tolstaya to get thousands for each appearance, and who the hell are you anyway, backwater Ukrainian from the Khrushchev communal housing projects that you’ve been trying to break out of your whole damn life to no avail, Cinderella who crosses the ocean to grouse over dinner at Sheffield’s with a pair Nobel prize winners (radiating in all directions, juggling four languages at once across the table) about the intellectual bankruptcy of contemporary civilization, after which you return to your six-square-meter Kyiv kitchen to fight with your mother and be humiliated by having to explain to various editors that “my homeland will be where I am” does not at all mean ubi bene, ibi patria—not least because with this fucking patria it will never and nowhere be bene for you, neither at Sheffield’s, nor at Tiffany’s, nor in Hawaii, nor Florida—because your homeland is not simply the land of your birth, a true homeland is the country that can kill you—even at a distance, the same way a mother slowly but inexorably kills an adult child by holding it near, shackling its every move and thought with her burdensome presence—ah, to make a long story short, the topic of my lecture today, ladies and gentlemen, is, as noted in the program, “Fieldwork in Ukrainian Sex,” and before I begin I would like to thank all of you, present here and absent, for the completely unjustified attention you have given my country and my humble persona—because if there’s one thing that we haven’t been spoiled by yet it’s attention: to put it bluntly, we’ve been lying there dying, unnoticed by bloody anybody (and I’m still in a rather privileged position here, because if I were to really have the guts to say fuck it and pour the rest of those tablets in the orange bottle down my throat, my body would be found relatively soon, I’d say, probably within three days: Chris, the departmental secretary, will call if I don’t show up for class, therefore, it would be a crime to complain, the spider web–thin thread, slight as it is, still hangs there and I could pull on it to let the world know about my next, this time my final, departure, I do have it—and if something were to happen with that man in the Pennsylvania wilderness—although I really doubt that anything should happen to him, he’d never do it himself, too much rage for this kind of business—then he’s got Mark and Rosie checking in on him daily)—so, ladies and gentlemen, please do not be in a hurry to qualify the presented case of love here as pathological, because the speaker has not yet stated what is most important—the main point, ladies and gentlemen, lies in the fact that in the research subject’s life this was her first Ukrainian man. Honestly—the first.

The first one ready-made—whom she did not have to teach Ukrainian, to drag book after book from her personal library out on dates with him just to broaden the common internal space on which to build a relationship (Lypynsky, Hrushevsky, and he hadn’t heard of Horska either, nor Svitlychny, his idea of the 1960s dissident movement was completely different, good, I’ll bring it for you tomorrow!), or if in bed after lovemaking you inadvertently quote “nor dreams’ abode—the sacred home,” you have to immediately launch into a half-hour commentary on the life and works of the author—oh, there was this writer in Western Ukraine in the 1930s—and that’s the way it was your whole damned life!—professional Ukrainianizer, like growing a whole new organ for each of them, and if some day our independent, or rather not-yet-dead country, if it doesn’t die by then, should institute some special award—for the highest number of Ukrainianized bed spaces, you’d surely sock it to them with your grand list of conversions!—but this was the first man from your world, the first with whom you could exchange not merely words, but simultaneously the entire boundlessness of shimmering secret treasure troves, reflections from inside the deepest wells that are revealed by those words, and therefore it was as easy to talk as to breathe and to dream, and that’s why the conversation was drunk eagerly with parched, dry lips, the intoxication ever more dizzying, ah, this never-before experienced total freedom to be yourself, this four-hands piano playing, at last, across the entire keyboard, inspiration and improvisation, so many sparks, laughter, and energy suddenly released, when each note—ironic hint, nuance, wit, touch—resonates at once, picked up by your interlocutor, somersaults in the air for no reason other than excess of strength, a casual touch of the knee—a little closer: may I? and now a little more ambiguous, more risky, and now—up close and personal, and finally, turning off the car engine (because you did end up getting into that stupid car of his after all—after visiting his studio, after you saw with your own eyes who he was)—an abrupt switch to a different language: lips, tongue, hands—and you, leaning back with a moan, “Let’s go to your place… To the studio…”—a language that drastically shortened your path toward one another, you recognized him: he’s one of yours, yours—in everything, a beast of the same species!—and in that language there was everything, everything of which there would later be nothing between you in bed.

“Gosh, if only he weren’t such a damned good painter!” you were saying, sitting in a bar called Christopher’s in Porter Square, you had drunk two glasses of cabernet sauvignon on an empty stomach and it relaxed you a little—for the first time in all those Cambridge months, giving you a lightheaded audacious uplift, “bottle of wine, fruit of the vine…” ah, too bad nobody to break into song with—Lisa and Dave sat listening like children being told a Christmas story, forgetting all about crunching their chips, “Slavic charm,” that’s what they would call it—you used to like that bar, the dull bottle-green of the décor that would bring card tables to mind, and also the low-hanging lights that drew faces into the shadows, and the men crowding the bar watching the baseball game, and the din of voices, the night outside the distant windows, its thick, brown murkiness melting the candy-yellow street lamps—everything at once, because only thus can you enter an alien world: accepting everything at once, with all your senses, and you know how to do that, you had simply grown tired, after all these years of homeless wandering, of loving the world all alone—of passing, anonymous and unrecognized, through all the dusky airport terminals, the restaurants and bars with their warm lights, the seashores with their shuffle of incoming waves against the rough sand, the early-morning hotels with coffee in the lobby—“Where are you from?”—“Ukraine.”—“Where’s that?”—you had grown tired of not being in this world, tired of dragging home in your teeth the bundles of beauty that you had thirstily sucked in from it and shouting happily: “Hey, come see!”—but at home, in your poor beaten-down country, a country of government officials with sagging pants and generous sprinkles of dandruff on their jackets, greasy writers adept at reading in one language only and not partaking of that ability all too often, and shifty-eyed, cockroach-like businessmen with the habits of former Komsomol organizers—none of this seemed to fit in anywhere, it just hung there aimlessly and was only capable of irritating up to inducing an attack of bile with its foggy, coded inaccessibilty of unfamiliar names and customs, its fat, homegrown, self-taught dilettantes (and for some reason inevitably on short, bowed legs, like jockeys: a special breed or something?) pickled somewhere in a provincial public library bearing a forsaken commissar’s name, and here you had the gall (or perhaps dumb blind luck, they thought?) to hang out at Harvard’s Widener Library or wherever else—you had grown tired of the inability to share your love for the world and in that man—as soon as you stepped into his studio and stood (donning your thick glasses) before the canvas upon canvas facing you, propped up against the walls gathering dust, you knew at once that you had found your only, one-hundred-percent-assured chance not to be alone in that love—precisely because he was “such a damned good painter”—but this much it was hopeless to explain to Lisa and Dave, and you didn’t even try, Lisa was smiling, moved, with her unrealistically bright mouth looking like an aroused coral mollusk, her eyes shining mistily: “What a story!” Oh, yes, a terribly romantic love story—with fires and car accidents (because one night he went out and crashed that celebrated car of his, totaled it, as he told her), with the mysterious disappearance of the protagonist and the departure of the heroine across the ocean, with piles of poems and paintings, and mainly—with this persistent irrational omnipresent feeling that ultimately seduced you: the feeling that everything is possible: the man played without rules, or rather, he played by his own rules like a true Kantian genius, and in his magnetic field any kind of logical prediction of events was doomed to failure, thus he was his own “land of opportunities,” and whatever there lay hidden for the future among those “opportunities”—death in the next of a series of auto accidents (no, God, only not that!) or a triumphal march through the museums of the world—it didn’t matter, who the hell cares, as long as we can break out, tear ourselves away from the beaten track—from that eternal Ukrainian curse of nonexistence.

That’s a separate topic, ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs, forgive me if I’ve taken up too much of your time, it’s not easy for me to talk about all this, and I’m also actually quite seriously ill, my frightened, hungry, and if we’re not going to bother with euphemisms then we could just say raped body has been unable, for the third month now, to curtail this light internal tremor, especially horrible—ad nauseam!—below the stomach where I continuously feel a pressing, beating quiver, and when I spread my fingers they immediately take on a life of their own, each marching to its own drummer as though they’ve been stretched and separated from each other, and I won’t mention the puckered teenage pink pimples that have blossomed over my shoulders and face and there’s nothing I can do about it—the wretched body is still alive, it’s demanding its rights, it’s dying from basic sex deprivation, perhaps it could even recover, start hopping around like a bunny rabbit if it could get sweetly laid, but, unfortunately, this problem is not so easy to solve; moreover if you’re all alone in a country you don’t know and a city you don’t know, in an empty apartment where the phone rings only to offer—a rare opportunity, and this week only—a hu-u-uge discount on a subscription to the local newspaper, an apartment from which you dig yourself out three times a week to get to the university where half a dozen neatly dressed, white socks and sneakers, and fastidiously washed and deodorized American kids with moist, healthy skin and teeth follow you with their eyes as you wander back and forth across the classroom, the eyes of fish in an aquarium, quietly writing something down (God only knows what) in their notebooks while you, getting yourself all worked up (you have to hang in there somehow for an hour and fifteen minutes!), passionately explain to them that Gogol had no choice! given that he was who he was, no choice but to write in Russian! you can cry, you can dance—no choice! (and you likewise have no choice but to write in Ukrainian, although this is probably the most barren choice under the sun at present, because even if you did, by some miracle, produce something in this language “knocking out Geothe’s Faust,” as one well-known literary critic by the name of Joseph Stalin would put it, then it would only lie around the libraries unread, like an unloved woman, for who knows how many dozens of years until it began “cooling off”—because untasted, unused texts unsustained by the the energy of reciprocal thought gradually cool down, and how!—if the stream of public attention doesn’t pick them up in time and carry them to the surface, they sink like stones to the bottom and become covered by mineral waxes that can never be scraped off, just like your unsold books which gather dust somewhere at home and in bookstores, this same thing has happened with most of Ukrainian literature, you can count on the fingers of two hands—not even authors, but individual works that have been lucky enough—with numb fingertips and tears in your eyes you had read a translation of Forest Song done here in America, an authorized version meant for the Broadway stage, you were as high as a kite from your quickened, passionate breathing: it’s alive, alive, it hasn’t perished, seventy years later, on a different continent, in a different language—just look at that, it made it!—of course, it’s an entirely different matter to write in English or in Russian—your first poem published in English in a not particularly well-known magazine received a rave review from somewhere out there, Kansas, I think, some kind of Review of Literary Journals, can you believe it, and Macmillan is ready to include it in its anthology of international women’s poetry, “you’re a superb poet,” the local publishers tell you [dragging their feet on publication all the same], thank you, I know, so much the worse for me—but you, sweetness, you have no choice not because you’re incapable of switching languages—you could do that splendidly with a little effort—but because a curse has been placed on you to be faithful to all those who have died, all those who could have switched languages just as easily as you—Russian, Polish, some even German, and could have lived entirely different lives, but instead hurled themselves like firelogs into the dying embers of the Ukrainian with nothing to fucking show for it but mangled destinies and unread books—and yet today there is you, unable to step over their corpses and go on your merry way, simply unable, tiny sparks of their presence keep dropping into your life here and there, into the ashes of mundane daily existence; and this then is your family, your family tree, you pitiful backwoods aristocrat, please forgive this unpardonably long digression, ladies and gentlemen, all the more because it actually has no relevance to our subject). Ladies and gentlemen, the sense of one’s own body wasting away day by day—is a feeling familiar perhaps to prisoners of the Gulag: I examine myself in the bathroom every evening (putting on my owl’s glasses, those same ones with the thick lenses, so I look pretty darn funny), my breasts, until now invariably round and bouncy with pert nipples pointing in opposite directions (“Check it out,” one of my not yet fully Ukrainianized men once said, and not all that long ago—“they’re probably a size D, but see how high they sit!”): this fall they sagged for the first time, definitively moving downward, bringing to mind bread dough that’s been standing around too long, and they’ve also been attacked by some kind of revolting spots, probably pigmentary, and the nipples are looking more and more like the dark skin of a shriveled peach—that man was one of those who generally had a very foggy notion of what you’re supposed to do with women’s breasts except perhaps pinch them through a blouse, but the point, of course, isn’t that—this was a good-looking body, healthy, smart, and vigorous, and to give credit where credit is due, it hung in there for an awfully long time, it was only with that man that it instantly began giving me a hard time, but I put the screws to it, harshly and unsparingly, and still it resisted, chafed with various chronic colds, swollen glands, and febrile rashes, a “weakened immune system,” the doctors said, but I would pry myself out of bed, patch the rashes with plasters, and, burning with fever, charge to the train station, the train, clattering over the jointed tracks, would rush me toward the city in which that man sat silently after totaling his precious car, the night of the accident I had a dream that someone had stolen it from him, and verses, unaware of the real state of things but in their own way somnambulantly clairvoyant, flooded in like the landscapes from the fog outside the window:

I abused my body for a fairly long time and it must have some sense of grievance against me (or, as they say here, “a grudge”), and now, after the fact, there’s not a whole lot I can do for it—except torment it every morning with pointless knee-bends after which the tight, deceived thighs ache with forgotten, sweet moans; or else vapidly drag it to the swimming pool every night (off to work!) where they know me already: the black lady custodian in a motley turban who hands out locker keys blitzes me with her blinding smile each time: “You’re pretty faithful to that swimming, huh?”—God, how gentle, soft, and kind she is, like the water in the pool; at each unexpected kind word I’m ready to start bawling my eyes out, like a hounded adolescent wolf cub, ready to eat from each outstretched hand, like, for example, this trustingly open palm—pink nakedness upward—handing me a little golden key on a red nylon string, to which I eagerly explain that I must, that I literally must frequent this place, that this is the sole way I can save myself from depression—the Great American Depression from which it seems that about 70 percent of the population suffers, running to psychiatrists, gulping down Prozac, each nation goes crazy in its own way—and in order to describe my depression, which actually falls under a different name—I’ve already managed, willy-nilly, to pick up a little terminology familiar to them: “broken relationship,” and moreover “straight after a divorce,” and moreover “sexually traumatic,” and from there summoning psychiatric textbooks to my aid: “fear of intimacy, fear of frigidity, suicidal moods”—in a word, a classic case, not even worth going to a psychiatrist with, and my blessed African woman, so lusciously fleshy behind the narrow counter, Earth Mother, gentle, steamy moos and rough tongue, nods with a wise, knowing smile: “I’ve been there,” she says, “with the father of my kids”—how about that, so she’s divorced, a single parent with two little ones, the younger will be two soon, it’s easier when you have children—both easier and harder (“And now,” said that man, glowing triumphantly over her, a sweaty boy in the dark—“and now you’re going to be pregnant: I came right inside you!”—“No,” she laughed, gently so as not to spill all that tenderness over the brim—“no, my love, it won’t be today”—although this in fact was, from the first night, her main concealed thought, the submerged underwater current of that love: a baby boy, Danny, she secretly established—forehead covered in tickly baby-chick down, frog-like tiny legs tucked in, fingertips like the tiniest buds, oh, my Lordy!—in her dreams she eagerly cradled him to her breast: this is the anchor that keeps us alive and without which we, ladies, do not have full rights on this earth, “unregistered”: neither a word nor even a letter in that text but merely an accidental dot in the margins—and in the meantime her verses mumbled mutely to themselves, dispersing into multiglossia:

—no, no, I mustn’t think if it, I mustn’t!)—“Everybody seems to have been there,” I remark, feeling momentarily relieved of the heavy weight by joining at least some kind of community, a social group: join the club!—oh, yes, my black woman gives a stately nod, “every woman has been there”—and then a mischievous woman’s squint: “maybe you’ll meet someone here, at the pool?” That would have been the moment to start laughing hysterically, at the very least because this fall, as you forcibly dragged your miserable, oppressed body down the streets of an alien city, you first became familiar with the notion of invisibility—at first you didn’t even quite realize what the deal was, but once you did, you began to study it fastidiously: yup, it’s true—men walking toward you would glide over you with indifferent, unseeing eyes, like you were an inanimate object, and even on the bus, when pressed by the crowd into dangerously close proximity to somebody’s massive back with a hockey emblem on it, you did not pick up that lightning-quick flash of animal instinct—a twitch, a face turning to look at you—that which switches on in them automatically, simply from the smell of a woman but not only: in reality they—perhaps only with the exception of camp prisoners and soldiers, those who have lost their minds after years of abstinence—respond not so much to the woman as to the electric frequencies, undetectable by any scientific instrument, of all the other males’ desires which at the moment happen to be aimed at her and which envelop her (and which at the present moment do not envelop me) as a densely charged erotic cloud—no wonder they say a betrothed woman is attractive to all: that’s the part that really seduces them, forces them to flare with nostrils dilated by fury and pound the ground with their hooves—the spirit of competition, the desire to win, the challenge to a duel, the silent call of the bugle to battle that vibrates the air, the insatiable need to prove superiority over all others, doesn’t matter if they’ve ever seen them or not: “Tell me—was sex with your husband good?”—“Very good!”—she blurted out truthfully, like a slap in the face—he practically curled into a ball: too bad, she no longer had the strength to force those patent phrases through her throat, to pretend, swallowing insult after insult, to brazenly demonstrate, like a whore for money, how very all-out cool he is (“You slut, dumping your tits out for all to see!” he hissed as though a bee had just bitten him when during their final days of communal habitation he caught sight of her half-naked body, angry at himself that he could still, against all common sense, want this woman with whom sex was nothing but mutual torment: “your cunt’s like a vice”—well, you shouldn’t have gone in with a crowbar: hopping under the covers at three in the morning, shoving me around, turning me over on my back, that businesslike manner of sticking your finger in where you’re not invited, that much I can do for myself and a whole lot better than you, more gently; my body defended itself against my own willfulness, oh yeah, fear, so thoughtlessly dismissed by me earlier, appeared out of nowhere, planted itself inside my body and grew: my body sensed something in this man that I could not—meantime I turned myself into a witch, a castrating Megaera with a vice in my loins: ever hear of “no”?!—and that’s when the bellowing of the trapped male would commence: “You know how many women I’ve had!”—Oh fuck your women, all one hundred thousand of them, I couldn’t care less, I don’t need to conquer you, I need to love you—love, can you understand that?!—therefore in her nakedness, we must admit he had a point, there truly was a shamelessness: it was a deliberate and offensive nakedness, that which is not meant to seduce but rather to express contempt—I can cut my toenails in front of you, shave my legs, not rinse the bathtub after I’m done, leaving dark curly hairs on the sides, wash up between my legs, masturbate—and not in the same way as when each such expression of physical liberty is taken as a gift, as one more precious sign of trust that evokes in you a hot torrent of grateful tenderness, not the way it was between us back home during those days when we would meet in unexpected quarters, crawling into some friend’s empty cottage through a window on a cold November night where the temperature was about seven degrees Celsius, drinking cognac in the dark, so as to warm up a little, without taking our coats off, and I was blowing into your rough, frozen hands and hiding them under my sweater because that was the warmest spot, and you both laughed and cried, catching your breath, not able to believe it: “Is this you? Can this really be you?”—that autumn was the autumn of keys; never in my life had I, homeless, carried around so many borrowed keys in my purse at the same time—it seemed as though I jangled with them as I ran, like a merry-go-round pony, attracting all eyes to me, which gave me, like that pony from the fair, an irrepressible desire to neigh happily—and when you, in that home that belonged to some unknown, were boiling water in two huge pots so that I could take a bath, drawing it by pail in the middle of the night from an invisible well in the yard, identifiable only by the occasional splash, while I hung around the doorway in nothing but a housecoat over my naked body feeling no cold; and later, when I locked the bathroom door and saw the soap still foamy after you in the soap dish, standing there gingerly on end the way you had a habit of carefully placing it—so that the water would drain, because mine was always flat on its belly soaking in a puddle—I stood looking at that soap and was so stupidly happy as I could only have been in my childhood, because only then had I had a home, I was tired, my love, I was so tired, and all I wanted was for you to be near me and to lather me up, but you locked me in that room and turned the key and took off somewhere into the night in that car looking for groceries—oh, God damn it, fuck those groceries, my good man, how much life do we really have and how much love that we should be slicing it neatly for breakfast and dinner!). “How many times were you in love?”—“Three,” he counted, shutting his eyes—“this is the fourth.”—“Seems like a few too many for such a short life—three great loves…”—“Why do they have to be great right away”—his eyes laughed and she thawed out with a smile in return—“maybe they were small and mousy—little tiny ones?” Who the hell talks that way about their love, even if it’s been trampled, even if it’s all in the past, even if it’s cut you in half like a truck severs a dog on the road, the way it did me that winter—the flight over the Atlantic: until five in the morning, right up until the taxi came to take me to the airport I waited—for a ring, if not of the doorbell (a thousand times, to exhaustion, my mind rewound the same clip: I open the door and you’re standing in the doorway, barely containing with the corners of your mouth that insanely happy radiance that wants to leap from your face: finally, oh God, take your coat off already, how could you do this to me, you look a mess, so what happened, I’ve been going crazy here!) then at least of the telephone, a word, a voice, the end of a thread that I could catch hold of and keep unraveling from one continent to another, I don’t believe it!—my insides screeched, scalded with grief, I don’t believe it!—the taxi unloaded me into the snowdrift at the entrance to the international flights hall, how empty it was, how dead—a crematorium—the lights of Boryspil at five a.m., destination Devil’s Dead End, the main gateway of the country, haha!—a country hopelessly unconnected to the nervous system that crisscrosses the planet, that thunders day and night, pumping through gigantic ganglions of ports, train terminals, and customs booths teeming streams of activated human neurons, Sheremetevo, JFK, Ben-Gurion, and wherever else I’ve been tossed about, even though all this is vanity of vanities, and vexation of spirit and body, but—there is motion, but—there is the animal pursuit of life, the wolf’s bared teeth: another moment and I’ll catch you, grab you by the scruff of the neck!—but in Boryspil, awakened by the desperately echoing click of my high heels, only unfocused, sleepy faces were rising from the luggage piled up along the walls, slowly unfurling their features like nocturnal animals roused from their sleep: as though they lived here, Jewish households in an eternal state of waiting until a crack opens in the border gate and they can scoot out, and so that’s how my country saw me off, the country to which I, when all’s said and done, will return—you betcha, despite the fact that my well-meaning American friends advise me to apply for yet another grant and assure me that my chances are good, I will return, come crawling back to die like a wounded dog, tied to the leash of a language that nobody knows, while you be sure to honor my memory in the Review of Literary Journals, that’s right, and then there’s my article from the year before last in the Partisan Review, which wasn’t entirely stupid either, it was noticed, there was even a response in—wow!—the Times Literary Supplement; but the main point, my friends, you missed anyway, it seemed funny to you and no more: that the Ukrainian choice is a choice between nonexistence and an existence that kills you, and that all of our hapless literature is merely a cry of someone pinned down by a beam in a building after an earthquake—I’m here! I’m still alive!—but, unfortunately, the rescue teams are taking their time and on your own—how the hell are you supposed to get out? She felt herself alive for a moment in Frankfurt where they changed planes: when running blindly down the corridor she ran into two upright-standing border guards, two identically red-haired burly German guys with identical splotchy freckles all over their arms who, checking her out with a healthy youthful curiosity and exchanging good-natured growls in their own language, examined her passport and asked, just for the hell of it, in distilled international English where she was going—to Boston? Oh, it’s very cold there right now, the coldest winter in a hundred years!—“I know,” she said, giving a perfunctory smile like she was striking a soggy match, and, warmed by the animal, purely physical vitality steaming from them she suddenly felt, for the first time in her life, a literal uncontrollable urge to wring her hands: no longer a mere folk-song expression, no!—wring your hands, your white hands, every finger, too; you’ll not find, my dear girl, a Cossack’s love more true—but rather the most urgent, insuppressible physical desire to wrest, with this desperate gesture, her still living body from the tight armor of agony that squeezed her from all sides: Mykola, Mykola, she wrote him later from Cambridge, into thin air, to his local post office for “general delivery” because there was no other address—what are you doing, my love? Why are you turning to dust that which could be such an insanely brilliant—life, passion, a flight of two forever-linked stars through the fin-de-siècle night? Shit, now might be a good time to reread that stuff—the style alone could inspire a fit of hysterical laughter!—School of Medicine! that’s where one should take courses in Ukrainian romanticism, in the psychiatry departments! “You’ll return my letters,” she instructed dryly as they parted, not that she had any great desire to own those letters, what’s over is over, hell with it—but to free from his possession any vestiges of herself that contained even weak signs of life, that still stung and very much so; he turned the lock instantly, raising high his dangerously well-endowed chin (no contest from all the super-sexed Hollywood spermatosauruses): “I wouldn’t think of it. They’re mine”—the only thing that’s yours, sweetheart, is what you’ve painted, and there’s no point fooling yourself: what you can’t get into totally, blindly, over your head, will never become yours. Write down those words, I’m giving you permission, why not. And one more thing, almost forgot: that’s why those loves of yours end up being so small and mousy—the little tiny ones.

“Listen,” she was saying toward the end, timidly extending her voice toward him, like her hand under the covers during those oppressive silences at night when he lay beside her wide-awake, hoping she wouldn’t notice—“maybe you just simply never loved me?” Because then everything really would be simpler: easier. But he would turn his face, cracked with a bitter smile, toward her—my God, what painful, unrelenting thirst this profile used to induce in her: like staring through a thick glass pane at a glass of ice water coated with condensation after not having a drop to drink all day; and now that glass pane was all that remained—he looked at her with the eyes of a sick animal: “You’re starting that again?” Forgive me. I know you loved me—you loved me as best you knew: inside yourself, not outside yourself, I got the crumbs under the table, just like that little mouse—just a glance radiant with excitement, which sometimes broke out into a brief, reserved hug, an almost shy, crudely boyish poking somewhere at the side of the neck: “You’re a cool chick!” and still yet eruptions of unfeigned joy at the sight of me, even when I’d pop in off the street and catch him at his canvas, and this was the same as throwing a bucket of cold water at a person fast asleep: he’d jump up wildly from the canvas like a startled colt, with a neigh of terror, instantly winding himself into a defensive pose, fist ready to plow you in the mouth—and a second later—ah, it’s you!—his twisted face would change, shine, becoming the way it was that night, and also the way it would be when he removed my Post-it notes from his still unshattered windshield, because I bestowed them feverishly, with the speed of chattering teeth, I scattered them everywhere, eagerly polluting his entire space, little yellow butterfly squares, long fluttering handwriting like loose hair in the wind: hold on to me, hold on to me tighter, don’t let me fly up to the sky!—and he did hold on, and he did carry around in the pockets of his winter jacket packages of notes resembling autumn leaves, some of which, the more important ones, he would paste into my books (my first autograph was from my first visit to his studio: I signed as though already predicting the inevitable collision of two avalanches: “sincerely conquered”—and right after came the first poems “from him,” because my poems—I repeat, in case anyone failed to note it down the first time—were always from someone, even if that someone hadn’t the faintest idea about it:

“You know,” she blathered so very naively one night—“I think we shouldn’t get married after all!”—“Why?”—he froze in the middle of the kitchen as though struck by an electric current, the Turkish coffee pot he was carrying toward the stove still in his hand: my poor darling boy, scared to death! “Let’s be blood brothers instead”—she reveled with her whole heart at his fright while he noisily exhaled: it was a joke, of course, it was a joke!—by the way, we became brother and sister long ago, long before we met, because it was in search of you, my love, clearly in search of you that these incomprehensibly opaque lines of poetry rushed out of me, barely catching their breath, through all the years of my chaotic youth—I never allowed them to be published!—lines in which a “sorcerer-brother” peeked out here and there unexpectedly, lifted to the surface by some submerged force, a brother I’d never had: what I did have were friends, lovers galore, a wonderfully high-bouncing trampoline [albeit with holes all over the place] of social excitement: cool chick, you bet!—I had a husband, who taught me to accept and respect real love—my gratitude most profound, no joking!—the kind of love that grows with years and becomes the equal of life—but underneath all that churned a deep, persistent reverberation in the blood, threatening to materialize:

Interesting question, no? There you have it. “More than a brother,” turns out to be that same “sorcerer-brother”: should have recognized him straight away, but why beat about the bush, I did recognize him—the minute I saw that series of witches’ drawings: green-faced, should have been moonlit, but actually in the middle of the day, because the background is ochre, because the background is gold, a ritual song in a circle, but actually a wild dance, a “rite of spring,” spreading smoothly from canvas to canvas—women with flowing hair in full-length white linen robes, arms waving, the dry crackle of hair [my own hair would also give off sparks when I brushed it hard!]—what are they doing, plowing a circle around the village to avert the plague? No, something darker, riskier, the goal is unclear—menstrual blood gurgles, trickling into the large bowl, a cock violently flapping its wings, no, that far I myself have never ventured: perhaps walked up close to it, but always backed away quickly, fearing insanity because there’d be an occasional howl or owl’s cry in the dark, but this guy was digging the same grounds as I was, and the only one I’d ever known to do it, ah, shit—I sucked the saliva back through my teeth with excitement!—better than me: deeper, more powerfully, and damn, just plain fearlessly: full steam ahead, lungs full to capacity in rhythmic breathing—canvas after canvas, systole-diastole—he simply floated along in the stream that I could access only occasionally—only as a breakthrough, grabbing and carrying off a single poem in my teeth, my God, how truly wonderful it is to see someone stronger than you!—“So, Mykola, so what does all of this mean?” whined an “art expert” who, like yourself, had come up here from Kyiv, moistly sliding over her badly pronounced Ukrainian sibilants, though not slipping into Russian “out of respect for the guest of honor” and occasionally pulling strands of hair back behind her ear with trained, truly beautiful fingers—not a single art event could get by without these piranhas especially when horny bohemian artists were involved, or so you muttered to yourself, all irritated, because you were already drawn in, because you already desired his undivided attention, but then you couldn’t run up to him squealing like this little fool—“Is this some kind of folk uhm… ritual? A supersition?” He gave a reserved nod—and thus seemed to be entering a secret pact with you; “What kind of ritual?”—“You can’t talk about it,” he replied solemnly: yes, brother, precisely, you can’t, it’s our secret, yours and mine—a seal on our lips like a dry kiss: turn the lock, hide the key, silence).

“You see”—in one of their first weeks of living together—new country, new continent, now everything was sure to be different, turning over a new leaf, yeah right—he was showing her perhaps the first of his new sketches, one not from the “reserve,” an ink drawing—“take a look, baby, this—is love.” Love looked like this: “baby,” a rather abstract naked woman, was lying in bed (“You slut, dumping your tits out for all to see!”—but that came later…) and playing a violin (“What’s this”—she exhaled a sardonic laugh: sex was painful again last night, not that he noticed—“a metaphor for masturbation?”—“Could be”—a carefree nod of agreement, her reproach passing over his head: far too focused on the sketch to notice—“it’s from a Polish ditty I once heard and happened to remember”); the woman’s bottom half was modestly hidden by a sprawled-out, richly textured cat. Well, no mystery there, he was the cat. (“Aha!—now you’re caught!”—his eyes glistened almost gleefully when he heard that according to the Chinese horoscope she was a Mouse:—“Because I’m—the Cat!”—Hmm, she didn’t particularly get along with cats, and in general she preferred dogs, never missing a chance to pat even the mangy stray on the head, but at that moment—at that moment she was overcome by a strange, paralyzing ache of the already-present danger, it was both sad and sweet: yes, she was caught, and there was no getting away, game over—it’s just that as she looked at the sketch she thought, with an internal shudder: what if that cat were to arch his back and sink his claws in there?…); at the foot of the bed stood a leafy potted plant of some sort, and on top sat a bird with a wedding band in its beak (“Hey, when I get there—we’ll get hitched!”—he had hollered happily and offensively into the phone when she was finally able to get through to him—after that awful Cambridge winter, when her love slowly froze out of her, freezing into those impenetrable snowbanks, flowing out of her like bodily fluid from a skillfully punctured torso until it gathered in only one fiery point: just let him be alive!—and when she managed to find, finally, through networks of common acquaintances, some kind of phone number, and heard that familiar voice, which cooed in shameless satisfaction: “So delighted to hear from you, my lady”—she exploded like a Fury, barely containing every expletive she could think of—and he, as it turned out, had had yet another accident, right before she left, fell down the stairs at night and landed on a pile of rubble, broke his ribs, is still walking around in a brace, oh no!—she covered her mouth with her palms remembering in a flash a physiologically revolting dream she had had: like she was holding a sculptured bust of him in her hands, so frightening in the way it moved its lips, what the hell was that about, really! Okay, okay, I’ll make it up to you, fella, you’ll get a trip to America, a stipend, an exhibit in New York, wine-women-song, you’ll have it all—only that “get hitched” lashed her like a rough screech, a solo part on a handsaw in the middle of an opera overture: wrong, wrong—the words all wrong!). Violin, cat, potted plant, bird, wedding band—“they’re in love,” and the sketch did emit, it seemed to her, some kind of feeble warmth (in its final form, on canvas, painted after the breakup, this warmth had dissipated completely—the woman in bed ended up in the middle of a bilious-yellow desert, and after the painting spent the night in the basement belonging to poor Mark, totally discombobulated from dealing with psychotic Ukrainian geniuses, they found on it a dead spider—the best thing to do would have been to attach it to the painting permanently, somewhere between the kitty and the birdie, it was the only thing missing!). Several weeks later, however, a new sketch appeared—same woman, facing in the diametrically opposite direction, stretched out on a gigantic bone that had been gnawed white: “That was her last man,” he commented balefully—“she ate him.” The background came out black, the bone glimmered against it with a sickly phosphoric paleness, and the woman’s hair—standing on end as if raised by an invisible vacuum cleaner—was a fire-engine red. A diptych of sorts. A history of a love affair, if you will. “This our love affair,” she once blurted casually, still back home; and he, without shifting his eyes steadfastly fixed on something straight ahead, shook his head firmly: “This is not a love affair. This is something else.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I can see the bored expressions that have settled onto your faces; in your minds you’ve already established the diagnosis: “severe psychological problems” on both sides—a nationalist-masochist (although this particular disease you’re probably unfamiliar with…) and an autistic maniac (this one is simpler because in addition to purely communication issues, that inability to connect or whatever you call it, one might mention a few milder though clinically more significant symptoms—for example, the impossibility of keeping a phone number in his head long enough to write it down, and the especially characteristic, strangely awkward calligraphy—unexpectedly skipped letters, or a sudden capital in the middle of a sentence, or those illiterate “J” or “Э” that somehow wandered in from foreign alphabets, supposedly in order to make the written line more balanced graphically—bad things, troubling, and then if you were to recall those suspicious migraines of his that he boasted of fainting from occasionally, the case begins to look very serious)—no denying it, that nice, handy word problems; it can mean a math question, and breast cancer, and loss of love, and in every case there is always someone who can help: a professor, a doctor, a psychoanalyst—assuming, of course, that you have something to pay them with, and if you don’t, then you’ll just have to try and get it, go digging through all your socks and mattresses, nothing to be done—life is expensive: like Rosie, for example, Mark’s wife, going to see a psychoanalyst for seven years straight, two sessions a week, which poor Mark (an oversized schoolboy), not yet even a full professor, is obviously unable to pay for, therefore every once in a while Rosie, the forty-year-old girl, the mother of a grown child but tiny and thin as a sparrow (tight-assed sparrow with thick werewolf browns meeting on the bridge of her nose), invariably ill either from a chill or too much sun or at the very least from exhaustion (hand on forehead like a collective farm worker, a crumpled wad of Kleenex by her nose), must go looking for a job, and she finds something for a month, or two, or even three—and all so that she could go lie down on that couch twice a week and tell someone who’s willing to listen to her how unhappy she is—after six years of this she and Mark stopped having sex and this is obviously progress: now they’re both gritting their teeth on account of this abstinence, fights break out with a hungry crackle, like a fire on well-dried twigs, at each verbal interaction, and it seems that the number of therapy sessions will have to increase: “problems” are “problems” and society ordains that we solve them with four arithmetic operations: there’s A, there’s B, you can add them, multiply them, divide, or transpose them, and all that in the hope of getting a third quantity, a full-time occupation!—somewhere in the back of the workbook lie the answers in fine print, let’s be patient, someday they may show them to us. Someday each of us will read his or her answer—except that by that time it will be too late to change it.

Ladies and gentlemen, problems—are things to be solved according to a set of rules. But it’s precisely those rules that we don’t know, we know only the four arithmetic operations, and we push ahead with them, pretentious ignoramuses, up to precipices and subterraneous caverns of unknown and imagined quantities, and the ground slips out from under our feet, and an echo resounds as through the canyon, and in that rumble you can catch a peal of—laughter (guess whose, come on now?), and a scorching horror takes possession as you suspend your foot over the void from which rise invisible fumes from a slow burn of that devastating sorrow that the Russians define as deathly, which sucks everything out of you till your bones ache: and so here we have—the doors to hell, ladies and gentlemen, welcome, they’re always open, why are you dallying, isn’t this the place you’ve been in such a rush to get to?…

“I’ve always wanted only one thing—to reach my full potential.” That’s what he would repeat, and he spoke the honest truth. “Smell it, come over and smell this—aah, what a smell!”—he would lean over a set of newly acquired paints, lustfully flaring his nostrils, ecstatically shutting his eyes (these American stores are sheer heaven, they’ve got everything, the bastards, look, look!—he surreptitiously stroked a silky sheet of Chinese drawing paper with his fingertip, what does it cost? are they nuts!?—and see this sponge over here, feel it, it’s alive!—and they sell canvases already stretched, this is bloody unbelievable, and what are these? whitewashes? how much? they can fuck themselves, assholes—come on, let’s get out of here—then an abrupt halt, twisting his head back, breathing in the air with the pain of unquenchable passion: can you smell it?)—she enjoyed this animal sensuality even if not directed at her, even if all she got were the crumbs: her love of words was equally sensual—first the sound, but the sound pulled in with it, in its tightly woven trammel, a catch of texture, consistency, smell, and obviously color, too: color imbued not only individual words, it was especially pronounced when switching from one language to another—each, of course, radiated its own, brilliantly shimmering basic tone: Italian—electric violet, ultramarine, the kind of light effect you’d get if you could turn red wine blue; Polish shushed and grated fresh young bitter-tart garden greens; English slowly bubbled something translucent akin to a gentle golden chicken bouillon broth, incidentally a lot more watery in the States, the British variant more intense, thick-and-gooey, richer; obviously her mother tongue was the most nutritious, most healing to the senses: velvety marigold, or no, cherry (juice on lips)? strawberry blond (smell of hair)?… it’s always like that, the minute you peer more closely the whole thing disintegrates into tiny pieces and there’s no putting it back together; she hungered for her language terribly, physically, like a thirsty man for water, just to hear it—living and full-bodied with that ringing intonation like a babbling brook at a distance, just a lap—honestly, she’d feel better!—at that moment he remembered, unsmiling, how once, in about fifth grade, he was sitting in a Ukrainian-language class and secretly sniffing some paints hidden in his desk, and the teacher ran over and flung them clattering in all directions down the aisle—well sure, only a Ukrainian-language teacher would pull such a stunt, for some reason they seem everywhere to be the dumbest, most vicious hags (as if specially selected), rabidly faithful lackeys, abundantly loyal sergeants in the Soviet army—you don’t suppose there’s a national inferiority complex rampant there?… So they chatted—when they were still talking to each other, because he opened up to share something inside him only very gradually, creakily: he wasn’t used to it, whatever little internal doors he had in there must have been wedged shut a ve-e-ry long time ago, and the hinges rusted out—God, what kind of a marriage did this guy have, I wonder, huh?… For outsiders, and that means everybody except one or two close friends (they had hundreds of common friends, but she realized fairly quickly that not a single one of that crowd, even the fairly smart guys he’d been friends with for umpteen years, really knew him all that well; he knew them—saw them!—in a much deeper, more penetrating, and at the same time somewhat more ruthless way, when they discussed common friends—which is, after all, utterly essential for every couple, because that’s how the newly constructed world of both is populated, settled, in their case given to them pretty much ready-made, on the Biblical “seventh day”—she was struck unpleasantly by how coldly he dispensed judgments in all directions: X “sees things superficially,” Y is an “extinct volcano,” Z “married that huge babe ’cause he needs a mama”—like driving ash stakes through their hearts: nailing them down, hammering from the shoulder, without a hint of empathy, never actually touching upon their lives with his own feelings, and when ultimately he turned that side of him against her, calmly cutting off one of her “how am I supposed go on living?” questions with a harsh: “I see in you an ability to survive under any circumstances”—she immediately rose up to demonstrate this ability: absorbing not the painfully distant tone but rather the naked essence of what was said: the guy’s tough, and smart, and he’s been around, if that’s what he says then maybe it’s true, I’ll survive?)—so then, for outsiders he smeared himself with a thick coat of an impenetrable, though, one must admit, very masterful sort of chitchat, all kinds of gags and games generously flavored with spicy irony, but she was not one to be fooled by that, she also had her (hah!) elaborate and ever-so-tightly fitted (not to say sexy) linguistic mask, and when he tried to hide behind his—hey, there, if you’re gonna play, no cheating!—she preferred to slice that papier-mâché apart with a knife: and that’s when the hysterics began, night after night, the blade grew notched and dented, practically ended up in a hospital, but she did the guy in, too—God help her: if this is the way it’s gonna be, then fine, I’m not the only one going down! Fuck, how disgusting… “You know what your precious ‘hermeticism’ is?”—because he had named it thus, giving this business a theoretical foundation, fucking deep thinker, a conceptualist!—“Well what? Go ahead, but keep it short, in two words or less.”—“No problem, I can do it in two: a stone egg.”—“Nice,” he pulled in his shoulders for a moment, she got him—“but… well painted, right?”

Thus she mumbles to herself (it’s just that—is it kórchi or korchí? the language is failing, failing, and don’t try to fool us with that “literature-in-exile” stuff!)—as she drags her disobedient, unloved body up and down the streets of an unfamiliar American city in which she has no friends, not a soul, and at the department she has to smile and answer each “How are you doing?” with “Fine”—yet another of those arithmetical rules, even though what kind of “fayn” can one possibly speak of, where the hell is it, who’s seen it around, that “fayn”—at one of the faculty parties the graceful and composed plump Chris, an administrative genius, mother of an eight-year-old girl, and of her husband, the eternal student (they survive on potatoes for weeks at a time, it’s a good thing they’ve been on sale at Giant Eagle lately, ninety-nine cents for a four-pound bag) confesses—flushed pink after downing the third glass of free wine in one gulp and lighting a cigarette (ready to talk her heart out)—that she’s got breast cancer and has been going for radiation therapy for five years now, and she’s only turned forty-one; while Ellen, always quick and agile, electrically charged with excited laughter whether in shorts, in a light summer dress with a shoulder strap sliding down her arm, or in a tight black skirt with a side-slit up to the hip, and a fluffy cloud of sparking deep-gold hair bouncing with every step—she’s almost fifty, divorced and childless, spasmodically clinging to the “one size fits all (ages)” image of a “sexy lady,” from which the march of time is relentlessly dislodging her, pushing her out the door no matter how much she drowns herself in work in order not to notice it—constantly waving her cigarette like a priest his censer, exuberant, shouting how much she loves, just loves her visits to the gynecologist—has an orgasm right in the stirrups, and her listeners laugh along, an echo of her enthusiasm, fantastic, she’s great, Ellen, the cool chick as that man would say—except that perhaps she gives just a li-ittle too much detail about herself: about how she was running late for class but the car wouldn’t start, and how she had to run out into the street and hitch a ride, no-no, she didn’t even need to raise her skirt, and how pleasant the businessman behind the wheel turned out to be, and what she told him, and how they exchanged business cards—all that schlock that one normally dumps on one’s family every evening, because that’s the place where we, girls, recount, to the lovingly sensitive faces turned toward us, everything that happened to us that day, but with outsiders—with outsiders you really need skill to dump this shit and not bore them, you must package it up like candy, in the crinkly gold wrapper of a humorous novelette, to rustle it enticingly—and voilà, they’ve swallowed it, and for all appearances you’ve entertained the crowd—Ellen falls a little short here, because in this you do have to be a bit of an artist or, as some would say, artiste, but aside from that—aside from that she is in perfect form, boisterously dancing on the open platform of the train that rushes her down the tracks to the outer limit of that day on which she finally—flags, sags, stoops, flame extinguished, as though someone has unscrewed all those unnecessary bulbs, and, perhaps, will also begin to frequent the psychoanalyst, just like sixty-year-old Cathy from the department down the hall, whose husband left her a year ago and now it’s impossible to get her to retire, or perhaps she’ll secretly start drinking heavily at home, or get into meditation, or maybe get a dog—a purebred, it goes without saying. And then there’s also Alex, an aging Serbian poet who’s been roaming the world, shuffling from one university department to another, who claims with a dignified air: “I’m Yugoslavian,” as if in this way he, like God, can wipe away the war and everything that came with it, his typical way of starting a conversation—“When I was in Japan…” “When I spoke at a conference at the Prado and the cardinal was invited too…” “When I lived in London, just outside the city, they gave me a whole villa…”—you could burst out laughing at how much this resembles the reportages, in the good old Soviet days, of those rare few “friendship society” types occasionally graced with a trip abroad appearing before a depressed and green-with-envy audience, each member painfully aware that they themselves wouldn’t get “out there” in a million years; however, Alex has no such powers of self-reflection, nor powers to see or hear anything around him for that matter, being consumed as he is by the recitation of an enthusiastic panegyric to himself—to his books that have been translated into English, Spanish, Chinese, Alpha-Centauric; to his interviews and publications in such-and-such editions in such-and-such years; to how much he is paid by the page by Word and how much the New Yorker promises to pay—this monologue inside him seems not to cease for a second and occasionally reaches the point where it requires a set of ears—then Alex calls, stops to pick her up in his “Toyota” (each time inevitably mentioning that back home, in Belgrade, he used to have a “Mercedes”), and they go somewhere for a “dreenk,” two Slavic poets in a foreign land, oh yeah, and this land can be covered with wheat, rye, and gold, inviolable coast to coast, Atlantic to Pacific, there’s no way she’s going to sleep with him and besides, he’s far too much excited by his own oral biography to put the effort into pursuing her, but his poetry, which he’s hauled over by the armload including the translations into Chinese, is really not bad at all—although mainly of the “snapshot” variety, travel sketches, a tourist’s breakfast; still, in practically every poem a line peeks out that’s truly authentic, and before you know it the entire poem has closed in around it: occasionally even, sparks fly from something truly wonderful, one night she asks Alex how he handles the language problem, for years hearing Serbian only from his wife, does he not feel the language resources diminishing—and for the first time a somber, wolfish expression visits his face: it’s a problem, he admits as though forced to confess to a meticulously concealed physical defect—that’s actually why he agreed to work for an émigré newspaper—aha, that would be the same as if she were to take in a job correcting the language of the New York Ukrainian paper Svoboda (ON THE DATE OF 31 AUGUST 1994 RESPONDING TO THE APPEAL OF THE ALMIGHTY CREATOR OF HEAVEN AND EARTH SHE LEFT FOR THE UNIVERSE (the Universe! in response to an appeal! is she a cosmonaut, or, pardon me, an astronaut?), LEAVING BEHIND UNSPEAKABLE SADNESS AND SORROW (in other words, she took off without sadness and sorrow?) OUR DEAREST, UNFORGETTABLE, FAVORITE WIFE, AUNT, COUSIN, AND SISTER-IN-LAW (whoa, let me catch my breath!). NOT HAVING THE POWER TO THANK EVERYONE PERSONALLY FOR SO NUMEROUS EXPRESSIONS OF SYMPATHY: TELEPHONIC, WRITTEN, AND PERSONAL (hey, syntax! syntax, oops, sorry, syntaxa!) THAT’S WHY BY THIS PATH (how about trail? back alley? highway?) I EXPRESS TO ALL ACQUAINTANCES AND FRIENDS, AND FAMILY MY SINCEREST THANKS (okay now, try rewriting this thing so it makes some sense!)—and then she understands that this high from his own importance, this puppy excitement at every sign of his presence in the world—this is just one more way of creating in it a home for yourself, especially when there’s no mutual interaction with either your language or your country, and also that it must take some time to reach this condition—and it comes as no surprise to her that after that evening Alex stops calling—probably forever. Oh Lordy, all of it, everything, requires skill—to be ill, to be lonely, to be homeless: each of these things is an art, each requires talent and effort. “Fayn”—we’ll just have to learn.

He couldn’t care less about her poetry, just like he couldn’t care less about anything anywhere and always; he was led by the instinct of his own personal gift, and it was distracted by nothing. Knowing, with that dark, viscid knowledge—tribal and familial, which she carried within her since childhood like a swallowed rock and which, truthfully, drove her forward, forward, forward! by the insane fear of herself, too, falling into the ranks of the ordinary, not making it, going to the dogs like everyone in the previous generation, and the one before that, and the generation before that (those guys really went through hell—better not to think of it!), she spent her whole youth trying to break out of the vault filled with the poisonous stink of half-decayed talents, motionless lives rotting out, mildew and mold, the unwashed stench of futile endeavors: Ukrainian history—knowing, with that bloodline knowledge what kind of trapdoors that instinct of gift of his must have had to burst through, ramming them like a tank, in order to carry him out and up (always—up: his last works were also his strongest, they blazed with a light that was already otherworldly, like a starry sky over the desert—whereas in her own memory there was only row after row of “those who showed promise” who’d be raucously anointed to genius status and then roll en masse into the trodden ditch as soon as they had exhausted the vigor of youth!)—she, who would be overcome by nausea at the sight of the miserable native alkies in the mildewed remnants of their genius (if anybody’s interested, check out the following addresses: “Aeneus” in Kyiv, and “Red Guelder Rose” in Lviv, free admission, feeding, and especially giving drink to the animals is not only not forbidden, but encouraged)—immediately demonstrated with him (the first one in her life!) the capacity to take a back seat: it was the first time that she was dealing with a male winner. A Ukrainian man—and a winner: a bloody miracle, can you believe it? In her wildest dreams she would not have imagined such a thing—the seventies and eighties alone in a provincial town (a.k.a. in the underground) would have been enough to do you in, that same town that her parents had to flee, holding her, a seven-year-old, firmly under her arms as they slipped through the KGB blockade; her father, who had served his six (Stalin’s) years in the camps, was pursued, in the grip of terror, like a squirrel for the rest of his life by the specter of “recidivism”—nobody could handle a second arrest, even if they survived it they came out broken, each in his own way—I wonder if it wasn’t those same “inspector-boys” in rustling coats, quick, all with the same standard-issue haircuts, all dark-haired, whose backs her poorly focused, blurred child’s memory photographed as they rummaged through piles of books thrown over the floor surrounded by the all-of-a-sudden bare white walls of her first, no, her only home in her whole life—who later, having earned more stars and stripes, planted their deadly grip around the throat of the rebellious artist?—yes, my dear brother, and this damned blood-brotherhood of ours, like cellmates from the same concentration camp, shit, how many years, really, will that heritage be with us, and how the hell do we get rid of it, bleed it out? cough it out?—how?—my Kyiv friends, all mellow after a few drinks, reminisced on how they met him in 1982: they came out on some work-related trip, landed in one of the local coffee shops, and a baited-looking local approached them: “Guys, are you artists? I’ve got a studio nearby, come, I’ll show you my work, I’ve got coffee too”—well, okay, as long as you’re serving coffee, fine, pal, we’ll have some—but what makes you think we’re artists (they happened to be writers, actors, not exactly chopped liver, eh)?—“Uhm, but your beards”—hah! now that’s something, so having a beard out in that rat hole was enough to put you on the watch list? Really? That’s the way you squeeze your hand through the bars of a prison train-car window, casting a written note into the wind: maybe some good person will notice it and send it to the indicated address—peering out after the fluttering piece of paper, hungry hope in your eye: you’re sure you’re not artists?… And getting to the studio by back alleys, discreetly, circuitous routes: “It would be better if you weren’t seen with me…” Homeland and home, yes: Ukraine, 1982. And no British correspondents, no letters of support from leading figures of literature and art—who was it that got the Nobel that year, Marquez, I think? (Damned good writer, and the fact that rumor had it that he was a good friend of the USSR, well—“who cares?”) That story, which immediately made him so dear to her, so painfully felt from inside those hopeless years (which he overcame, won the match: by painting all that he painted!—while others drowned in drink, hung themselves, or, like her own father, stood smoking by the window for hours staring at the wall of the building across the way, getting lung cancer from the hopelessness of it all!)—that story she heard before the third day of the festival when he, under some lame pretext, managed to get himself to her hotel room, rudely awakening her from her sleep—everything, everything from the very beginning was based on chaos, on a violent break with established routine, on weakened senses, on wavering (like music on dying batteries) reflexes!—and he stood there, in an entryway as cramped as an elevator, his arms crossed on his chest, leaning against the door, his catlike eyes glowing at her expressively, and she was suddenly overwhelmed—she clenched her teeth so that they wouldn’t chatter—by a flood of strange, you wouldn’t say erotic, no!—a different kind of queasy, anxious arousal—like before surgery or a school exam: something thundered and thickened, moving in overtop of her, something bad, dark, and ominous, something autonomous and thus real, she might have still leaned out of the way, pulled her head down and let it pass by, but there was no fear in her, there was—an already switched-on, excited, and vibrant readiness to rush right out to meet life just as soon as it picks up speed, takes off from its well-worn habitual seat: something real is a rare opportunity, it’s something that’s bigger than you, something you must grow to attain, breaking out of your skin to get there, leaving it behind, seven skins, nine skins, just don’t stop! Fine, I take up the challenge, look you in the eye! “Until tonight then?”—“Until tonight.”—“We’ll go for coffee?”—everything went up in turmoil, the whirlwind churned the leaves on the autumn roads and the town in which she was born and which had always been, somewhere at a distance like at the bottom of a lake, preserving her early, hidden, still sleeping childhood was now returning it to her—in an unbearably tender, misty light, this, actually, had begun on the first day already—the growing underground rumble of awakened memory, the recognizing of familiar streets: ah, so that’s what they’re like!—the display windows of the pharmacy on the corner, in the same place as twenty-five years ago—she stopped stock-still, choking on a surge of shining tears: this is where they put up the town Christmas tree, and she had her picture taken then with Santa Claus, a five-year-old girl in a bulky, furry coat, the smell of mandarins and lilac evening snow, its glitter under the streetlamps—and on the other side, a bit farther down, there was a theater, I think (matinee—holding Daddy’s hand—a documentary of some kind, about monkeys?)—Oh, it’s still there, even now, they told her with the forced benevolent smiles that one conjures to demonstrate sensitivity toward another person’s childhood, and only he, whom she dragged with her by the arm—to that place: “Shall we go to the park?”—“Wherever you wish, my lady, I am totally at your service” (an old-fashioned park by the river, and again, the stone steps, as though freshly washed, emerge from the mist after many years, the peeling balustrade, ah, so that’s where it comes from in my dreams!—and, oh dear God, this pulsating color, this languid, underwater lighting, cool bluish-green with walkways, trees, benches frozen in time, receding into the distance—my best poems, those most mine—are, therefore, also from here?)—“There was a birch bridge somewhere around here back then”—“It’s here now, too—let’s go, I’ll show you”—only he alone did not pretend to be appropriately moved, he didn’t pretend anything at all, he merely felt his way through her condition silently, focused and engrossed in his own thoughts, as he would do later at night feeling his way through to the cervix of her womb to exhale: hah, there it is!—they stood over the still pond covered in water plants the color of patina, “Look,” he nodded his head, “what Zen”—and suddenly painfully squeezed her shoulders: “Listen, I love you and your bridge. Can you do that?”—“Do what?”—“Can you say—I love you and your Zen? You can’t, because for you I’m just a person in the landscape: this landscape”—now that would have been the time to ask: and what am I for you? Because she really did let him enter her landscape—every one of her landscapes, consistently, one after the other, ending up finally in Pennsylvania, while he, setting his course after her (“My final love,” he boasted to his friends: they told her—while verses spurted from her like bubbles of air from the lungs of a drowning man:

—he passed through her territory like the Tatar hordes—with wild whistle and howl scorching out from almost every recess of her memory, from all of its main repositories, that life-giving, secret, shimmering, loving moisture that the soul gathers for itself year after year, for the dry years: subterranean wellsprings, a constant and inaudible slurp and suck, tenacious putting down of tiny, hairy roots into the dark depths of the preconscious, into a corridor, which suddenly opens—into the open space of a memory: a little girl stands swooning in the middle of an autumn park walkway, feeling the drumbeat of the distant horizon for the first time, feeling the world calling her, promising to show her the way, everything begins with that little girl and no matter what else happens to you in your life—it is complete, it holds together for as long as you believe that little girl, as long as you can access the call that she heard way back then—because all those so-called youthful ideals—are nonsense, ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs, “forget it,” they are brought in from the outside, that’s why only the very few, and rarely, are able to remain faithful to them, so hell with them, not a great loss, wipe up your snot, all you bearded sixties lefties, ravaged and crumpled by time, former hippies who never managed to get it together for your own bungalow in suburbia with a flower garden in the backyard and a two-car garage; and also all you who did get it together, shaved your beards and, unnoticed to yourselves, acquired a rich, glossy luster (like glaze on a ceramic mug) of a life stopped dead in its tracks in peace and prosperity; and all you Ukrainian rebels, once tossed into paddy wagons, pounded to pulp in cop stations and back alleys and now laureates of government prizes, your hands juicy and plump from too many state banquets and your so impressively broad backs corseted in Bloomingdale blazers—don’t dream of your wonderfully turbulent youth even should some losers try to shove it in your faces, all that is nonsense, I tell you this sincerely—it’s fallacy, delusion: truth is found only in childhood, only through it can we find the true measure of our lives, and if you have managed not to trample to death that little girl inside of you (or that little boy standing in the pasture with a stick in his hand, awestruck by the terrifying—because so beyond the human capacity to render—immensity of the multicolored symphony of fire of the setting sun)—then your life has not faltered, it has merely twisted and turned, no matter how difficult and painful the obstacles, in order to follow its own course, in other words, it’s been real, and I offer you my congratulations—and love, ladies and gentlemen, true love—it can always see that hidden little boy (or little girl) in the other: “take me” always means: “take me together with my childhood” (“Over here,” she pointed, her dry voice faltering, as she leaned over in the passenger seat like a jockey on a racehorse—“this is where you turn into the courtyard, this building here”—it was the dead of night, three in the morning or so—he drove in under the arch, circled the car around, turned off the engine, “Those windows right there, can you see, where the balcony is, on the third floor? That’s where we lived”—that’s the moment he fell on top of her and with a long-repressed groan attached himself to her lips, his hands moving busily under her sweater, a little rapacious, but it was what it was, “Let’s go to your place… To the studio…”—it’s there still, somewhere, that courtyard, that balcony, that archway, and the old chestnut tree from thirty years ago still up on the hill—it’s just that the girl who once walked out of that building into a fog wet and heavy with a mysterious hollow din—that girl is no longer there). Not true, you’re still alive, she tries to persuade herself, massaging all the crevices of her memory the whole time, like a skilled surgeon with a body just pulled out of the rubble: what if I press here, can you feel that? what about here?—in fleeting glimpses, twitches of remaining reflexes, some things come forward from time to time—for example, yesterday when she walked out into the street came a painful recollection—a long, lightening-speed incision into the distant past—of the smell of autumn leaves, doesn’t matter what you call these trees—sycamore, Canadian maple—the smell was the same as back home, moist, the aching bitter scent of still-living (living out its last days) vegetation: the sun in the high, thinning treetops, the beginning of the school year, the walk to school through a brilliantly gold-lit park, a small band of adolescents in billowing white T-shirts with strangely articulated quacking (English!) laughter rumbled past—their youthful eyelashes squinting against the sun, their mealy ripe wheat-colored bare necks and swinging arms disheveled by the brisk walk flashed by like behind a glass pane—a thought flashed through her head: none of you puppies have yet been struck by real pain—and who knows, maybe some of you will be lucky and it will pass you by?—and settled on this side of the glass, holding back the sobs pushing up against her throat: God, is it all really over—did it all come to pass, all that was promised at the dawn of life by that advancing rumbling call that had spilled into the universe; had it merely swept by—blowing in her hair, brushing against her lips, without reaching deep inside and extracting the most important?… (how fiercely he had roared: “I’ll rip you to pieces!”—scooping her up under the knees and planting her on top of him—and in the end not a single orgasm, unless this excruciating pain of being ripped apart alive is also a kind of orgasm?).

“Lord, which way now?”—that’s what was written under a sketch that she spied in his workbook, which he carelessly left out on his desk: at the very tip, on a craggy peak of a mountain a shaven-headed man with dangerously defined facial features (like those of his author) balanced himself on one foot (all his faces were deliberately vague, all in some imperceptible way interchangeable and similar to each other, dispersing like ripples from an original that had been dropped into the water—the self-portrait that he never drew)—the man was holding a ladder pointed to the sky with both hands and asking God which way now, but the sky was empty. “I’ve always wanted only one thing—to reach my full potential.” Amazing coincidence, brother-dear, me too, but what exactly does it mean—to reach your full potential? Once upon a time—still beloved, still gleaming under her loving gaze like a freshly restored canvas: his eyes hard flashing emeralds, that unbearable (oh, I could scream!) profile from an old coin, that silvery, or rather glittery aluminum spiky hair (“You little porcupine!”—she laughed, stroking this dry, noble, sculptured head as she passionately pressed it between her breasts)—pure metal, stone, obsidian!—sitting in her kitchen, arms dangling between his knees, and staring motionlessly at the pattern on the floor tiles (that baggy sweater in which his tight, knotty body simply drowned she also fell in love with) he told her about his father—the old man was getting old out in a village somewhere in Podillia, let’s go visit him together, will you come with me? (and right away she imagined him slamming the car door and proudly saying: “Dad, this is my woman!”—that colloquial “woman” instead of “wife” on the lips of Ukrainian men always jarred her but this time—this time she would not object, she would step out with a smile like from the cover of a woman’s magazine in her gorgeous loose red Liz Claiborne coat and her black gathered boots with terribly high heels, right into the rain-sodden black earth—or what do they have down there? clay? sands?—raising her collar, her manicured, thin, musical fingers with nail polish to match her coat, swinging her long silver Arabian-style dangling earrings: his proudly displayed trophy, total victory, with which a validated life renders an account before its progenitors)—his old man had spent his life in concentration camps, first German, then Soviet, “lapped slops from the trough”—he pronounced it like squeezing a pimple, with a certain predatory emphasis and sick pleasure at watching the puss-y core emerge—and finished his father’s story quietly without ever raising his eyes: “Slaves should not bear children.”—“How can you say that, how dare you, it’s a sin!”—“Because that stuff’s inherited.”—“The hell it is—what are you saying, that there’s no freedom inside you?”—“Wanting to break out is not yet freedom.” Break out!—those words shook her to the core, so easily pulled from her own vocabulary, like he’d known for a long time which page to open first—with those words he brought out into the open and thus confirmed, authenticated the infallibility of her tribal instinct that had switched on that first night when she recognized him: my darling, my dear, dear boy, come to me, come into me, I will embrace you from all sides, hide you with my body, let you be born anew, yes, together from today to eternity, obviously we’ll get married, never mind, we’re already married, and we’ll have a boy (“You have to give birth,” he’d said, catching his breath as he tore away from her lips like he could no longer bear to kiss standing up:—“there’s a lot of milk in you!”—in his apparently nightmarish marriage—though he, mercifully, spared her the details, making do with a painful gesture—dropping his face in his hands as though washing it away: “It was hell…”—he did have a son, all grown by now, a student, and rumor had it a super great kid, in general he was the type to only produce boys, this she could establish instantly, with lightning-quick penetrating insight from when she was still a girl—with every man, whether she simply met him or slept with him: who would it be with this man, a boy or a girl, whose sex was stronger?)—a blond baby with fluffy chick-down hair had appeared in her sleep several times already, after spinning around in space it headed, launched by raging power of her passion—toward him: he’ll be a sturdy, wonderful boy, pure as gold (and their whole multifarious tumultuous past, the books they read, his paintings, her piano lessons, God, how much has been learned, how much contemplated!—swirled into the air in a colorful vortex, coalesced, and instantly created in her mind—a nest, became a structure—rounded and complete with a living gravitational center: not bad at all to be born into a world like that, and we—we’ll be able to protect him, right? and anyway, how much of that Ukrainian intelligentsia is there among us anyway, pitiful, forcibly dragged back against the current of history—a tiny group and even that scattered: a dying species, almost-extinct clan, we should be breeding like crazy, and all the time, making love where and when we can, uniting in orgiastic insatiability into one, yelping and moaning mass of arms and legs, extending ourselves and populating this radioactive land anew!—our son, he, finally will be free of that legacy which we spent all of our youth settling accounts with—it’s been so painful, we may have actually paid it off by now)—the fierce, sharp sexual instinct of the breed, once apprehended in its full breadth and magnitude, consumed and propelled her at random, clearing everything in its path—who cares about a smashed-up car, what are distances, whether between cities or continents!—no matter about a fire with summonses and police reports (what a strange fire that was, the investigation wasn’t able to come up with anything, at a winter cottage where he had come up with a group of friends, he was lighting a fire in the fireplace in the wee hours of the morning, insisting on shish kebabs, he took off with his car, not yet smashed-up at that point, to the market, bought the meat—she remembered him carrying a heavy, bulging plastic shopping bag in front of him striped with rivulets of blood: the sleepless night had left her with a cloudy, uneasy feeling—a dry, bitter taste in her mouth, a strangely palpable sense of not having washed and having dirt under her nails, at the time she thought it was because of fatigue, too much booze and cigarettes; however, later, in normal condition conditions [well, not normal, but what you could call fantastic, with all the American consumer conveniences] it became clear—nope, that wasn’t the reason—the feeling was all the more odd because he was so obsessively clean, spending an hour each morning in the shower not counting the shave, she was even curious: what can a healthy man be doing in there for so long, masturbating? she never was able to smell his real scent: cigarettes—yes, deodorant—yes, but what does this man really smell like, the one you’ve been sharing table and bed with for two months, if you’ll pardon the elevated style?—even his sperm, it seems, had no smell, maybe because the second he came he would jump up and tear for the bathroom like a crazy man, hey, am I supposed to come with you, or what?

—that’s what she writes now, what good-for-nothing shit—the function of a sick organism, no more, but then—then, through her insomnious stupor she could see the bluish, starchy, light snow sparkle finely, frost glittered on the windowpanes; it was quiet, a great, almost universal silence, only leaves caught up in the fresh snow would rustle from time to time underfoot, there were streaks of pale sunlight across the hardwood floor when she walked into the hall where he crouched before the hearth setting the fire, edging the prepared logs to the center, he spoke up without turning his head: “Can you hear that?”—a capricious, splashing sound carried down from the attic—“the pipes have burst, we’ll have to call for a plumber”—she gently passed her hand over the back of his head, from the shoulders up, against the grain as if expecting to set off some sparks, what is she to do with this unease inside her, “what am I to do with you?” when suddenly—she barely had time to step out of the way—Lesyk flew into the room, coat askew, the film zoomed in for a close-up—the lens twirled like a ballerina: hysterically jubilant horror in his eyes, the mouth gashed in a scream: “Everybody get out! Fire!”—who’s on fire, what’s on fire, but they were already outside standing dumbly, heads upturned: the whole mansard rumbled, cloaked in a thick smoke underlit by a yellowish glow, it was blustering up to the sky, and it was already guffawing boisterously, something inside was building into a roar of laughter, extending itself to full height, its head crashing through the roof out to freedom, ho-ho-ho, at last!—and again she for a split second was surprised that she felt no fear, detached, as though none of this was happening to her—a young woman was awkwardly running over from the neighbors’, for some reason wrapping a black kerchief around her head as she ran, someone ran off to make a phone call, faces and figures leaped about in the corner of her eye, commotion picked up all around, and yet all she saw was his strange, somehow otherworldly calm, his profile raised up to the low silvery sky, hands in pockets, she remembered the lines from a letter she received from him recently: “I’m getting used to my present condition, but I need medicine. I’ll accept hospital, prison, lobotomy”—something was not right, and when after several hours, after the fire was put out, after all the screaming was finished, when the fire trucks were done with flashing their blue emergency lights over the snow but the police investigator had not yet arrived, and the group of friends, still in the throes of excited laughter, coughing, blowing of noses—the first shock was over, they had to unwind, didn’t they—began polishing off the rescued bottle of cognac, the one that was to go with the shish kebabs, in the annex, which seemed all the more cozy after all that had transpired—they almost felt like family, well, folks, that was really something, wasn’t it, pour me a little more, who wants some lemon, ah, heaven, that hit the spot, somebody get me a cigarette—and he suddenly went rummaging through the bag and pulled out a bunch of fireworks: bought them at the market that morning, he confessed, wanted to put on a little show—an explosion of nervous laughter shook the annex, even the panes rattled: well, well, well, you certainly did that—how did you pull it off? just don’t think of showing those to the inspector, you hear?—he folded his wrinkles into a smile and turned to her, raising baggy eyelids with a quick dagger flash: “Maybe now you’ll have something to remember me by”—earlier that morning, before the fire, she told him she was leaving for the States. The investigation found nothing, absolutely nothing—the fire had burst into the building out of nowhere, who? what let it in?—it burst in and proceeded to chase her for the next nine months, even all over the American expanses, in the kitchen, especially when she would come out to smoke late at night, she would pick up a distinct sulfuric scent every once in a while—was that gas leaking? skillets, with a cobra’s hiss, would spit boiling oil at her legs, the burns healed slowly, and after he arrived they simply opened up like stigmata, God forgive me—he personally sealed up the blisters on her calves with a thin coat of ground eggshells: “Sit still for a while until it dries”—and she did sit still in front of the television set, humbly laying out on the “coffee table” her unevenly seared raw sausages, now completely devoid of any erotic charm—and finally, the last night before they were to, thank God, move out of that apartment which had been transformed during the time of their habitation into a furious box of thickly condensed, almost visible dark-brown cloud of torpor—where they were going it wasn’t clear, into a motel for now, as long as there’s some kind of a change—that time, as if to say good-bye, the fire returned in its original form: she was alone preparing dinner in the kitchen with the usual squeeze of anxiety growing into nausea as she waited for his return from the studio, scrubbing something with her back to the stove, and suddenly she turned around as if someone pushed her—the electric burner under her skillet was ablaze, fire almost up to the ceiling, and that same malicious laughter was coming alive within it, but this time she was facing it alone: the “fire alarm” was silent for some reason, like it was paralyzed, but she thought about that only later, in the first moments she automatically, without opening up her clenched fists—in the left one she later discovered some clutched onion peels—set to beating down the fire with the towel she had grabbed from somewhere—the hungry fire bounced with joy as though that’s what it had been waiting for, the smoldering towel in her hand seemed to be melting like molten metal, curling swiftly, embers flickering along its blackened edges, until she remembered to start throwing water—one quart, another, a third—and it hissed, spreading in all directions with an acrid stench, she stood in the middle of the kitchen with the charred rag in her lowered hands: no, God, I can’t take this, I can’t take this anymore!—and so her prophetic dream came true—an old dream from a year ago, visited upon her long before they met: a sapling at the crossroads, trembling and rustling, someone invisible is setting a bonfire below, the strike of a match, and oh—in a flash!—the sapling is consumed by fire which goes out as soon as it starts, as if it only meant to strip its crown of leaves, and so in the place where a moment earlier the sapling glittered with shades of light green against the blue sky there now protrudes a bitter, blackened skeleton. On the occasion of which, girlfriend, allow me to congratulate you.

—first came this poem, also unfinished—and couldn’t you finish it, see it through to the end—was it that hard?—then the dream, then—everything that came after. So knock yourself out now, dig deep, layer after layer, you pitiful, pitiful archeologine—just don’t you dare feel sorry for yourself, because nothing weakens you like self-pity). Who can tell us—poems, do they only predict or do they, God help us, construct our future for us—summoning from the teeming multitude of possibilities within it that one, which they name? And if this is really so—if we, blind maniacs, program our own lives in advance, pleased as punch at how cleverly we’ve written it all down!—and thus make our lives what they are, then this is a truly frightening gift, Lord, like a bomb in the hands of a five-year-old—and how does one pray to be released?

Who (what) writes through us?

Lord, I’m scared. I’ve never truly been scared before—not of external threats (those are nothing, there’s always a way out), I’m afraid of myself. I’m afraid to trust my own gift. I no longer believe that it is—in Your hand.

Look down upon me. Please.

In the evenings she escapes to the library—mainly so that she doesn’t stay alone in the house, where despair waits for her in the gathering twilight in order to throw a black sack over her head—but the library can’t save her: none of those more or less well-written other lives, bound in folios with worn spines, that stretch on and on, row after row, from floor to ceiling on multi-storied shelving while she accrues mileage walking up and down in search of the volume that she’s decided she must read—like in the universal cemetery (gray sky, a limitless field out to the horizon of identical gray headstones, and even though you know that behind each there is a person hiding ready to hop out the minute you call him, donning a perfectly living and full-bodied shape, the mere astronomical quantity obliterates any sense in choosing one of them: how many of them, after all, will you be able to resurrect during the course of your life, and how many of these resurrected and read entities have meant anything for you? The most you can do—and that is the maximum!—is to join their monotonous ranks with yet another not particularly noteworthy slim volume, and the “date due” slips glued on the inside covers indifferently demonstrate the absurdity of this whole enterprise: according to them, in twenty years you turn out to be the fifth person at Harvard to borrow Briefing for a Descent into Hell by Doris Lessing—a novel that is mentioned in all literary handbooks and truly deserves it—and the second to fancy the Polish edition of Milosz’s work—whereas most of those recounted lives simply gather dust, like uncollected letters in the numbered pigeon holes of the “general delivery” window at the post office)—not one of those lives has any relevance to hers, not one answers the question that she cannot seem to avoid no matter which way she looks at it, no matter which direction her pathetic hopes turn in search of an excuse: why not now? immediately? why wait?

Beautiful children, we were to have beautiful children, an elite breed. Better not to recall that, right? Well, no, it doesn’t seem to even hurt anymore: you remember—but with your thoughts, not your feelings (hard to say which is worse!). What’s true is true, in slavery the nation degenerates—the crowds that fill Kyiv buses, all those stooped men with drawn, rumpled faces on bowed legs, the women buried under walrus-like gyration of raw-meat dough, young guys with retarded laughter and wolfish bite that bust in without regard to who’s ahead of them (if you don’t step aside—they’ll knock you off your feet and not look back), and the babes with the crudely painted masks over their skin (remove the makeup—and all you’ll find is a naked eggshell surface like in a De Chirico painting) and a persistent aura of some kind of clammy underbathedness—they’re like objects made without love, any which way just to get it over with: had to meet the quota at the end of the quarter, or needed to produce a child to get on the housing list, or simply fucked somewhere in the alleyway or, after some heavy boozing, in a train corridor (she actually rode one of those trains once, from Kyiv to Warsaw, going to a poetry festival—just imagine!—a fierce horde of contrabandists heaving bags, a third-class sleeper car, six open berths per compartment, baggage piled up to the ceiling—commodities, that’s how they called them, by their scientific name in reverence to our own Karly Marx—the stench of the toilet, the door from the sleeper car to the front corridor clung to one hinge, swinging open occasionally to the clatter beyond with a slow, slow creak, like the pain of grinding teeth, the accustomed yet still disgusted expression of the clean-shaven puppy mug of the Polish customs officer who collects—a bottle of vodka from each occupant of the przedział, and that’s not bad at all, the matrons who have just shed a few years from joy rush to assure her as they smooth out their outer garments—phew! we got through!—and pull, from their seemingly bottomless sweatpants, two more miraculously spared bottles of hooch, each of which will go for ten bucks in Chełm: you should see what happened to us at the Yahodyn crossing once, where they told us—we’ll take a woman for every bus, say yes and we’ve got a deal!—A-and what, did you do it?—Well, what else could we do?—at night she lay in the top berth listening to the cacophony of unevenly pitched snoring, painfully in love with her misfortunate people, and the people—they heard her and responded: a massive body loomed in the hushed darkness, a waft of heavy, aroused breathing against her face: “Mommy… baby… Cum’ere, you hear me? Hey, you hear me?”—getting more and more heated as he went—“Wat’s wrong? Let’s go pokey-pokey, huh?” an arm plunged under the blanket—“how about I play wit’ your boobies, eh?”—she shot up, hollering in a well-rehearsed bass: “Back off, sir, please!”—the bitches on the neighboring berths played dead with fear—fear for their commodities, perhaps?—only a tiny granny by the doorway spoke up in a trembling voice: “Leave the girl alone, why are you bothering her?” “Mammashaa!”—he turned and growled—“Mind your own bizness!”—he did heave himself back, though, the mood had been spoiled: he had released some of his dangerously-building aggression, and that’s when she started hollering loud enough to wake the whole train car; and he also, no longer lowering his tone or backing down, roared: “Dontcha worry, cunt, I’ll find’ya and get’ya! I’ll get’ya so bad, it’ll be tits up for you in Chełm, you hear me?”—there was a stopover in Chełm and she ran, her coat under her arm, through all the train cars to the very back, the train conductor, a cachectic young woman with a blanched complexion shook her head with that old-lady Mother-dolorosa look—the things that go on in trains these days, God help us—and let her out the emergency exit—there was no step stool, she had to jump, first throwing down her bags—into the stinging moisture of the early-morning fog, straight into the gravel between the rails, drawing blood as she scraped her palm against it—and straight into the hands of furious Polish cop who’d been racing alongside the train like a greyhound—there’s no exit here, ma’am, show me your documents—she practically threw herself on his chest, hugging him like a brother). Only much later, in fuzzy erotic fantasies (when she was getting divorced from her husband her hungry, lively, corporal imagination was released first—that’s when that slippery-slope slide began—whereas her childlike, or rather, maidenly, barely twenty-year-old, staring-out-into-the-world-with-curiosity readiness for new love switched on only later, finalizing the separation)—returning in her mind back to that night in the third-class sleeper and picking it apart, she tried to play that unrecorded clip: how might have things played out, how and what is it that those people do—out in the passageway between train cars, wheels clanging, back pressed to the railing, groaning, convulsing together with it? or maybe in the bathroom, astride the toilet seat with ankle-deep runny mud smeared all around?—what do they feel at that moment, what do their women feel—the sensual luxury of humiliation, the perverse thrill of momentary descent to the animal kingdom, or, perhaps, and this is far worse, they feel nothing at all? but maybe, hell knows, maybe this really is healthy sexuality in its purest form, no complexes, no paralysis caused by civilization and all its twisted perversions—only, damn it, why do they end up having such ugly children, dwarfed, with faces of tiny adults, expressions set, after about age three of four, like cooled plastic in molds of obtuseness and spite? Once, and not all that long ago, maybe only three or four generations, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to assure you that we were different, and the evidence can be clearly shown on the screen—if we can find a screen and projector somewhere in the auditorium—at least a few images—yellowed, pale photographs of those times showing peasant families frozen in unnatural, stiff poses before the camera: father and mother at the center with hands folded in their laps like schoolchildren, no evidence of birth control whatsoever, and above them towers a whole forest of personages—lads like oaks, one sturdier than the next, a feast for the eyes, uniform gazes sternly aimed at the lens from under their heavy brows, their thick locks of hair painstakingly slicked back, their ox-like necks bursting out of the tightly buttoned collars of their dress shirts; the youngest, who seems to be burning a hole in the photo with his fiery glance, is, of course, still in his high-school uniform and cap, this would have cost a calf every year: but God willing, he’ll get an education, be somebody, because he was such a smart, quick little thing even as a tot—later they perished in all the national battles: Kruty, Brody, and wherever else, those who were to make up our elite—the girls usually posed in national dress: the jangling—you can hear it by just looking at it—heaviness of earrings, coral necklaces, braids and ribbons cast over shoulders, the shimmer of densely embroidered upper sleeves, the rough cut of their skirts and vests does not conceal the luxuriant healthy bodies, ready to give birth; I, however, would like to draw particular attention to the faces, ladies and gentlemen, these beautiful, expressive faces which must have drawn a fair deal of input not only from God’s carvers but also from the many years of lives spent in toil, lives which—if only you don’t insist on constantly ravaging them in search of their sense and meaning, as we fools so often do, and accept them as they are given, like good and bad weather—gradually smooth away from your face all the secondary layers, baring the lean purity of the original—could it be God’s?—sculpture: everything superfluous is tucked in, cleaned up, the foreheads fill out, jaws become more determined, and—the eyes, eyes, eyes shine ever-deeper, the black earth has risen, as the poet wrote, and its glance from time’s distance—is frightful and scrutinizing—what happened to all of them afterward, did they all really die out in the 1933 Famine? Did they perish in the camps, in the NKVD holding cells, or did they simply work themselves to extinction on the collective farms? Good God, we used to be a good-looking people, ladies and gentlemen, open faces, strong, of good stature, self-willed, and firmly rooted in the ground from which many have tried long and hard to rip us out with the flesh until they finally succeeded, and we have flown off, scattered over all the expanses liked plucked feathers from the guts of pillows ripped apart by bayonets, pillows lovingly harbored in hope chests in days of old—for we were always waiting for our big wedding, embroidering songs for ourselves, cross-stitched, word after word, and so throughout our entire little history—well here we are, embroidered. Slavery degenerates a nation, I tell you this yet again, I’m gnawing on this thought until it has no more taste, just so that it would stop gnawing me, like bad weather, like monthly pain in an empty womb—survival, as soon as it takes the place of living, turns into degeneration, that’s right, my Jewish brothers, my dear Ashkenazi, in case any of you happen to be tucked away in this audience by chance—this glass is raised to you, too: you can cast your contemptuous guffaws at the Sabras—dullards, so to speak, hicks, or whatever you call them there—but I will never forget the envious, up-and-down gape of a Kyiv colleague who first saw them, he himself was a small-built, lively demisang with narrow, feminine, raised and tucked-in little shoulders which imperceptibly gave his side view the profile of a hunchback—we traipsed all over Jerusalem together, passing by the hundred-and-umpteenth patrol unit, and the poor guy—couldn’t help himself, gave in: sixty years old, still from Brezhnev’s time, a professor, and a boy who greedily glues himself to a hole in the fence to watch the military parade, a tiny hunched pillar, and as the patrol unit marched off a secret whisper called out something buried even deeper than all the Soviet demisang complexes: “God, they’re gorgeous!”—and those soldiers truly were a sight, like they were deliberately selected—mythological Titans accidentally dressed in camouflage uniforms with automatic rifles over their shoulders, broad mountain-plateau shoulders, movable tree-trunk thighs, strong, bluish teeth glowing against olive tans, as though earth itself came to life and stood up to stride, ah what men, a joy to look at!—in Eastern Europe go try to find yourself such luxurious Semitic giants—it was as if there, among dry hills burnt to ochre, Biblical history proceeds uninterrupted; at any rate these men—in uniform and hoisting automatic rifles who combed the Arab and Christian quarters, moving in the sunlight with the lazy grace of sated predators—could have been the descendants of Abraham and Jacob, whereas my professor—if only because with those little shoulders, pulled in either from cold sensitivity or merely apologetically (cover up, hide, clear your throat obsequiously, and blend with the furniture), he subverted the veracity of the Old Testament: you can’t wrestle angels with shoulders like that, you can’t do much of anything at all except run the tightrope, which is what he did his whole life, as did millions of Ashkenazi, sinking deeper and deeper into their chest cavities with every generation, and then the tightrope snapped, like in that ditty, and everything came crashing down, oh my God, did it ever! Nonetheless, they do still have those hills, burnt to a yellow ochre, where history goes on, but where is our Jerusalem, can somebody please tell me, and where do we look for it?

Out there in Jerusalem, going from temple to temple, she pleaded with God to give her strength—no more than that: the year had turned out to be difficult, lonely (her marriage, which had been decaying slowly for a while, fogging up her soul like a window in a room full of heavy breathing, finally fell apart), but mainly—homeless, full of fitful jumps from one temporary shelter to another, just so she wouldn’t have to remain in the tiny flat with her mother: staying with her had made her hate her own body, its stubborn, insurmountable materiality—it had to, no matter what you did, fill up a certain cubic measurement of space—at nights she dreamed of herself as a man—a tall, long-haired, swarthy male Mowgli who drags an old witch with bluish-gray, disheveled hair into bed and can’t have sex with her!—American psychoanalysts would have a ball with that one if someone were to let them know about it!—and that’s when it began to appear—in tiny flashes and jerks, dashing out and running for cover again—a feeling of all-out complete exposure to all forces: have you come for good or for evil? In her mind she assured herself, clenching her teeth: I don’t care if it’s worse, as long as it’s a change!—and her poems promised:

There you go—shit, what else can you say here… But in Jerusalem there seemed to be a bit of relief, after all, the symposium turned out to be kind of interesting, so she was able to swallow fairly easily that bone of personal professional exhibitionism forcibly inserted into her throat: each time demonstrating yet again to grinning Western intellectuals that, see, Ukrainians also speak sentences with subordinate clauses; it’s just that when she was sitting at a table on the open terrace and blissfully stretching her legs during a break between sessions, imbibing sips of coffee together with conversation—they were arguing about Dontsov, please try to understand, folks, that was not anti-Semitism—it was the roar of a wounded beast: let us go, let us live!—and, with a concealed smile, examining her interlocutors through the golden slivers of her squinted lashes, she suddenly heard a sharp, powerful yowl: from out of nowhere a huge anthracite-black cat had appeared on the terrace and proceeded to walk among the tables, tail held high to general laughter and multilingual exclamations, still ripping the air with unrestrained shrieking—a cold shiver crept under her skin: what the hell kind of apparition is this now?—but the cat, bastard, kept heading straight toward their group and, arching its back, jumped straight into her lap, curled into a warm heavy ball and huddled quietly, twitching its perked ears and switching into a deep purr: it found what it was looking for. Everyone had a good laugh then; with unconscious fear, she carefully petted the beast as if to appease it—the tom bared its hard, glassy eyeballs, golden with deep black slits for pupils, like from the bottoms of inverted candles; in her mind she gasped: oh-oh-oh!—you were caught, sweetness, that’s when you were really caught—exactly half a year earlier, half a year before everything was swept up in a deafening whirl and carried you off, not giving you a chance to catch your bearings: and you thought of yourself as some kind of rescuer, a Myrrh-bearing Mary, yes? Well, you got it—right where you wanted it, smack into that yellow-lit rectangle with planks across the chest and abdomen, so don’t go whining now—he did, when all’s said and done, love you, that man. No, it was something else that wanted to love you through that man: a cat in your lap, a cat in your bosom, a flash of eyes and claws, while I, prostrate, am playing the fiddle and screaming: you’re hurting me, my love, you’re hurting me, do you hear me?

Explain one thing to me. Explain it, because I just don’t seem to get it. Do you really think that if you have a hard-on and you don’t come right away this makes you a prince and the woman must kick her legs in the air and squeal with delight every time you deign to touch her—in the middle of the night, after you’ve folded up your little pictures so very neatly and I’m in the grip of my first dream? Although, pretty soon after his arrival she stopped having dreams—or more precisely, she stopped remembering them: some kind of clumps of generally dull, brownish or asphalt-gray tones merged in a cloudy swirl, but not a single plotline emerged into daytime consciousness, like a huge lid had fallen down to divide it from the consciousness of the night—the simple awareness of his lying beside her shut down all channels of connection. Perhaps for the first time in her life she found herself imprisoned in the cage of naked reality—the world became opaque, the second bottom—the flickering, underwater net of secret meanings, which up until now had always shone through in her dreams and poems—switched off and extinguished itself with a click; there were now no more dreams and, consequently, no more poems either: she lost her bearings as though she had lost one of her senses, went deaf or blind. Her body, shattered by night, always felt heavy and awkward, somehow bloated inside, like she really was pregnant—a bag of meat from the market dripping blood, what’s going on, she wondered dully, why am I always feeling so bad—and would fall asleep on his arm like she fainted, while he happily mumbled at her ear: “Hmm, it seems that you’re capable of being an even very ‘delightful babe’—just that you’ve to get this sex thing straightened out.”—“Sex,” she would murmur like a teacher, already half-asleep: her brain still being the last thing to switch off—“is only a sign of deeper disagreements.”—“I doubt it,” he’d cut her off and close the subject. So it seems like you don’t know all that much about this business, my pet—notwithstanding all your extolled experience, who would have thought? Talking about it, to simply reach mutual understanding was impossible—he’d get angry right away, jump into a defensive posture; whereas stretching out her arms to him during the day would evoke in her a lighting-quick queasy feeling of losing balance—like in an elevator that comes to a sudden stop, or when you’re rushing alone against the crowd that has just poured out at the trolley stop—it turned out he “didn’t like to be pawed,” indeed this aversion to intimate contact was plain unhealthy (“Aren’t you ashamed of pawing men this way?” he would sneer, squinting one eye over the pillow)—by that time she was willing to wail, not just talk—in an endless 24/7 monologue (the way undigested food propels itself out of the digestive tract from both ends), to shake him by the shoulders, to shout loud enough for him to hear, what is with you, you jackass—and the jackass, incidentally, arrived with the intention of starting a family, no kidding, just picked up and showed up in whatever he was wearing at the time, that’s love for you!—and kept reproaching her that while he’s hanging out here with her, they’re probably stealing bricks form his construction site back home, “So you what,” she would place her fists on her hips: a witch, a bitch from the prison zone, she had no idea she could be like this—“you’d like me to pay you for the inconvenience?”—ah shit, how is this possible that two not entirely stupid people, who supposedly love each other, right? who overcame so many obstacles in order to be together, what he had to go through to get the visa alone, after all the car crashes and broken ribs, what she went through that winter in Cambridge—that they should be incapable of reaching even an e-le-men-ta-ry understanding—it’s mind-boggling! And—it was probably in such moments that his wife used to throw those knives at him, like against a brick wall, something he once admitted reluctantly—cute, a family sport of the Ukrainian intelligentsia, how about that: and so what happened? she was itching to ask, did she miss? Instead she tried to be rational: listen, I’m not a puppet on a string, am I now, why are you treating me this way—he’d snarl back, bent over the desk and glaring from under his brow, like he was releasing smoke rings of his rage: “It’s just that many things inside me have been killed!” Thank you, dear, it seems that from now on I’ll be able to say the same. In other words, it’s contagious, this disease of the spirit? In other words, it’s now better for me, too—to avoid people, better not to get close to anyone? You have taught my body to castrate the perpetrator: all of my feminine strength, accumulated for generations, which has thus far been directed toward the light (the most precious memory of previous loves is the sun against a dark sky: that’s how it’s seen in outer space, it’s from there that my fragile little vessel has filled itself to the brim with streaming joy), with you has turned itself inside out, black lining outward, has become destructive—death-bearing, if we don’t mince words about it and put it plainly.

Because, I am guilty after all, because my love stayed behind in Cambridge, it melted in the spring together with the deep snows, and by the summer, by the time of your arrival, only the scar remained—and hope, hope that you could bring it back to life. I should have figured this out sooner: bringing things back to life is not your métier.

An unexpected call from home—from a girlfriend who went into business about a year ago and the only one of all my Kyiv friends and acquaintances who can afford to call the States: “Are you sitting down, are you able to handle some really terrible news?” she asks. “Like what?” There is a short pause in the receiver and then a choked voice: “Darka’s dead.” One second and my legs feel like they’ve just been blasted with hot ash and go numb, and right after that my whole body loses feeling, like anesthesia: No! (But somewhere in the back of my mind buzzes a nasty thought, like an escaped insect on a windowpane: lucky dog, her suffering’s over—because she did suffer really a lot, beautiful, smart, she looked so good in those colorful peasant kerchiefs she would tie back, with tassels over the shoulders of her sheepskin coat—rosy cheeks, high cheekbones, like a dark-red winter apple, a sharp, mouse-like nose, heart-shaped lips, a genuine artifact of folklore, a living illustration to Gogol’s “Christmas Eve,” and she had a great sense of humor, also Gogolian, classic Ukrainian: the type where you’re spinning your tale deadly serious and the audience is on the floor laughing—and yet her whole youth was one of suffering—with her stupid mother who screwed up both her husband and her kids, with her asshole men: her first husband left her as soon as he graduated, as soon as he was assigned to a job in the capital, which was the reason, it turned out, that he married her in the first place; her second marriage ended in a terminated pregnancy and after that there was no end to gynecological problems, straight downhill; and with her third man, mushy as Wonder Bread and always unemployed, she had to work for two while he looked after the kid, at least he did that much—she tutored all the private students she could get, accepted translations, hopped around from one rental unit to another the way we all did, pulling her family behind her on her back, completed her dissertation, and wonder of wonders finally got a job in some newly established Ukrainian-American foundation, got on her feet about three months ago, they were driving back from Boryspil airport—a stone-drunk Lada toward them in their lane, head-on collision: four people, everybody in the car, dead on the spot, good-bye Charlie, and only a high, thin clear voice laments—tearlessly!—like a soundtrack to a film: “oh had I known I’d be dying, I’d have asked you to cut down the sycamore, to build a casket of four sides strong, so it would stand there thirty-four years long, it stood there, it stood there, and began to rot, and the casket turned to the girl and began to talk: either burn me up, or chop me up, either chop me up—or give the body up…”) Standing in the middle of the kitchen with the receiver in my hand, holding on to Sana’s voice asking for the tenth time what will happen to Talia now, what will happen—Talia’s only five, high cheekbones, looks a lot like her mother, nice-looking except for her father’s potato nose, one time when she was still an infant she had struck you with her lost, wavering, questioning, watery look in her eye, which seemed to be searching for something to fix itself to—Darka was changing her diaper, and suddenly this poem appeared, whispered by an invisible wind:

—standing this way she distinctly hears that other, soundtrack voice—not Darka’s, although Darka was a good singer and Ukrainian folk-songs she did particularly well, who knows where she got that natural, chesty, folk intonation—a deep, precipitous wellspring—you can’t fake that if you don’t have it, even the most drunken crowd would melt, curling back in their chairs like tripe, just as soon as Darka took a deep puff of her cigarette—tilting her brow: “nicotine-vitamine”—and began to sing in that incredibly clear voice, her face would clear up with a gentle sadness, flower petals fell to the ground, horses stood quietly, ears perked, boats swayed from side to side in the waves at the shore, splish-splash, splish-splash, splish-splash, grass rustled under someone’s stealthy steps, and the water carried away willow leaves; and everything else, all over the world, was carried away by water, some kind of nameless people populated this world, they yearned for something, they loved and they suffered, and only the scattered wet traces of voices (wails?) were left in their wake—you can only drink from those tiny tracks, you can only feel: that your own suffering, illuminated for an instant by a late, setting ray of meaning—is not the only one out there, not the first nor the last, and suddenly she remembers that in the song with the casket it actually stood empty for twenty-four rather than thirty-four years: that woman, who sang about her death in such high and piercing tones (I’d lay down my husband, but I love him so, I’d lay down myself, but my child is small: lie down, my dear wife, your child will be fine, people will help out…) was in fact a lot younger than us, still a kid—and you (that’s Sana railing at me now), have you gone mad out there, you idiot, making a huge tragedy out of a bad fuck—well, if you put it that way, then it’s not really a tragedy, everything depends on how you tell the story, except that Sana doesn’t know, and nobody knows what Darka told you shortly before you left—that was perhaps the first time she really opened up to you even though you’d known each other since college, a year earlier Darka’s father had died—he was an award-winning musician, a deputy, and in his day practically a member of the Communist Party Central Committee, although, it’s true, even he got into a little trouble for “nationalism,” so he started playing at state concerts, while his wife, who had gotten used to a comfortable life, would nag him to death if ever he tried to give a toast at official banquets in Ukrainian—even if uttered thickly and stupidly, playing the jester with his “howdy-doody” wordplays, the Central Committee official representative—a concrete slab in a gray suit—sat disapprovingly silent: not a single muscle moved on his impenetrable, seemingly waterlogged, face, ai-ai-yai, we’re in trouble now, “and you were gonna go on that trip to Canada,” the wife yelped, taking off her coat in the hall while a pregnant Darka, dying from the toxicity, was grinding up some coffee in the kitchen for her father—“you use that head of yours for thinking, ever?”—and her old man, after walking into the kitchen and lighting up a cigarette (first breaking a few matches), told his daughter roughly (also, like his wife, in Russian): “I know, I’m merely a sociopolitical buffoon,” and this phrase stayed with her always, a hammered-in nail—she buried him at the exclusive Baikove cemetery, obituaries in all the papers, and the orchestra played, according to the wishes of the deceased, the Cossack farewell—“the stallion bowed his head,” the late child, Darka was a late child, by the time she was born her father was forty, a good-looking, mature man at the height of his fame, how else could you hang on to him if not with another child?—“I’ve just now, myself a woman, understood my mother,” Darka told you with pain in her eyes, “I just got it—I’m the one who shows up at the end of the banquet and pays the bill”—that night she didn’t sing and the two of you huddled at the end of the table and you listened, chilled to the marrow by the blast of brutal courage with which she confronted life, and equally by the bone-piercing draft of at-once established sisterhood: we pay, girls, we do, we pay for everything, down to the last penny!—then we were flagging down a cab, cramming inside like sardines, crackling the thick cellophane of our flower bouquets: it was somebody’s birthday, maybe even Sana’s—someone was trying to squeeze in between the seats, somebody in an awkward fur coat was squeezing onto someone’s lap, giddy-up!—as the first Soviet cosmonaut apparently said—and—you were off, in flight, two sisters, two doves: you across the ocean, and Darka—further still, a milk-white shadow setting out from a pile of crushed metal and on to one of the most distant stars—late child, brought into the world by a mother who wanted to hang on to her husband, and once there was no one to hang on to—life was exhausted, God opened his right hand and released the aching soul: peace be with you, tormented one, go and rest.

Darka, dear. Darka, can you hear me?

It was not your fault that you were called into this world by something other than love. Pray, wherever you are out there, for all of us—we still have to go on living.

Waking up in the morning (what for?), she lies on her stomach for a long time: the new day pours into her mind with a hail of exhausting and senseless obligations—order Xeroxes for her students, run off another term test on the departmental copier, stop off at the bank, the drugstore—she’s run out of vitamins, and it wouldn’t hurt to get some more panty hose, answer two letters, call the travel agency, oh God!—her ticket to New York, the one that was to be mailed to her, has somehow gotten lost, although, if you think about it, she needs New York now like a hole in the head—so she’ll get herself out on stage, so she’ll read in English the two or so poems that were translated with such huge effort, so she’ll drink a glass of wine standing up and swallow down a few shrimp dipped in tomato sauce, grin at two or three neatly ironed literary agents and some gentlemen from the PEN Club, perhaps will pop in for an hour or two to her once-beloved museums (“The fuck I need those museums for,” he hollered happily into the phone calling her in Cambridge, still from Ukraine, “the only thing I need to see in all of that America there is one dame!”—at the time it seemed like bravado: how can you consciously refuse something, cut off your life at the stump, when it’s so immeasurably interesting!—but now, look how she herself has lost all taste for exploration, her former insatiable, all-absorbing desire to discover something new—holy shit, am I dead already or what?… The first conversation they had on the subject turned out kind of stupid: “I’m going to America—will you go with me?”—“Sure,” he was laughing, “by car, as long as the diesel lasts.”—“I’m serious.”—“What will I do there?” You’ll paint, you dork, you’ll see the Metropolitan, and the Museum of Modern Art, and the Art Institute in Chicago, the mirrored octahedrons, the cosmic, gigantic stalagmites that gather on the horizon as you drive up to the city, the arched breathing of the bridges and viaducts over the expressways, space from a fantasy film or a dream, terrifying and endless, there’s no stopping it, the open expanse, prairies without the cowboys, a light taste of madness, which flickers among the nighttime flashes of billboards: the mind, frightened of its own creation, because this civilization is entirely man-made and that’s why you’ve got the somnambulant’s aching longing of the saxophone, poured like the light of the moon over the desert, the reeling [black man drunk in the middle of the sidewalk] voice of a jazz-club singer, which pulls your soul out of your body with each languorous twist: “I’m all alone in this big city—Wilson, buddy, have some pity,” cigarette smoke undulating in the duskiness over the bar, over the billiard tables and the sound of cue sticks striking the balls, we are all alone here, free and alone, it’s wonderful—to build your life on your own, it’s frightening—to build your life on your own, you’ll see up close the faces of all the races brought together, the hues and tints—from melted chocolate [how shamelessly mauve are the shells of lips in the nakedness of their lining, how beastlike the distension of the nooks of nostrils!] to Asian chimera greenish tint—yellow moon, lemon, unripe avocado—all this is mixed in one crucible, what a wild film, deafening to the eyes, there’s no stopping it, colorful tents on the street like at a county fair, the chrysolite luster of display windows in broad daylight, and over all of that, on the billboards—bright caramel, smiling, several-meter-high faces of killed children: victims of “drunk driving,” little angels of this whole earthly valley of tears rising up to heaven, O Davey, O Kevin, O Mary Jane, where will we all be tomorrow?—you’ll see the sun setting over the Atlantic from the airplane window: it sinks rapidly, before your eyes, casting a bright-red path along the horizon, and snows of cloud gloam into limestone, into the rock of dark veins of ravines and then begin to break up, like ice on a river, into gray torsos of cooled steel-blue melted patches; only in the spot where the sun has sunk can you still make out a sharply defined island of glowing embers, but the ocean fog is already rolling in from all directions and the airplane enters the night, passing through it from end to end in about an hour, and now once again you see a little gray out the window, this time dawning—you will feel the planet breathing—like the pulsing soft crown of a newborn infant, it’s so close to God up there in the sky, because as we lift off and break out of our comfortable burrows, we open up to him the same way as when we are born or die—and you will break out, I believe it, I know it!—you will break out of the blind alley through which, like a stubborn fool, you persist in crawling toward your hospital-prison-lobotomy [and what the fuck is this self-indulgence anyway, boys—is despair not too great a luxury for Ukrainians who, after all, were granted for the first time this century a realistic chance of leading a full life?…], you will paint your greatest paintings, and fame—real fame, the kind that no Ukrainian has yet achieved save perhaps Archipenko—will lead you—perhaps the first among us—into the blinding light of the projector of history, because you are worth more than their Shemiankin or even Neizvestnyi, because you truly are “such a damned good painter,” and it is you who deserve to have your own gallery in Soho, it must be out there somewhere waiting for you while you’re ruining your eyes every night there in your miserable little studio with no running water, where plaster from the ceiling falls on your just-made sculptures, I am so sick of this classic national defeatism—can’t take any more!—we’ll hustle about, we’ll search around asking for the “right people,” they’ll be able to see your stuff, this is just the right time, after all, there is a “Ukraine,” such as it is, art managers are beginning to look for new names, everything will be great, we’ll do it, God, I want so much for us to finally see something, for someone to finally hear us, and how much effort I’ve put into this business—effort down the drain, I can’t bear to think of it! dragging out West the most select books and slides from home, sticking them under people’s noses, pretending with smoke-and-mirrors around me that there’s some kind of illusory context to all this, waving my arms around all the lecterns—the stunned director of the Kennan Institute assured me afterward in a thank-you letter that “if the fate of Ukrainian literature is in the hands of people like yourself, one need not fear for its future”—not suspecting, of course, that the only thing in my hands is perhaps the handrail on a bus, and only if they push me away from that as well—it’s okay, bro, no worries, we’ll break out, I’ll pull, drag you out on my back, I’ll have enough strength for all of it: bring half of Ukraine to its feet, bring half of America over to Ukraine to take a look [and she really did pass over their continent like some kind of Pied Piper: students from her classes would sign up for the Peace Corps practically en masse—asking for “Ukraine,” colleagues from American universities began studying Ukrainian, flywheels of audacious projects would start up—joint publications, symposia, translated anthologies, good God, how many minds did she pollute!]—and to all of her inspired exhortations he would only give a wry smile: well-well, “We’ll see”; that “we’ll see” of his with time began to sound like a password for hopelessness, at first she would discount such lack of faith as a sign of provincial insecurity: it’s not for folks like us—“No, I would still like to hear you explain to me, how you could just—disappear like that, without a word, without a sign?” he’d bristle, eyes open wide: “I’m telling you, I didn’t believe I’d ever be coming here!”—well, so now you’ve come, and what did you get out of it, since you already knew so well in advance that “the fuck you needed all this for”? He brought that thick album with his drawings and he used it for all his paintings here: all those same little men with shaved heads and sharp features carrying on their spears, over hills through an orange desert, either moon-green large-eyed fish, or a gigantic forefinger of the left hand [why left?], or an embroidered banner fluttering in the wind, they were suspended between the flaming sky and the darkening earth, their childish, narrow bare feet walking on the jagged wheels of a grinding machine: this is how, he slyly squinted his eyes at her, God teaches poets to walk—she snorted in disagreement, or rather, in half disagreement: who knows, maybe it’s really so?). How, based on what does he continue to paint, if the world around him is uninteresting? You’re an unfortunate man, Mykola: you loved a car and you crashed it, you loved a woman and you broke her—on the night of their final breakup she dreamed (and this dream she actually remembered, carried it out of the darkness) that he was slowly walking away, back toward her—the back of his head with that spiky hair still so dear to her, his head lowered, shorts and well-starched white shirt with short, stiff sleeves sticking out: always the tough guy!—walking along a narrow plank heading down somewhere, where—she couldn’t tell, and calmly (for the first time in all the days spent with him—calmly!), lucidly, and matter-of-factly the realization came in her sleep: he won’t be saved, nope, he won’t.

But you, girlfriend, look like shit, oh boy, you really look like shit: at least forty, even after you went out and got your hair cut (she had mustered all her strength for this heroic deed, because her condition was such, especially in the evenings, that one time she almost fell asleep still in her clothes and only the strangely conscious pang of fear through the sticky haze of her heavy brain—what is this, have I lost it totally?!—forced her finally to lower her legs to the floor, feel around for her bathrobe, change, and stumble to the bathroom: don’t forget your makeup, with a cotton ball, that’s it, dip it into the lotion, wipe under your eyes, now brush your teeth, first gargling with Listerine, excellent, good girl, and now into the shower!—and now, okay, here we go, nice rubdown with the towel, nighttime Oil of Olay, there’s the black box on the shelf, first the neck, then the face, pat-pat, with fingertips, massage it a bit, good, done, don’t forget, lid back on the jar—and now you’re all set to go to bed, everything in order)—and all that effort as much good as hot compresses for a corpse: unexpectedly emerging to meet herself in one of those full-length mirrors, whether in a store or on the street, she at first wouldn’t recognize this hag in familiar, elegant outfits, and it wasn’t just the frightening skin, suddenly aged by several years (you should really smoke less…) and blotched with remnants of pimples, and not even the flaccid outline of the bottom half of her face, like a balloon that had lost air (get ready to hear a bunch of whining the minute someone with a face like that opens her gob!), but this now: here’s something new—something had imperceptibly changed in her whole posture, her gestures, her walk: that unrestrained drive of an airplane gathering momentum for take-off that had always been within her was gone, and, removing her tinted glasses she looked closer: yes, her eyes had lost their spark—they no longer leapt from her face like projector lights, but rather hid in it with such tearstained sorrow that she herself couldn’t wait to avert her glance elsewhere. They say that according to statistics a person looks into the mirror forty-three times a day—forty-three times you, squeezed by deep fear and still not quite believing it, stare at this Megaera aghast: so this is me? From now and forever? (And immediately the tears well up, this time from hopelessness, a forgotten feeling from adolescence.) Hmm, yeah, this is bad. No wait, if you changed the lighting, take it from above and at a slight angle it wouldn’t be quite so bad, there’s still something of that old me showing through… Oh, please!—whom are you kidding? Last winter still, during that flight through Frankfurt when she was sitting curled up by the wall and fervently writing something down in her notepad, reeling with invisible pain—packs of young men walking by would slow down with curiosity, trying to strike up a conversation: “Hi, girl!”; only a year ago in Cambridge a super stud was pursuing her, good-looking and an athlete, six foot two and about that much across the shoulders, too, gentle as a baby rabbit, with skin like dark silk and the smell of a healthy young man, ah, what a lover he would have been—you can wring your hands now, go ahead, and to her “I’m ten years older than you,” he replied after a pause, surprised, “You’re lying”—for him, too, she was, sincerely and simply, a “girl” he liked—while for her, rather than being seductive, that invincible force of ignorant health, that happy and confident inexperience with real pain was secretly irritating, because she was, after all, “a poetess of acutely tragic sensibility,” as one dull-witted critic had written back home, oh yeah, she had inherited it the way she inherited her blood type, and in this country with its code of compulsory happiness, which, it goes without saying, produces thousands upon thousands of neurotics and psychopaths, she carried her historical suffering like an act of defiance, like a blue ribbon from a pedigree dog show—with an ever so slight smile of superiority she would speak to trustingly open mouths (her words fell into raised glasses of wine and rippled their glimmering surfaces): in your culture tragedy is of an exclusively personal character, loneliness, love dramas, those clinical incests that forty-year-old matrons supposedly dig out from their childhood memories in psychotherapeutic séances, and which I, truth be told, don’t particularly believe—after a year or two of psychiatric sessions you’ll start recalling a lot more than that—however, you are unfamiliar with subjugation to limitless, metaphysical evil, where there’s absolutely nothing in hell you can do—when you grow up in a flat that is constantly bugged and surveilled and you know about it, so you learn to speak directly to an invisible audience: at times out loud, at times with gestures, and at times by saying nothing, or when the object of your first girlish infatuation turns out to be a fellow assigned to spy on you, who after a year of rather poorly performed duties—generally conversations in cafes and hanging out at the movies—suddenly falls in love with you for real, no joking, and confesses his love—at the same time confessing his KGB mission (the mouths open wider yet, rounder: now that’s life, they think jealously, that’s “real life”!), and there’s more, there’s more—but actually she prefers be silent on this matter—when at age thirty you first hop into bed with a foreigner, an overwhelmingly romantic act of passion (with an amazingly pleasant smell of expensive deodorant!), which he, regardless, took seriously and even began to say something about marriage—it was your luck in life, girl, to keep picking up serious guys, no matter which—each wanted to get married right away, some kind of disease, or something? a marriage epidemic, or was it perhaps a fashion trend for poetesses?—and that sweet-smelling (and gentle, oh yeah!) man tried to get you an entire wardrobe, because your own comprised an old pair of jeans and a few, no longer bohemian, already rather ragged tops—he bought you two real dresses of fine wool, and a silvery silk blouse with shoulder pads, and a gorgeous suit the color of red wine in which you instantly ignited in a glow of a now completely alien exotic beauty (swimming pools, lounge chairs, yachts, white sports cars…), and several pairs of shoes (big hello from Gogol’s Vakula—Italian, one-hundred-dollar pumps of the softest leather, which you still wear to this day), and a whole pile of accessories, a little purse, and a butterfly swarm of colorful scarves, and makeup, and resonant gypsy bangles, a watchband to emphasize yet again the artistic narrowness of your wrist and rich, dangling earrings to do the same for your thin, vulnerable neck; everything was expensive, chosen lovingly and with taste—and, for the first time in your life supplied to gills, for the first time dressed up like in a glossy magazine, so that you yourself lost your breath when you looked into the mirror (and ditto for each of the forty-three times!)—you sank into unbearable, burning shame, you felt yourself a typical Soviet whore who screws in a hotel room for a few pairs of underwear, and although not to accept all those goods turned out to be more than you were able, but with that the affair came to an end—you simply stopped answering his calls from Amsterdam (and in the meantime he was quickly filing for his divorce, or perhaps even did file), because, when all’s said and done, what would there have been for you to do in Amsterdam?—and you went back to your husband, bringing back jeans and cigarette lighters for him from your trips abroad, and you might not have been exactly satisfied, but you were clean: maybe relations weren’t perfect, but they were human, not beset from the beginning by the humiliating inequality of nations and circumstances that were beyond your control (and that’s why in the States she was not at all concerned that her great love lived off her paycheck: “big deal,” you’ll make some money, you’ll pay me back—it only got to her, and in no small measure—that was when she broke down, started running around the house, tumbling for a few hours into the pit of black, fiery, burning-in-the-gut hatred, ready herself, like his former wife, to hurl at him, should he happen to appear, all present knives and other stabbing and cutting objects, so that he’d come crashing down, the bastard, dripping with blood, so that he’d shit blood, so he’d come blood!—aaarrgh, disgusting, thank you kindly for these emotional experiences, would have much rather never known this about myself!—it only got to her when, with his chilling arrogant implacability—after all, he’s a man! a rock!—he announced, already over the telephone, that he owes her nothing—that actually it’s quite the opposite, that it’s she who still owes him—no kidding, he must’ve tallied up some penalty charges—for those bricks, for none other than those bricks!—and although it sounded like a threat, she gave a raspy laugh, still not quite believing it: “So listen, will I have to get the mob after you?”—but by that time he had already hung up—real hero, good boy, charming!—raving mad in her rage, she was gently held back by the shoulder by a fleeting thought: it must be so f-fucking miserable to live this way—regularly evoking these kinds of responses from people, and not only from women!—how unhappy he must be, the idiot, and he won’t even go see a doctor…). “Do you know the Ukrainian night,” ladies and gentlemen? Nah, you know fuck-all about the Ukrainian night, and there’s nothing in it for you to know, you’ve got your own, no less turbid nights, you commit suicide in elegant, suburban, ivy-covered homes because there’s nobody to eat turkey with for Thanksgiving, it’s just that I’ve had it with my own universal empathy, I’ve had it because, you see, no matter which way I turn, there’s misery, misery, and misery—maybe that’s the way I’m wired, or maybe it’s my “acutely tragic sensibility” always picking up the odor of misery like an insect’s antennae, and groaning, I crawl toward it rather than happily screwing my young, healthy stud (who, incidentally, led astray by me, has gone on to, wonder of wonders, start reading—he’s already polished off Uncle Tom’s Cabin, something from Jane Austen, and has now settled on Tom Sawyer, and then one evening while drinking tea in my kitchen—he used to drop by after the gym, rosy-red, pull his jacket off over his head, and throw it on the bed, he had a funny way of smelling his shoulders like a puppy dog: just back from the pool, still smell like chlorine—it was life that he smelled like, damn it, life!—he related with some excitement that he had already learned to picture the landscape described in a given book, or the room, and suddenly he interrupted himself and asked simple-heartedly: where was he supposed to now find a girl that he’d be able to discuss all this with?—oh, you clever boy, bull’s-eye, right with the very first step: the path she was opening up to him promised—loneliness—it hit her like a slap in the face: stop, you idiot, hit the brakes—will you finally stop fucking up the minds of young men, pushing them toward the deceptive lights of some kind of deeper meaning, which you yourself have no clue about, and afterward abandoning them halfway to lick their wounds for the next few years?—and she already knew that she wouldn’t be sleeping with him, that it would be only with someone as screwed up as herself, no, far more screwed up—in a plaster cast, with draconian debts and trails of police summonses, my sorcerer-brother, we are of the same blood you and I—whom she’d be unable to throw off his own God-given track—oh, how noble of you, sweetness, just look at yourself, just look at how well you’ve done—all-round good girl, no?). In psychiatry, I believe it’s called victim behavior, but there’s nothing I can do about it, it’s the way I was taught; and in general all that Ukrainians can say about themselves is how, and how much, and by which manner they were beaten: information, I must say, not very enticing for strangers, nonetheless, if there’s nothing else in either your family or your national history that can be scraped together, we slowly but surely began to take pride in this—hey, come see how they beat us, but we’re not yet dead—my Cambridge friends rolled on the ground with laughter when you translated the beginning of your national anthem as “Ukraine has not died yet”—“What kind of anthem is that?”—and truly, a pretty screwed up little opening line, just the thing to “go fight the Turk” with, like hell!—and that’s why, that’s why, my dear girl, since that’s the case—you should shout and rejoice that you haven’t died, you poor sexual victim of the national idea, although, if you think about it some, there’s not a whole lot to be rejoicing about, and who needs it, a life without love, and wouldn’t it be preferable to die, or even better, to never be born than now go through such torture? (Once upon a time I had a certain, oh so excellently programmed patriotic friend who constantly complained about the fact that we fall in love not with the man, but with the national idea—and in the end, after a several-year excursion through the bedrooms of overseas grandpas, she finally settled down in one of them, having acquired a bébé—which, it’s not out of the question, might even learn to speak Ukrainian when it grows up, that’s if it wants to, of course, and meantime its mom is making a few bucks preparing news reports for the Ukrainian service of Radio Liberty, which Clinton still hasn’t decided whether to shut down—chirping away in her once-native tongue with those foreign intonations sticking out like springs from a mattress and designed to show that she is now a cut above—no longer from the home village: she broke out!): I’m making the point, ladies and gentlemen, that it’s not such a great thrill to belong to a beaten nation, as the fox in the folktale said, the unbeaten rides on the back of the beaten—and that’s what the beaten one deserves, the problem is that in the meantime that beaten one manages to sing, let’s say, the ballad of the misfortunate captives, and in this way—legitimizes his own humiliated position, because art, don’t you know, always legitimizes, in the eyes of an outsider, the life that gave it birth; and in that fact lies its, that is, art’s, gre-eat deception. The Latin ars, which seeped into most European languages, the Nordic Kunst, which ricocheted over to our West Slavic neighbors as sztuka—now there’s a healthy attitude, you can almost hear the after-dinner burp of a burgher’s pickled cabbage: sztuka, a game, a trick, an acrobatic somersault on the tightrope, a melodic bell tone of a baroque clock, and a whimsically carved snuffbox; and our art, mystetstvo, or craftsmanship, is also of the same order. It’s only with an indifferent condescending yawn—well, well, and what will the craftsmen entertain us with today?—that one can break that spell, neutralize it, expose the hidden trap, and, it seems, only Old Church Slavonic raises in vain its dried-out cautionary forefinger: beware izkusstvo, from izkus—temptation, the same you pray not to be led into.