On the Wings of Hope: Prose

Déjà vu

Kirill was pursued by some ill fate. Or maybe a healthy and kind one. It was quite difficult to find out, because when you have already sailed away from old coasts and haven’t moored to new ones, and only a boundless blue sea of life is lying ahead of you with no signs of tempting far-away coast, – it’s really hard to tell when, actually, something out of an ordinary will surface itself on your course of sailing, and extremely harder to find out whether it was for good or for bad. City just like a city, sea as a sea. The sea was a cold one, however, and the city was rainy – but even the great Peter wasn’t powerful enough to change that… except, perhaps, for Saint Peter – yet even that is not a fact by all means.

And what really disturbed Kirill, who like any other true IT specialist was devoting almost all of his life to own metal computer friend, were the cases of so-called “déjà vu”, which became frequent recently. A strange word, and no less strange phenomenon, which has been annoying Kirill for several last month already, precisely like a sea iceberg standing on the path of his ship, the most significant and invisible part of which was, as it usually goes, inaccessible for common human sight, being hidden either in the depths of memory or in the waters of destiny.

This wonder of nature manifested itself variously. It could be a dream in which he, being dressed in the exotic black cylinder and dress coat, was traveling along familiar streets of St. Petersburg with some excessively unusual titles in an old Slavic language, as if they were given names only recently by willful Peter the Great himself. Or he could be rushing through some sort of cellars in these dreams, vainly trying to locate his companions, who have been recently seized and taken away from there. Or he could come to some Anichkov Bridge and stand idle like captivated for ten or so minutes, so that people, hurrying for their works, start looking askance at him as if he was some kind of a madman.

“And what if I am truly going crazy?” he was thinking from time to time when current streams of objective and subjective realities mixed up to such an extent that it was no longer possible to distinguish them from one another. “No way, just don’t get enough sleep,” he calmed himself down over and over again.

And it could happen that he starts discussing the architecture of some new software module with his colleagues and analysts, begins to argue, turns angry and blurts out something in the spirit of: “Fuck off to Admiralteyskaya Embankment in a post-chaise!” And then he stands with his mouth wide opened and cannot answer even to himself – why is that a post-chaise and Admiralteyskaya, anyway?

And the other day he even went to a roof of St. Isaac’s Cathedral with some kind of Chinese tourist group and started performing “Kalinka-Malinka” dance with imagined music in the face of the stupefied public under the gaze of tens of smartphones cameras. And we should actually admit it, that he danced such nicely, that these Chinese even applauded him upon finishing of this creative rush as if he was doing all that specifically to amuse them. He didn’t try that in any sense – even had no real dancing experience in his life – well, not this particular life, in any case.

Is that even normal, aye? The computer has replaced him both friends and a girlfriend for many years, which weren’t noticeable even on the horizon of his life, and he dances on roofs of buildings during own day offs! Perhaps, nature itself mixed in something special into this autumn air of St. Petersburg city, forgetting to warn weather forecasters and all the others, less skilled in respect of knowledge of her possible surprises, residents of the cultural capital? And, possibly, Kirill just got bothered with going down the stream of a small sea of his private life and decided to discover new depths of his creative potential? Unfortunately, we were not told about his true motives – and we are absolutely uncertain if he himself gave any thought to it.

Yet déjà vu, most likely, perfectly knew it – and decided to surrender to Kirill once and as a whole. So here and now he was standing, looking at the “Admiralty spike”, glorified by a classical poet, and different, almost alive images were rushing before his eyes.

Noises of post-chaises. The footfall of horse legs. Newsdealers, crying something aloud on city streets, swinging with their huge newspaper sheets. The team of workers, hurrying on a pavement, being supervised by a gendarme. Two ladies in ancient wide-brimmed dresses with small white lacy umbrellas, who were slowly walking through a park together with their small manual doggies. Looking totally different “Humorous park” of Peterhof. Regiment of imperial soldiers, marching on the square by a fountain…

As if some other life, another reality in Kirill’s consciousness was laid upon this one, recognized by all considering themselves adequate people as the only existing, only real one. This second reality was definitely related to past times when the humankind didn’t yet launch into cosmos, but just like now people considered themselves as the last unique existing standard of mind and reason.

And what is the reason and where does its standard lie? Maybe, our ancestors from old times were much more reasonable than us, modern ones, rushing about and around in endless searches for personal happiness, being unable to accept the destiny, desired by the highest powers, in whom many of us have ceased believing countless ages ago? Perhaps we, ascended by technological measures contemporaries of ourselves, remorselessly destroying each other, have already massively gone mad even without some mysterious déjà vu?

“One can go crazy!”

“What did you say?” asked Kirill, who was sharply torn off from inner reflections by a suddenly talking interlocutor.

“I say – damn crazy beautiful city you have here!” repeated this unexpected stranger. “Beautiful city, I tell you!” he laughed, having bared a couple of golden-color teeth.

“Beautiful, yes,” Kirill inertly repeated after him, not having returned to his usual senses. “And where are you from?”

“Me? Baikal region. On a business trip here. You appreciate your city, you do, it’s beautiful, even though wet! Well, farewell!” said short-term stranger and without new excess words went away to fulfill his private affairs elsewhere.

“Honestly beautiful,” Kirill, who started to slide in own thoughts from a wet reality into a cozy and warm himself, was disturbed again by a new voice – this time it was women’s one. The girl of apparently twenty-five years leaned the elbows of embankment fence, glancing with interest both at thoughtfully looking afar Kirill and sailing across Neva ships.

“My native,” Kirill replied unwillingly. “And it’s indeed wet. Just like now. You should better cover with an umbrella because it’s possible to get wet and ache even from a drizzle,” with these words he gave his umbrella to a girl.

“Thank you, but I have no need for an umbrella. I love rain,” she smiled. “Casts different thoughts and memoirs. Even déjà vu sometimes.”

“You too?” Kirill looked at her interrogatively.

“What too?”

“Well, you said – déjà vu. Are you having them too?”

“On a constant basis recently. Trapped with no way to escape!” she laughed. “For instance, not further than yesterday, I saw a dream where I was walking in the rain and looking at ships – and what do you think? Today I am indeed walking in the rain, looking at ships.”

“You’ve got an amazing coincidence here!”

“One can say that,” smiled the girl. “You are a local one, huh?”

“Since my very birth, which happened I don’t even know how many years back, especially taking all sorts of funny déjà vu into account.”

“And I moved in here recently, from Chelyabinsk. It’s wet here, but the air is fresh. And it’s easier to remain creative here. I am Liza, by the way,” she introduced herself.

“Liza, don’t go away,” Kirill quoted a popular song. “You can call me Kirill. It’s clearly visible that you have arrived here from a mean city, aren’t afraid of rain at all. And what exactly are you creating?”

“I am all like that,” smiled recent stranger. “I am a novice artist, painter. There will be an exhibition of my works here soon, so I arrived in this city. Perhaps I should remain here for a longer term, how do you think?” she added, having winked at Kirill.

“Well, you have already prevailed over the rain, as far as I can tell. You only have to win against a déjà vu now – and everything will be good and shiny for you,” Kirill answered, smiling. “And I can only paint like a chicken with his paw, by the way. Totally not born for painting.”

“Oh, but I don’t want to win against it. My déjà vu happens to be so interesting at times! I started feeling comfortable with it. Well, sort of a best friend, who is always nearby and with whom you don’t feel wet. And concerning the painting… probably, everyone draws the way he is able to. One can draw, say, with his own deeds – such interesting pictures can be born that way!”

“With actions… yes… I guess you are right,” Kirill got lost in thoughts for several seconds. “By the way, what were your plans for the upcoming days off? Weather forecasters promised us a good weather. Would you like to go for a walk together? We truly have many interesting places for tourists and guests alike. Let’s go to Hermitage?”

“It’s possible to take a walk,” girl blushed. “I didn’t manage to visit Hermitage yet. And one of my last déjà vu has been already wandering there!”

***

Two young white-winged men, whose true shape could give humans an abundance of thoughts concerning the possible fact that highest powers exist after all and for all, and don’t care what some earth skeptics might think about their existence, were ironically looking at each other. After so many years their main task was successfully completed, and only a little updating of a course for their wards was awaiting them.

In order to organize a meeting of these aforementioned by us Kirill and Liza, these two their invisible curators from the other world had even to resort to the mechanism of the awakening of previous memory in souls – a permission for such interference was granted to them from above. And the memory, which is being kept in souls of men, as every even the most inexperienced Guardian Angel well knows, is stronger than the death. Just as love is.

“A funny name humans thought up for this memory,” Kirill’s curator was thinking, looking how his ward goes on a meeting with Liza, holding a bouquet of roses in his right arm. “Déjà vu… what sort of a word!”

“Do you remember that dream, which I have shown you?” asked a mental question for Liza her invisible white-winged curator. “The one in which you have met him prior to your real meeting? Tell him about it. You can do it now… now it is your new, most real, drawn with your own deeds reality.”

10.09.2017