Little Zinnobers

Chapter 4

THE WITNESS

Now at forty with – if we are to take the sages at their word – the productive part of my life coming to an end and giving way to the contemplative stage, I am of sound mind and memory, qualities which she admired in herself, so I shall meekly set about writing her story, the story of her life, a small part of which was lived before my eyes, the larger part of which is known to me through her tales, which in this case, are a reliable source. However, having hardly begun, in other words having resolutely said what I was saying, I feel the need to give further explanations, since almost every word of my first long but relatively laconic sentence is already germinating deep within. Sprouting little roots. Perhaps my character is at fault here, or maybe it is the contemplation that comes with my age. Contemplation, it seems, is no stranger to imagination and is capable of transforming my first and overly long sentence into a pot of peat, into which, shortly before Easter, having scratched out little hollows with my fingers, I drop some wheat grains, so that they will sprout and take root in time for the Feast. A word is a little grain, with a little shoot and a little root.

Or maybe I am betrayed by my habit of comparing myself to her, a habit quite illicit, yet of which I am fully aware. This habit has taken root so strongly that I myself (and no other phrases or words have any bearing here) stand like a sprouting grain, her fingerprints on its burst husk. Sprouted, but ears never formed. Well, who expects an Easter grain to bear fruit?! To form an ear, you must be tossed into the soil of a real field, a field riddled with voracious weeds, so that you wrestle with them under the real, cruel, life-giving sun so that, victorious, you shoot up triumphant ears. Or you lose. In other words, that busy life on which people squander their most glorious years engulfs you, so that, having crossed my current threshold, they look back on the years they have lived with either bitterness or pride, wallowing in well-earned contemplation, regretting what never was, or savouring their accomplishments. Both are beyond my reach.

But don’t be misled by my confession that I was not graced by the sun. I was graced by a different sun; other, harsh rays caressed my wheat ears. My life could not be called idyllic—the epithet ‘idyllic’ does not/ cannot be applied to my life—at any rate, not without a strong dose of bitter humour. And even if an idyll could be hinted at, then only to the exact extent to which she herself permitted idylls. She did not permit them at all, generally, with a harshness not easily married with her tact. On paper. But in life, these two – harshness and tact – were firmly fused: the unshakeable cornerstone. I will not excavate the reasons why my roots did not get their fair share of fertile soil; suffice it to say that, as I prepare to devote myself to the contemplation that my present age permits, I understand and accept it is unearned. Instead, let me continue my comparison with the Easter shoot: twin grains sometimes find their way into pots of peat, and they sprout with the double shoots of pride and bitterness.

She never taught me meekness. That was probably the one thing she would never have attempted to teach me. She was not meek herself, not in the slightest. Had she known what would become of me, she would have nipped both shoots in the bud without more ado. Then they would not have united, twining into a single shoot: meekness. She simply ran out of time. So, ironically, it was she who taught me meekness, thanks to the slowness of her fingers, a mission which had defeated all others, try as they might to instil this quality in me with heavy-handed methods.

Here I must mention one peculiarity: I can no longer speak her name. I blame this entirely on myself. Her name would trip with casual ease from a hundred lips, lips which have not yet lost that ability. But mine… For many years, they were no exception, but now my lips are locked tight, retaining only the pronoun, and having transmitted only one letter to my hand: F. My eyes, though, which read her postcards, were more familiar with the letter Ф,1 for that is how she signed them, until that last day when, taking her own photograph instead of a postcard, she changed her signature.

A froth of pink lilac, the colour of the dawn. Every year the bush under her little balcony increases its breadth. The balcony is small, like everything else about her flat. The empty balcony, painted white, where she would stand and wave goodbye to me. She looked so small, dressed in her large pink cardigan. We had been talking about something, and, as I walked away and glanced back, she continued the conversation, leaning over the rails slightly, calling out: I am a witness. And quickly pounded her chest.

I can recall that whole conversation if need be, though I only remember one phrase. Just before I left we had been talking about most mundane matters (I’m already beginning to recall), which means we were speaking Russian. But the high words, the balcony words, were uttered in English. Language is the simplest way of explaining. I always memorized whatever she said in English. She was equally fluent in both languages, but her Russian was slightly washed out at the edges, like a watercolour. Her English, however, was like a fine, delicate pen and ink drawing. Apart from a few school years, I never replied to her in English – maybe out of fear of damaging those fine pen lines – so our dialogues were usually Anglo-Russian: my Russian oil painting and her English like a fine drawing etched on top.

So be it. Let this duality of language be the reason I remember that balcony again and again, and then after it, those places where she – I want to say – ‘lingered.’ No, she never decorated them; her walls were always bare, but now, years later, I remember the bareness of those walls like the emptiness of a white screen. The whitish smoothness of a canvas brought to life by her presence; now that the film is over, the screen is blank.

That’s why I see, and will always see, the white balcony: the crooked door and the little wonky cupboard that she laughed about, tapping her head with her finger in an English gesture: ‘crazy.’ My eyes, my weak eyes, won’t be covered. Even if they grow dry, or red, even if little black dots fly or white poplar fluff and yellow snowflakes float above the city scrub. I am a witness. Witnesses don’t cry. They stand on white balconies on the very top floor.