Chapter one
One February winter evening I was going to take a walk before bedtime. It was surprisingly warm outside. Falling slowly the snowflakes melted, breaking on the coat. It was crowded and noisy in the street that led along the main road up. Someone was standing near the cinema in a hurry to catch the next blockbuster. Someone was hurrying to the nearest departing bus, and some people in a hurry were closing their own shop. Here an elderly couple, embracing, made their way into a cozy restaurant around the corner. Watching all this, I was filled with increasing sadness from the fact that they knew how to enjoy the instants, moments, things that surrounded them. They seemed to have such an eventful life that it made me even sadder. It’s a shame that I have been deprived of this ability to rejoice from birth. I realized that I have never had enough brightness in life. Childhood spent under the Christmas tree seemed very boring. Elderly neighbors came, my mother’s two half-sisters and an older brother who later died of skin cancer. We gathered at the festive table, eating too roasted calf meat, which always turned me off: in the future I completely gave up eating meat. We listened to tiresome classics, to the sounds of which guests sometimes told a couple of some hackneyed jokes of the last century or made hateful conversations about work, religion and economics. I remember how after any attempt to play with the local guys my parents gave me a lot of reasons that I shouldn’t even want to go out to them. «I will tell you what awaits you outside the damn perimeter of this house!» — once my father said loudly, as if setting an example to everyone else who was in the room, and that was my mother and my older worthless brother. — Behind these fucking doors is a real hell, where selfishness, cruelty, laziness and filth flourish. Your slobbering acquaintances, who strive to become your friends, simply «cheat» you with friendliness, and you will remember until the end of your days how they could so cleverly wash your still «unripe» brains and derive only their own benefit. And also, dear Victoria, they will erase all pure intentions in you and show the wrong side of this shitty world and its society, because they don’t understand the Bible.» Then mom engaged into conversation with her truthful remark: «Jesus will not leave us. He will protect our home and our family from this degrading humanity. It will protect us from evil, violence and filth.» I looked at my father and realized that perhaps everything that he was trying to convey to me was the real truth: after all, I am his daughter, his kindred blood, his child, who he carefully tries to protect from the bad. I did not correspond to the typical notions of a normal child, and subsequently a teenager, gradually turning into an adult girl. I was a very sentimental, unsociable, reserved girl who was never invited anywhere. Any party, school holidays, birthdays and dates passed me by: I was like an outcast of society. Frankly speaking, I did not have a feeling of regret. It always seemed to me that it was much more interesting to me to be alone, in all the plans of my meager existence. That’s how my life, unlike the rest, stopped already in early childhood. Mom always told me that I was special, not like everyone else. I took her words for a true compliment, for pleasant truth — as if Mother Teresa herself blessed me, and I felt special. And it began to manifest, but not with that imagination, not with those praises that my mother gave me so beautifully. I remember I was 14 … I clearly heard someone talking to me. Sometimes, too many whispers merged together, thereby scaring me even more. I frantically covered my ears with my hands and, swaying for a long time, reassured myself that this was a temporary phenomenon. Everything passes, and it will pass sooner or later. Most likely, I am temporarily ill with something, and recovery will follow, as is the case with almost everyone. A similar method of self-hypnosis brought me positive results, and something from the outside, not clear to my young logic, retreated, losing. Over time, this condition did not leave me, and I got used to it, coming at peace with the fact that it does not affect the general condition of the body, only at the psychological level. Yes, these are just memories brought to me by unpleasant bits from my past existence. Lost in my thoughts, I did not notice how I walked a whole mile and was very far away. I turned around to get back, but in a shorter way — to go through the central park. It became cooler, I felt a slight trembling and, cringing, hurried home. I loved my spacious apartment, which was located above the bakery.
In the morning in the air there was always a pleasant tasty aroma of a crispy freshly baked baguette. Sometimes I allowed myself a couple of croissants with Italian cheese, very rarely, say, once a month, because I was not a fan of food in general. Giving up heavy food allowed me to stay in great shape for many years. I remember my mother told me that I looked like a bony fish. At that moment, my father always laughed out loud and patted his ugly beer belly as a sign that «this» is the wealth of the growing body mass. Memory is like dust: some moments pass away from life, while others settle down to torment us. My parents were gone when I got a first job after graduating from university. I remember everything… There was a heavy shower; many people whom I had seen earlier and those whom I saw for the first time came to the funeral. A car accident took away two lives in a few seconds. Two lives of people whom I loved and hated. Since that time, even more emptiness has formed in me. I lost contact with people for many years. Rarely going out into the street, I indulged in reading and sleeping, sleeping and reading. An endless depression ensued, and without antidepressants I no longer imagined normal existence. My life was mostly wasted. I loved to do nothing and, dreaming, to plunge into such a trans — relaxed state of euphoria. Sometimes crazy ideas came to mind, and I began to transfer them to paper for drawing. Everything was too predictable. Black-and-white intricate drawings reflected my inner devastation and insanity. Books, perhaps, played a greater role in my life than my own existence. Classics did not inspire me and made the heart sick to death. I could never understand people who literally devour this same type fiction of the last century. Modern literature sometimes even made me angry. It happened that when I saw a too frank description between the lines, I became hardened against the author, seriously cursing him for the nudity presented to the reader in a vulgar way. Maybe my conservatism prevailed over me and didn’t want to accept the world in a different interpretation or I was too shy in such judgments and because of an awkward state I felt cornered in embarrassment, desperately resisting erotic openness.
* * *
Yes, I read modern books, but of a completely different format. Almost everything except those that go beyond the permissibility.
So, I inherited my 40 square meters from my parents. Taking it for granted, I took this living space, desperate to find myself and change my life at least here. There is so much interesting going on in this small town, the mere thought of saving myself in it made me wildly excited. I was an artist. My works were often bought in the street, and so I existed with my modest daily income from sales. Once, closer to spring, I met the half-sister of my dead mother in the street. Seeing me, she smiled, as if we were old friends or even more — like sisters. For some reason, I was absolutely not happy about this. A completely unfamiliar woman of old age came closer to hug, and said she was glad to see me after so many years of silence. After all, the last time I saw her was almost 20 years ago. How did she recognize me so easily? It even offended me: because with age I want to seem only older and, naturally, change for the better in appearance. But the childish naive face remained almost as untouched by time, only the corners of the eyes were slightly enveloped by a cobweb of barely emerging wrinkles. We got into a conversation and she invited me for dinner to her place. Without much hesitation, I agreed — why not? After all, I still suffer from complete everyday loneliness. Saying goodbye, I promised that I would be at the right time. It was a nice bonus to the end of the day. I had not felt such a surge of energy for quite some time.
And now I’m standing on the threshold of her house. Yes, her house. Mom’s half-sister named Beatrice once successfully married a general and grabbed a rather lion share of his money. Many years have passed since she became a widow, and now Beatrice lives for her pleasure. At least that was my first impression when I entered the house. A large living room, a kitchen with a helper and a second floor with 3 bedrooms reminded me of an old dream of my childhood. I always wanted to live in a big house with huge windows overlooking the garden, and have a couple
