Читать книгу The Adventures of Kesha the Russian Boy - Константин Воскресенский - Страница 4

1988. Went for a bite to eat

In the summer of 1988, a funny little thing happened in Yevpatoria, Crimea. Well, it wasn't that funny… I got lost. My mother and aunt Ira left me on the beach while they went for a swim. I'm sure they asked some other responsible-looking lady on the beach in a wide-brimmed hat to watch over me. But I'm also sure that she barely took a bit of notice at what I was up to, she was more interested in the sun, the sea, and the beach. When they came back from their swim, I wasn't there. They called out, shouting for me… Nothing. They ran all over the place and spotted me walking along the tram tracks chewing on a tasty bun.

«Where did you get this from? Where were you?» asked mum.

«I went for a bite to eat…» I said.

Oh yes… a small little man, but a hearty eater. Thank God that ended well enough that it remained funny and relatively short.

1988. Fire

Another unpleasant story happened the very same summer. Perhaps even more serious: there was a fire. I remember clearly how my grandmother's room in her flat on the second floor of a five-storey brick building was on fire. Thankfully, Grandma and everybody else were fine. Cars, fumes, people rushing around – that's what impressed me the most. This was the first time I'd seen such a commotion and crowd of onlookers. Of course, I didn't really understand what was going on, but the general anxiety made a real impression on me. Since then, every time I see a fire, I literally go numb and mentally fall back to this episode.

1988. Promising to cut my tongue off

So, summer ended, and kindergarten began, leaving a deep incurable wound in my soul. For me, girls were always the epitome of divine beauty. I don't know who taught me that or when, but it's what I believed. So, what stood out most to me in my kindergarten years? A scruffy blonde girl in a black-and-white plaid dress, smeared with porridge. A real mess like I'd never seen before. Good God, this harsh reality broke my little, naïve, childish world. I started to refuse to go to kindergarten, kicking up a huge fuss, for fear that I would have to see her again.

There was one girl I liked. I remember neither her appearance nor her name, but it doesn't matter. It so happened that our little beds were next to each other during nap time, so I started a conversation with her. «Hello,» I would say, «How are you?» As if I was greeting a stranger. Of course, the kindergarten teacher was quickly on me, promising to cut my tongue off for speaking during nap time… It sounded so threatening and so convincing that you would believe it yourself even now. Ever since that day I use my words carefully, often choosing to keep quiet. Because who knows what might happen…

1989. Forgetfulness

The challenges to my young psyche did not end there.

One day, nobody picked me up from kindergarten. I sat there late into the night until a relative who worked there picked me up. What was I thinking about? Nothing. I just sat there, still as a statue, watching out the window. Outside, everything was quiet, snowflakes were falling and covering the oaks and pathways. It grew dark.

A similar thing occurred during the summer school holidays. I was out all day, and in the evening, nobody let me back inside the house. It wasn't a nasty joke or out of unkindness, just, there was nobody home. And I didn't have a key. At about 9 o'clock in the evening, my neighbour, Vera's mother from flat number 48, took me inside. We all watched a children's TV show together, had dinner and went to bed. I was given a place to sleep in with Vera's brother.

In both cases, many years later, I heard very convincing stories about what difficulties had befallen my parents that meant they couldn't come and pick me up or let me inside. But the harsh truth is simple: both my mother and my stepfather were, at some point in their lives, drunks. I don't exactly have evidence, but I'm sure that while these things were happening to me, they were at my stepfather's place in a nearby town or at someone else's flat. I'm not blaming anyone, but, as it I often say in my anecdotes: «it left its mark…».

1990. Stutterer

I started to stutter at the age of about five. It all happened very fast…

At that time, I was on holiday, staying with my late father's grandmother in Klimovsk, about two hours outside of central Moscow. I was taking a walk outside. At some point, my rumbly belly told me to go home, and instead of walking all the way around the fence to get back, I decided to take a shortcut by running quickly under other people's windows. I was fast, so fast that I ran through the entrance to the door and almost went headfirst into one of the nice old ladies from our apartment block. A loud cry echoed through the entranceway…

As it turned out, the old lady was not so nice, and I was a pest worse than the Colorado potato beetle… That bit I just ran through was actually her garden! I don't really remember what happened after that, but I was terrified. Like, off the charts terrified.

Another new page in my life had begun. I switched, of my own accord (or maybe adults encouraged me?) from communicating through speech to the written word. Throughout primary school, I had little contact with anyone and always found it difficult to talk to our teacher, Ms. Tatiana Lazarevna, in class.

A long time has passed since then. At work, I often have to speak a lot and perform to audiences of 10 to 50 to 100 people. And in rare moments of intense nervousness, it can be very difficult for me to start talking. I have to take a little pause, a deep breath of up to three seconds and… slo-w-ly pronounce the first word on an exhale with a little riff. Once the first word is out, the second word follows quite nicely. And before I know it, my mini moment of embarrassment is over.