Читать книгу Morphine the phantom of love - Ром Амор - Страница 1

Prologue

“I love you” we whispered to each other, basking in the tenderness of each other’s arms and eyes. I had never experienced happier moments than those spent with her, with her sweet lips, which with their contours kindled my urges, with her eyelashes, which timidly froze in anticipation of our flaming flights of passion. Those flights transported us to the summits of blissfulness. Blissfulness was to be with each other, to have each other, to love each other.

We were like teenagers. We would get caught in the white silk sheets that filtered the warm midday light and filled our world with an innocence and lightness of being.

‘Biting again?’ said Marina, gently pulling her lovely cheek away.

‘If only I could eat you,’ I said jokingly, kissing her neck, feeling the palpitations of her beloved body under me. ‘It’s all I have left, lightly biting into you.’

Ah, that soft skin, as if silk draped her body… Those gentle fingers straying on my nape… Those tender lips timidly parting as they sensed me approaching…

It seemed we could make love forever. And after those long nights of passion, we always had enough strength and desire for a repeat round in the mornings.

From the day we found each other, my morning hours were not only filled with special new colours but were also pushed closer to noon. I, an early bird before, could not stand the thought of leaving bed while this ravishing creature lay beside me with her eyes sweetly shut, and start my day while she went on seeing her vivid dreams. Over time, I picked up Marina’s habit of sleeping in, still sensing in my sleep the presence of my beloved. Even when I would awake, fully confident that it was time, I would let myself plunge back into my dreams if I saw that my precious woman was still deep asleep. It is only one of a few habits that have remained with me from my time with her. Today I can confidently say that she wholly changed my world like no one else.

Chapter 1

Glistening with yesterday’s rain, the sett-paved road led the casual passer-by, gaping tourist or resident rushing to work along Andriivskyi Descent. Past displayed paintings and reproductions of talented artists and less talented sellers, people scurried, scrutinising every work, trying to find the brushstrokes of a masterpiece or a genius in works, which often lacked any whiff of artistry.

Having arrived earlier than usual, I took my paintings out of my black bag and set about hanging them perfunctorily in no particular order around my stall. It was just another unpromising trading day of a man wearied of life.

‘Let me tell you your fortune, young man,’ said a woman to me with the voice of an old woman and the appearance of a gypsy past her prime.

‘Are you out of your mind? Get lost! I’m not going to waste my time and money on your fables!’

‘Fables to some, and to others a life’s worth of advice,’ she hurled at me, grimacing with an anticipatory smile.

‘I said get lost! There are enough quacks here as it is!’

‘Well, you may call me a quack, but while you had your eyes shut, you’ve missed the bad hand life had dealt. Oh you people, I come to you with the truth, and you blindly chase me away! Never mind, dearie, you’ll soon understand… Get sight of yourself on the canvas and all become clear… Then you’ll remember the gypsy… Recall her words… But it will be too late then, you won’t save yourself, nobody will save you. She will be your ruin, mark my words.’

The old woman plodded away, grumbling and resenting me for turning her down. But I don’t believe in anything anymore. I simply exist, flip over lonely days and dispel cold nights.

I have been trading in this place for many years in a row. It can hardly be called trading – it’s more a display than anything else. A display of a life’s emotions. Every morning I unveil to the world my seven paintings and at nightfall I disappear with them.

Andriivskyi Descent is a special place, a corner of ancient Kyiv that captures the imagination with its beauty and charm. It is no wonder that it attracts throngs of tourists and lovers, who take in its beauty and try to keep a piece of this atmosphere as a memento, buying one of the overpriced paintings or just taking a plain photo of it with a brand new iPhone, to emphasise once more that “I’m a Homo sapiens, and I know about art or at least beauty”. This is what the local artists count on when they exhibit their creations for passers-by, in the hope that some tourist would have a few thousand to spare on a unique painting in the City of the Soul.

If one manages to sell at least one during the day, he is either lucky or has simply slashed the price. To use economic terms, he has used a dumping pricing policy. Such dealers are not welcome here. The community of artists and sellers of paintings has its own tacit rules: if it becomes known that you have been slashing your prices, the others will find a way to squeeze you out of the community.

Like any other business, this one is just as cruel, although it may appear small in scope. Surviving on money earned from it is not easy, but this statement probably holds true for my entire country. Be that as it may, if you have the brains and the knack for it, you will surely make it. Take for example the Pozhalovykhs: From morning till dusk, Valentin sells mediocre paintings that his wife paints at home. They manage to make ends meet rather successfully, given that their eldest son is pursuing higher education abroad and their daughter attends a prestigious school and a lot of other extracurricular activities.

You may ask why I have deemed their paintings mediocre? Well it’s quite simple: they are devoid of any subject. Mostly, they are just beautiful paints on a canvas. Well, of course, one might find some deep meaning and philosophy in a tulip opening against a timid blue sky. But I’m afraid I have to disappoint you: the artist did not intend to convey anything to you, well perhaps if only to say: “Buy my painting. It will perfectly go with the interior of your kitchen.”

Such “deeply philosophical” paintings are the bulk here. “A Field of Red Poppies”; “Kissing Lovers in the Street”; “Reflections of St. Andrew’s Church Golden Domes”; “Kyiv’s Chestnuts in Bloom”; “Lonely Pier”; “The Dog in the Manger”. Hackneyed still lifes are the typical offer of the local imaginations. Yes, of course, there are exceptions. My colleagues and discerning buyers place me in the ranks of such exceptions.

People such as I are the minority here. We might not be geniuses, but we are people who use art to express emotions. We paint not for the sake of money – there’s never enough of it anyway – but in order to quell the overpowering urge that at times bursts out of the firm hold of our consciousness and being.

Gennadiy Vasilyevich is perhaps the only one I truly respect for what he had to go through and what he is trying to convey to people through his paintings.

You are probably aware of how hard it is to get through to people's hearts in this twenty-first century of ours. Recklessness, greed, and the power of facts, technologies and unfiltered information run the show. People switch off their subconscious and sensory perception of the world, and give themselves entirely into the hands of the materialist beast, fuelled by human frailties and fears. The fear of being less than someone else, the fear of being poor, the fear of being not needed and forgotten, the fear of being criticised and judged, the fear of being unrecognised…

So, Gennadiy Vasilyevich skilfully tries to strike a chord, to ignite a spark in people’s hearts and lay bear their fears. That not everybody is ready to face these fears is a separate issue. In Gennadiy Vasilyevich’s paintings you would not find an array of bright colours lavishly brimming over on a spring day on Andriivskyi Descent. You would not remark on their beauty or aesthetics. His paintings make place for nothing but the truth. For fear can only be conquered when you look truth right in the eyes.

And it seems to me that the people who buy his paintings get closer to their real selves.

The emaciated and bony body of a nude woman, stretching lengthwise against the background of grey and green clouds of cigarette smoke, with put out stubs strewn at her feet, may seem repulsive to the viewer at first sight. The skin of the seemingly young woman is flabby and shrivelled. Dark circles under her closed eyes betray her fatigue, induced by life or simply lack of sleep. The elements create the impression that she is partly dead, yet somehow partly alive. And it is up to the viewer to make out the full picture.

I personally see one idea: we consume our lives not knowing why. We are in a state of half-slumber, wasting our physical and intellectual potential on dubious pleasures, inexorably leading us to death.

Having greeted Gennadiy Vasilyevich and exchanged a few words with him about the weather – that seemed to announce rain – I grabbed a pack of Lucky Strike from my pocket and lit a cigarette.

‘You’re a hopeless chap, Volodya,’ observed the old man.

‘Not really, Gennadiy Vasilyevich, but my life lost all sense a long time ago.’

‘Would you like me to draw you in place of this girl with a cigarette?’ he continued grinning.

‘No, I tend to think that viewers would find the naked body of this personage more to their liking than mine,’ I said as I glanced at a group of high school students on their way home.

‘You should quit smoking, get your life in order and set yourself some goals… You see, you’re a healthy man, you’re neither old nor stupid, you still have half of your life ahead of you, but you’ve renounced everything so early on.’

‘I haven’t… It’s just that I stopped living a long time ago. Life without her is life without myself.’

The old man patted me on my back, as if to let me know that he knew what I was talking about, even though he could not see a clear way out of this situation. He, too, had had to part with a beloved. But parting with his children was far more painful for him…

He had it all: a dream job, a beautiful wife, wonderful kids, the respect of his colleagues, financial security and popularity with women (though he was indifferent to the latter as he sincerely and impetuously loved one woman only – the mother of his children). But in a blink of an eye, his familiar life fell apart, like the sky had fallen in, and it has never been the same again…

It was a cold December evening and outside the window of the well-to-do house of the head of the district committee, on the porch, it was snowing heavily. Through the white ashen blanket, outlines of neighbouring houses and trees were peeking, and in the two living room windows the lights went on. Gennadiy Vasilyevich’s wife reached for the ringing phone.

‘Hello!’ said the slender and elegant wife of the local hotshot.

A dry voice said something into the handset without much intonation and, without waiting for her to respond, vanished under the persistent short phone beeps.

‘Who was it?’ Gennadiy asked as he entered the room.

‘She wants to see us all,’ the woman said slowly with her last ounce of strength, turning so pale that even her expensive French cosmetics could not mask it now.

‘C’mon kids, let’s get ready! We’re going to see granny!’

The father’s voice reached the children playing in another room. They carefully collected their toys and put them into a huge cookie tin.

‘Is she feeling worse?’ he enquired.

‘The doctor said she was dying,’ said his wife with her eyes downcast.

He approached her, sat down on the edge of the chair and embraced her, transferring his warmth to the freezing hands of his beloved.

Elvira never knew maternal love as a child. She had always believed that the only people who really loved her were her father, who died too soon, seemingly not able to bear his spouse’s bitchy disposition, and Gennadiy.

After losing her father, Elvira was never able to forge a relationship with her mother who had always been too demanding of her, never sharing her views and judging her with one glance without ever concealing her contempt.

But now, despite all these difficulties and tensions in their relationship, Elvira felt like she was losing a loved one. It does not matter what kind of a mother a woman is, she always remains connected to her child by a special bond. The same bond remains unbroken, even after a mother’s passing.

Elvira should have been ready for this by now as this was the eighth month of her mother’s hospitalisation. The doctors have long wanted to discharge her and let her die in the arms of her children at home, in the family circle. Only Gennadiy Vasilyevich’s clout settled the issue and convinced the chief physician to keep the dying woman under the supervision of the men in white coats. Both spouses agreed that their children should not have to witness their weakening grandmother dying whilst no one could help her.

Sasha was ten, Mark seven. They were the pride of their parents. Smart, handsome, and exhibiting exemplary behaviour, the boys were set as an example at school, and their parents’ friends jokingly called them the future of the Komsomol over drinks at dinner parties.

Gennadiy got the children ready, put on their winter coats and asked the eldest to tie up Mark’s hat. He glanced into the living room expecting to see his wife ready, but Elvira was still sitting in the chair.

‘Sweetheart, we’d better hurry if you wish to bid her farewell.’

Elvira looked up from that one point at which she was staring, turned to Gennadiy and said: ‘You’re right.’

She got up grabbed her mink coat from him and put it on in a rush. The coat was about seven years old, but it remained her pride and an object of envy for many of her girlfriends in her circle.

‘Wait. Perhaps we should not take the kids,’ she said undecided, watching the children buttoning up in the entryway.

‘Mom, mom… Is something wrong with granny?’ asked the ten-year-old son running up to her and embracing her legs. She just looked at her husband while stroking her son’s head.

Gennadiy looked away towards the window where it was still snowing in the falling dusk, and thought that he should not have let off his driver over this weekend.

‘Darling,’ Elvira addressed her son, ‘you know how much mommy loves you?’

‘Yes, mommy.’

She kissed him on the forehead with her dry lips and hugged him real tight. At that moment, Sasha hugged her and his brother.

‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the children accompanying us,’ Gennadiy decided. ‘She’s the only grandmother they know.’

They got into the warmed-up car. The kids seemed to realise without the need for words the gravity of the situation, they were sitting silently in the backseat tracing figures with their warm fingers on the frosty windows. Gennadiy closed the garage gate and drove out of the yard.

Their black Volga raced down the highway. The wipers barely managed to wipe the snow from the windscreen. Elvira barely managed to wipe the pearls of tears flowing from her eyes. He took her cold hand into his right hand and stroked it trying to assuage her in silence.

The snow outside her window drifted the memories of her childhood and youth. Those moments when, despite everything, she offered her love to the woman who brought her into the world. All those tears she shed on account of her mother and her cold-hearted attitude, and now again her mother was making her cry. Oddly enough, all those old grudges that Elvira nursed in her heart had now disappeared somehow. Now, she felt she would give anything in the world for her mother to remain with them. To be able to gather as a family again around the table for Christmas. To share their pride of the two boys. To cook together, eat together and wait for the son-in-law at home. To listen together to hairdressers gossip about their families at the beauty parlour. To grumble at each other for a reason or without one.

He tossed her hand brusquely. She let out a loud scream. Snow mixed with the crystals of broken glass and burst into the car. Her mother appeared before her, embraced her with her warm arms and signalled her to follow…

Screams… Ambulance sirens… Someone’s sobbing and moans could not awake the two boys whose bodies were entangled in black iron covered with the white ashen blanket of December snow.

That night, he lost everything and more – he lost those he was living for. The truck driver who drove into the oncoming lane was brought to justice, but that did not bring Gennadiy’s family back. Doctors could not save Elvira, and the children died on the spot. God spared Gennadiy, leaving him to live for himself.

It has been years now that he has been painting like crazy. A man without talent had to pay a huge price for it. Maybe it was sent to him to convey to people something that transcends their lives through all these paintings… That which should be appreciated and cherished every moment of one’s life, for this life is liable to end so abruptly.

Chapter 2

They say that in order to realise how inconsequential one’s troubles are, one sometimes has to look at a person whom life has taught much harsher lessons. Obviously, quite a few people are impermeable to such lessons. So, here we stand, Gennadiy Vasilyevich and I, selling our paintings.

After putting out my finished cigarette, I set about arranging the paintings the usual way and looked at my old Breitling. Well, it is probably the last thing I have left from my former life: two gilded hands, confidently punctuating the intervals of my worthless life. It was already half past ten in the morning, so I was quite surprised to see a group of high school students surveying the paintings of my colleagues.

School is the most carefree period of one’s life. Almost nothing prevents you from goofing around the city during classes. One is so naive and happy that falling in love becomes a common affair. One girl follows another, and yet you are assured that this one is the one, knowing fully well that you have no clue about these matters. But you never fail to assume an air of a harried ladies’ man.

Four cute girls and the same number of high school boys dragging along behind them approached my display. I could clearly recognise in the guys’ look that my exhibited paintings sparked some interest. Before coming upon them, they were giggling and poking fun at the works of the other sellers, swaggering before their young cuties, but now they all fell silent. Two of the high school girls gave a disdainful look, softly whispering comments into each other's ears and pulled the other girls by their hands. A minute later, the group moved on.

‘Who on earth would buy these gloomy pictures?!’

‘Really! It’s spring outside, time for love and joy…’

‘I could have scribbled that myself!’

‘Dima, you can’t write your name properly, let alone paint something!’ The three girls burst into laughter as they walked away. Their friend alone froze here staring at “Three Minutes before the Storm”.

‘Do you paint them yourself?’ asked the fair-haired girl.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘They’re beautiful.’

I usually don’t respond to such comments, but this time I quietly said: ‘Thank you.’

‘Could you teach me?’

‘Teach you what?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘I like the way you choose the hues. I think this is what adds sensuality and expressiveness to your pictures, making them special.’

To be honest, I was enraged. I had always known that my paintings were different from those of others, but it had absolutely nothing to do with my choice of paints. It was the years of pain went into each one of them.

‘Back to your classes!” I snapped, making the young girl shift her gaze from the paintings to me. Her very familiar gaze, which shone like two small bright lights, confounded me.

‘We have no more classes today. Could you teach me? My family will pay for it,’ she said with a mixture of impudence and pleading.

‘Look here, I’m not a teacher and have no desire to become one today. I paint for myself. If you like what you see so much, then just bring by your parents and let them buy you these pictures,’ I said nervously, not wishing to go on with the conversation.

‘You’re rude!’

‘Me? Whatever. I couldn’t care less about what a passing-by high school girl has to say about me.’

Irritation flashed across her face, luckily her friend intervened in time to save me from this child.

‘Let’s go, enough loitering! We’re all waiting for you!’ she said as she dragged my buyer away.

‘I’m coming! Just let me say goodbye to this vulgar gentleman.’

‘Goodbye, Mr. Vulgar. I hope you will be able to sell at least one of your paintings. Though I really can’t see how!’

‘Bye-bye!’ I retorted and took out a fresh edition of the economic news from under the stall, in which I read every day about how my lovely country was heading, full steam ahead, to hell.

I stopped paying attention to the high school students going away or passers-by; I only diverted my attention to light a cigarette every now and then, for a cup of coffee or to respond to the occasional questions from customers about the price. Hearing the price, they would quickly disappear or try to teach me something with their inane remarks.

I usually disregarded comments about how pricey my paintings were or that they were not worth the money. Who is to say what is worth how much and I for one would certainly know my efforts’ worth.

‘Really, I sometimes get the impression that you just don’t want to sell any of your paintings,’ Gennadiy said, interrupting my reading.

‘That’s not true. I’m just waiting for that customer who will be able to recognise in these fragments of canvas something bigger than just a good combination of colours.’

‘You know Volodya, if you lower your prices, even a little bit, there’ll be a line waiting to buy your paintings. But as far as I can remember, it has been seven month in a row that nobody has bought any of your works.’

I said nothing in response.

‘You come here every day, take out the same seven paintings, and at the end of the day, you pack the same seven paintings in cellophane and take them back home.’

‘So be it. Or are you suggesting that I dump?!’ I replied with some irritation.

‘Vova,’ the old man continued, ‘your paintings are some of the more expensive ones here. So I would think that your arcane economic “dumping” doesn’t apply in this situation.’

‘And what if, Gennadiy Vasilyevich, I’m not here for the money?’

‘Well, then let me salute your manly ambitions before you go home and leave your paintings on consignment at some gallery. However, we both know that no matter how insignificant money may seem to our souls, it still plays a significant role for our bodies.’

Every time something comes out of this old man’s mouth, it’s like a well-said aphorism. What if he’s right? Perhaps I should have lowered the price a little. But what will I do after I sell all my seven paintings? He’s not aware that I’m no longer painting. That eighth love story still stands in my studio under a layer of dust, suspended on the canvas waiting endlessly to be completed. It’s almost a year now that I’ve had no time for it.

In the beginning, it was supposed to be a lush field of red poppies, where I, in love, chase her. But I could not muster the courage or inspiration to trace Marina’s image for the eighth time.

I do not know what has gotten into me. Before, there was not an hour that I would not think of her. All my works were incarnations of her and my emotions for her. But now it seems as if my feelings have somehow been dulled. My feelings and pain are still there, yet my desire to pick up a brush has gone. I guess I am not willing to sell these damn paintings, because deep down I do not dare part with them. Perhaps, time has been working against me selling these seven paintings to keep her in my memory. No, that’s not it. Why keep her in my memory, if she is forever alive in my heart? What nonsense! I interrupted myself mid-thought and started packing the paintings in the covers.

The ancient street lamps were lit on Andriivskyi Descent. Tracing with my eyes the reflection of the artificial light on the ancient sett paving, I walked down the street. As I headed downhill, I left behind a few remaining sellers, kissing couples, old women strolling and wives rushing home. All those who had someone to live for. To live for one’s loved ones and relatives. For all those who I no longer had. I, a lonely artist, with pieces of a heart that once loved.

‘Vova, look here!’ she called smiling and laughing as she climbed the pedestal of a centenary street lamp. ‘I’m crazy about you! I’m crazy about you! I’m crazy–’ I ran up to her, grabbed her in my arms and took her down. She was looking into my green eyes and whispering over and over again: ‘Crazy, can you hear me… I’m crazy about you, my dear.’

‘I’m crazy about you, my crazy girl,’ and we would stand motionless in our love bubble in the middle of the Andriivskyi Descent; and passers-by would envy us with kindness, smiles tugging at the corner of their mouths..

How can I forget all of this? For I had promised her, and myself, that no one would ever take her away from me. How wrong I was…

‘Good evening, Vladimir!’ Two old women greeted me at the porch of our five-storey house.

‘Good evening! How have you been keeping, Galina Olegovna?’

‘Well, dear, thank you. Meet my old friend, Olga Dmitriyevna. She, too, knew your mother.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ I answered pulling a smile to a sincere “nice to meet you” on her part.

‘I knew you when you were small still,’ the woman of about sixty years continued. ‘Your parents once brought you with them to the central railway station. At the time, I was working as an accountant there. Your family was travelling to Crimea on vacation.’

‘Unfortunately, as is often the case, our childhood memories are replaced with the memories of subsequent years. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you at all.’

‘That’s fine, I’m glad to see that you have grown into such a handsome and healthy man.’

‘Thank you for your kind words. Excuse me but I have to run, it’s been a hard day,’ I tried to extricate myself from getting to know each other any further.

‘Ah, Volodya, by the way,’ Galina Olegovna interrupted having recalled something, ‘an employee from the public utility service came by again today. Haven’t you repaid your debt for the apartment yet?’

‘No, not yet, haven’t been able to come up with money,’ I answered in embarrassment before the new acquaintance.

‘She said a large penalty had already accrued and asked me to pass you this envelope.’ The old woman opened her old-fashioned handbag and after fumbling around medicines packaging and newspaper scraps, she found the white envelope in question, which probably held another court summons for non-payment of debt. ‘Here you go.’ After taking a closer look at my packed paintings, she added: ‘I see you’re bringing them home again.’

‘That’s right, I always keep all that is mine with me,’ the old women smiled, and I, taking one more note from the utility service, bid them goodbye and went up to the fifth floor.

As soon as I disappeared behind the door of our entrance, and my steps up the stairs were no longer heard, Galina Olegovna, having again zipped close her handbag, began sharing the latest gossip and stories about the neighbourhood with her friend.

‘Olga, what a shame about Volodya. He used to be such a good boy, brought up well by such loving parents, always dressed to the nines, such a gentleman and so sociable. Fate was kind to him. I’ve lived in this house for almost forty years now and I had known his mother and father for more than three decades. They were so proud of him! Not only they, but we all were so proud of this boy! He received an excellent education and, by the age of thirty, became the director of a huge company, a corporation, as they say these days. Volodya was respected by everyone in this neighbourhood – from the baker to the mayor. He often travelled abroad and was always the object of women’s desires.’

‘So, what happened? Why can’t he even pay for his apartment now?’ the friend interrupted Galina Olegovna holding her breath in anticipation.

‘Oh, my dear, when a man is in a mess, some woman is surely to blame,’ Galina Olegovna tied a knot with her little silk scarf around her neck with affected dramatism and continued, ‘Who else but a woman can inspire or ruin a man.’

‘Has he fallen in love?’

‘Of course he has, sweetheart, what else,’ the companion said. ‘Head over heels.’

‘What was her name?’ asked Olga Dmitriyevna with aroused interest.

‘Marina.’

‘Marine almost.’

Ignoring her friend’s contribution, Galina Olegovna continued with her usual emotional tone: ‘They were such an incredibly beautiful couple. They were a pleasure to look at. And I should know, I would see them here often when they came to visit his parents, when they were still alive. They loved Marina as if she was their own flesh and blood. She was a bit younger than him but a perfect match. Beautiful brown hair, wasp waist, graceful gait, and her manner of speech… And what lively eyes! You could lose yourself in them. Perfectly charming. You know, she reminded me of myself when I was young.’ A sense of personal self-worth flashed on Galina Olegovna’s face. She glanced at her friend, who was completely immersed in the story and continued: ‘They were a couple for a few years, and their love added colours to this house and street.’

‘So, what happened?’ Olga Dmitriyevna asked impatiently.

‘Olga, please don’t rush me! Where was I? Well, their love was like in movies. He gave her flowers, carried her in his arms, bought her cars.’

‘Cars?!’

‘Yes, I think I have already mentioned that he was quite successful, haven’t I?’ Galina Olegovna approached her friend’s ear and slowly dragged the words, ‘Rich, very rich,’ and having straightened up again, she continued: ‘He was a paragon of the independent and successful type!’

‘What about her? What did she do?’

‘As for that, my dear, it remains a secret,’ the old woman said raising her eyebrows. ‘I had asked his mother several times about it. It was impossible to get Volodya to say one word about his personal life, and his mother dodged my questions. Obviously with my aristocratic descent, I wouldn’t insist. You know, I’m quite a modest woman and don’t like to meddle in other people’s business,’ remarked Galina Olegovna, adjusting her scarf again as if it was some halo of dignity. ‘But one thing I know for sure: it was Marina who taught him how to paint. She loved painting. One day, she showed me a drawing. And literally on the spot I was able to tell that she was talented. I remember, Volodya even opened an art gallery for her on St. Sophia Square.’

‘What a man!’ exclaimed her companion in delight.

‘Yeah, a real man is one capable of great deeds. And Vladimir was such a man. I remember, he even quit his career and business for her sake.’

Olga Dmitriyevna could not believe her ears and kept shaking her head in astonishment.

‘Of course, I do not know whether any of it is true, but I know for sure that there was a time when they moved to southern Europe. The tears his mother shed, anticipating having to part with the kids. I consoled her. Assuaged her. I kept telling her that it was all for the best. And to myself I thought that we all make reckless decisions when in love. After all, you have to agree that a person in love is a person who is out of his mind.’

‘Oh, how I wish my granddaughter would meet such a groom,’ put in Olga Dmitriyevna dreamily.

‘Don’t be so quick to wish someone else’s life for yourself. You never know what lurks beneath the surface.’

‘So, what happened to such a successful man? Why can’t he even pay bills?’ the friend asked Galina Olegovna snapping out of her daydreaming. ‘How could someone who had everything hit rock bottom? Did you see how he looks? He’s tall and has handsome features, but his skin is grey and there are bags under his eyes.’

‘When he broke up with the love of his life–’

‘Did she leave him?’ asked Olga Dmitriyevna, perplexed.

‘You can say so,’ Galina Olegovna looked at the lit windows of his apartment and sighed softly. ‘You know, my dear, evenings are still chilly these days, and I am not dressed for the weather. Moreover, it’s rather late, we’d better go home.’

‘Wait, tell me what happened. Did she leave him?’

‘I don’t know. All I know is that he is alone here. And has been for several years.’

Galina Olegovna stood up from the bench, grabbed her handbag and adjusted her scarf. She hugged her friend.

‘I would love to ask you over for a cup of tea, but –’

‘Not to worry,’ the companion interrupted her, ‘I also have so many things to do before my husband gets home. Promise me that we’ll get back to this story later,’ and catching a promising look, she continued with gratitude: ‘I was glad to see you, to know that, at your respected age, you are full of health and strength, even just a year after your loving husband passed away.’

‘I’m very grateful to you for your support,’ the friends kissed each other on the cheek, like young coquettes and parted.

‘Why in the world did I loosen my silly tongue with a person who has never known the taste of loneliness,’ Galina Olegovna thought, returning home with small slow steps.

I arranged my seven paintings in the spot where they spent each night and sat in the armchair by the fireplace.

I stared for a while at the yellow flame, at how it was devouring the dry pieces of wood with abrupt pops expelling air from them. I was seeing off another evening of my life. I was recapturing the warm touch of Marina’s loving hands, taking in warmth from the fire. I could see her sitting on my lap, laying her head on my shoulder, pulling at the top button of my shirt with her delicate fingers, sharing her dreams and experiences with me. And as long as the fire was slowly burning, I would spend my time with her – the woman I love. I love just as I did before. Just as I promised to. Dearly and forever. Her only, my Marina.

Chapter 3

It was rather chilly in the apartment. Only a handful of ashes were left from yesterday’s fire. I had spent the entire night in the cosy chair without undressing. I glanced at my watch and got up with jolt – it was already eleven in the morning. I had to hurry up if I did not wish to miss another trading day. I was fully confident no one would buy them today, so I had breakfast, picked up my burden and rushed to Andriivskyi Descent.

‘Good afternoon, Vladimir.’

‘Good day,’ I said to a woman who was examining my works, as I put my coffee down. ‘Do you wish to buy a painting? There’s a discount today,’ my tongue let slip those two silly phrases.

‘A discount? So, what’s the price?’

‘Which do you like most?’

‘Any,’ she replied with indifference, as she looked fixedly at me with her brown eyes.

‘Wait a minute, how do you know my name? I don’t recall you as one of my regulars.’

‘Regulars?’ The woman broke out in laughter, so I had to take out a cigarette. ‘You haven’t had one single customer in 6 months, and I doubt anyone in the neighbourhood would be willing to pay for this junk. My name is Viktoriya Aleksandrovna Shlepko. I’m the head of the public utilities service, and you, my honourable artist, top our list of the biggest debtors. It seems you are no longer concerned about us having cut the central heating and telephone line in your flat for non-payment? Well, our next step will be electricity and water.’

‘Hold on,’ I interrupted this wound-up woman, ‘you won’t be able to do that if only for technical reasons.’

‘Believe me, nothing is impossible for me!’ she shouted.

‘No, you’re wrong. It seems that there is one thing you find difficult,’ I said with a smile.

‘What thing?’ Ms. Shlepko asked.

‘You can’t figure out how to make me pay my debt, isn’t that so?’

She took out some document and hurled it at my stall where my paintings were displayed, adding: ‘Legal action has been taken. Keep in mind that I will no longer wait till someone buys your paintings. Find the money and show up at court with it. You will pay dearly for my nerves! And for the time I’ve wasted on you!’

 Her shoulders winced in irritation and as she turned around and was about to walk away, my bleak words caught up with her: ‘I have no money for you!’

‘Well then, we’ll have to take away your desolate and most likely rotten dwelling.’

‘Are you planning on throwing me in the street, out of my own home?’ I was seething with anger. I took three steps, and was standing right in front of her, looking straight into her stony eyes.

‘Vladimir, if you’re unable to make a living from you blobs of paint, maybe you should think about drawing caricatures and cartoons?!’ she retorted grinning.

‘I’ll make sure the first one will be of your nasty face, Viktoriya!’

‘See you in court!’

She turned around and left me in the street with the summons and the disapproving glances of my colleagues and passers-by who had witnessed the entire scene.

The day went by over seven cigarettes. Perhaps the woman from the public utilities service was right to some extent: today, too, went by without me selling any of my paintings. Maybe my drawings were really good for nothing? Since I had never dreamed of becoming an artist. I had never studied painting. I merely painted what I felt… But apparently, those feelings were not enough for the paintings to sell. Not to worry, I’ll paint a dozen more. If I need the money, I can allow myself to draw a trite field of poppies or the domes of St. Andrew’s Church against the background of the spring sky. It’s very simple.

I collected my pictures and trudged home. Perhaps, you are familiar with the mood of a person who has decided to give up on his or her principles or, to be more exact, just decided to digress from them for a short term. To change the angle of perception. And for what? Obviously, for the money. Money is that for which many people veer away from their principles and views.

As I passed the benches near my house, I greeted Galina Olegovna mechanically, who completely alone this time was enjoying the fresh air of the still chilly spring evening.

‘Dear Volodya, the head of our public utility service, a highly respected lady named Viktoriya, passed by today–’

Not waiting for her to finish, I said: ‘So it was you who gave her directions to where she could find me?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry if this has caused you trouble.’

I was getting worked up and about to let the old woman have it for being a blabbermouth, but I stopped in time, showing tolerance and respect for her age.

‘She said that if one tenant fails to pay his utility bills, she has the right to raise the issue of cutting off the whole building from the services. Please, have pity on us, quite a few elderly people live in this house. I don’t even dare think what diseases we might catch at our old age if it gets cold in our flats. Immediately mould, mildew and who knows what else will appear on our walls,’ the old woman continued to dramatize. ‘But most importantly, Volodya, I wouldn’t like see any tenants denigrate your good name and the memory of your parents.’

With an affected sadness, she adjusted the silk scarf that enveloped her neck with a sea of blue.

‘Yes, of course. I will take the necessary measures. No need to worry, Galina Olegovna.’

I approached her, placing my paintings on the bench, and hugged her, thanking her for her support. The woman seemed to cheer up at once: her sad face transformed into a face full of understanding.

‘I’d love to help you. But my pension barely covers my medicines. And my children don’t earn much either.’

‘Oh, no, I would never think of asking you for money.’

‘But remember Vladimir, I may not have any money, but you can always come to me for advice.’

‘Yes, of course.’

I was about to pick up my paintings, when the woman asked me to see her home, as in such chilly weather she could easily catch a cold. Thus, she emphasised again that she would not survive were the public utilities be cut off from the house.

I took her by the arm and led her little by little, with small steps, into the entrance.

As soon as I was in my flat, I prepared a quick dinner, made some coffee and was firmly decided on painting some tacky pictures. I walked into my cold studio, put on my old, frayed and paint-stained jumper and started work on a new canvas.

I spent seven hours on those “Poppies” and, no longer being able to resist the urge to sleep, I collapsed on the bed. Sleeping on it, as they say, is usually a good idea.

When I opened my eyes, it was already noon. I got ready and had some breakfast. Having lit the day’s first cigarette, I looked out at the sunny day, thinking that it would be great to stop smoking, and inhaled more nicotine into my lungs. People get addicted by nature. So I’d rather be addicted to cigarettes than any of the other evils of our time. I walked into the studio, and as I took a look at last night’s creation, I felt sick to the stomach. “How is it possible that a real man can actually paint such nonsense?” I asked myself and immediately obtained a reply: “Money works miracles.” The painting was only half-finished and required quite a bit of effort to shape it up. I poured some clean water for the brushes and went into the kitchen for a coffee.

It’s funny how we condemn others and vow to never to do what they do, but the time comes, and all our old ways of thinking just go to hell. Especially when you’re short on those green bills or whatever colour they are in our country.

Here I am, painting stroke after stroke, mixing paints, changing tonalities, playing with light and shadow – all of this in order to survive. For I feel absolutely nothing now. You might ask whether I like what I’m doing? Absolutely not. I’m just going through the motions, with no underlying ideas or spirit. Actually, there is one – the spirit of money. For I really need your damn money, buyers! I stopped: my hand was tired of dabbing colours. I was sick of looking at this vacuity and having to admit that it was I who created it. Time for a cigarette. I take another Lucky Strike and, filling my brain with nicotine and the room with smoke, I removed the picture from the easel and placed it on the table.

“Very well, Vova, a bit more and I’ll sell this piece of crap, and forget all about it,” I thought and, holding the cigarette with my teeth, continued to paint. “What would Marina say if she saw me now?”

My teeth clenched into a smile, pulling the skin of my face, and memories burst into my head.

‘Honey, you’re selling your soul again for a buck.’ I remembered her face. ‘If you want to paint, go ahead, if you want to sing, go ahead, if you want to go crazy, go ahead. But do it with your heart, with one hundred, no, two hundred per cent. Our life’s too short to waste it on earning paper.’

‘You’re right, sweetheart. But this paper eventually can bring you so much joy.’

‘No, paper can’t. Money is nothing compared to the process of earning it. When you enjoy that process, you can proudly say that this is your work. So, just think: how can a doctor treat if he can’t stand listening to patients complaining? How can an investigator resolve another murder if he feels sick upon the sight of blood? How can your bodyguard protect you, if he dreams about becoming an actor in theatre? Do you understand?’

‘I understand, but still –’

She cut my phrases short. I did not dare object. I just wanted to hold her in my arms, capture our moments and make us a bit happier still.

I stopped. My cigarette was over. The pack turned out to be empty, and even the extra pack of cigarettes in the kitchen table let me down today. I do not like it when I have to go out to the store for cigarettes. “Why not quit smoking right now?” Indeed, it would be great. I used to do without them before just fine. I took off the coat I had just put on and went back to the canvas. I fussed over this same painting for about an hour more, but the result was still nauseous. This painting started to annoy me. It was not even the painting itself, but rather the idea that I needed the money. A man who once could afford buying anything in this country is now scribbling to earn some pennies for bread! Was this really the choice I made five years ago? Was this really, how I imagined freedom? Was this really something what I wanted to do?!

I put down the brushes and went to the bathroom to wash. The cold water washed off the sweat beads that had broken out on my forehead. I raised my head and looked at my reflection. I saw before me the same person who I was so unhappy to greet every morning. From the days of the former carefree and enthusiastic man, nothing was left. Where did my success go? My wealth? My will to live?

Well, it appears that all of it has gone along with her.

Thoroughly irritated, I grabbed my coat and went downstairs for cigarettes.

The day was imbued with spring. Birds were returning home from southern shores. The sun was thawing the remaining patches of snow on the ground. People smiled broadly. Even the ever-gloomy woman selling cigarettes in the kiosk wished me a good day. On my way back, I lit a cigarette, deciding that I would quit smoking another day.

‘Good afternoon, Galina Olegovna,’ I greeted my neighbour at the entrance as she walked slowly with a loaf in her hand.

The elderly woman turned to me and smiled. She wanted to adjust her brand new light green scarf, but one of her hands was occupied.

 ‘Hello my dear! It’s so good that I ran into you. I have a favour to ask,’ she said as she took my hand. ‘An old good friend of mine is looking for a drawing teacher for her granddaughter. I thought of you immediately. What do you think?’

‘Well, Galina Olegovna, I’m not really a teacher.’

‘It’s true, you may not be a teacher, but you’re an artist, aren’t you?’

‘An artist whose paintings don’t sell,’ I clarified.

‘Someone will surely buy them one day, but for the time being, this is a great opportunity for you to earn some money and do me a favour.’

I knew that it wasn’t worth arguing with this woman, so I promised her to think about it.

‘Do think about it. It is quite a wealthy family. I know the girl’s grandmother very well. It won’t be difficult to teach some basic techniques to that child.’

‘A child?’ I asked warily. ‘How old is she?’

‘How old, how old – what’s the difference?! She pays, you teach – that’s the main thing.’

‘I have absolutely no experience working with children!’ I said flatly.

‘So here you go, this’ll be your opportunity to gain such experience! Hold this for a moment please.’ Galina Olegovna handed me the loaf. ‘I have to find the keys in my bag… it’s always in such a mess…’ She began fumbling around her handbag, and I became aware that I have had an overdose of her these past days. ‘Here they are. Found them. Well, let me know your decision today. It would be unfortunate if someone else was to make use of this opportunity.’

‘By all means,’ I promised as I went upstairs to my flat.

As I approached my new painting, I had to pull a face again. The drawing itself was not bad, but it was simply vacuous. Perhaps, someone might find something to like about it, but all I could find was revulsion at myself. I had promised Marina that I would never become a slave to money.

I glanced at the envelope with the summons, considered challenging it, refuse to show up and not pay a penny. But it dawned on me that Galina Olegovna’s idea might be a possible way out of the situation. It was quick money. If the girl was still quite young, it meant that she did not know much about art and I would be able to teach her the basics quite quickly.

I bolted to the ground floor, and rang the bell to flat number three and promised the old lady to take on her offer.

‘I’m so glad!’ She threw her arms in the air. ‘Wonderful! I’ll give her grandmother a call and tell her that with my help, her granddaughter will get the most talented artist in town!’

I slammed the door to my flat, and the draught opened the door to the balcony. I started a small fire in the fireplace and went to the balcony… I was relieved.

I admired the view of the Andriivskyi Descent and the Dnieper. The mighty river had almost ridden itself of the blocks of ice that had been shackling its banks. Spring is the time when you have to rid yourself of everything that has shackled you so far. Alas, that is not an easy task.

I stood there basking in the sun. It was blindingly bright, and as I closed my eyes, I could see the woman I still incredibly miss.

‘Do you think we’ll never have to part?’ she asked.

‘I know we won’t–’

‘What if I leave?’

‘Where to?’

‘Just vanish. What will you do then?’

‘I’ll find you.’

‘What if you don’t?’

‘Then I’ll make you look for me.’

‘How?’ she asked puzzled and a gentle smile lighted her face.

‘I’ll simply disappear, and one day you will remember my love for you and realise that no one had ever loved you as I had.’

‘Vova,’ she paused for a moment, ‘I’m so happy to have you.’

‘Does that mean that you won’t be leaving anywhere?’ I asked teasingly.

‘No, silly,’ she said as she punched my hand with her small fist. ‘And don’t you dare leave either.’

‘And if I do?’

‘Then I will forever be alone.’

‘Wouldn’t you try to find someone else?’ I said pulling her leg/tauntingly.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re in my heart forever. And even if you are gone, I won’t dare give this place to anyone else. I won’t dare touch someone’s lips, give sweet names to another man. I will not let anyone else touch me. And spending cold evenings alone, I would reminisce how you had replaced the whole world for me. Not just the world, the entire universe.’

‘Enough,’ I interrupted her. I felt uneasy at the thought that we might part. ‘We’ll always have each other, no matter what happens, no matter what.’

I kissed her cheek and, hugging her around the waist, stood behind her.

‘Look, over there, the Dnieper meets its inlet,’ I extended my arm to the south.

From my parents’ balcony, there is a wonderful view of the Andriivskyi Descent and of the reviving Dnieper in the spring.

“The exact same view, but such different emotions,” I thought as I stood alone on the sun-bathed balcony. “I did not believe it, but you still left… If only you knew Marina, how indifferent I am to this entire universe without you. Without you…”

My lips let slip a few phrases, and the careless wind carried them away, around the corner of the house, and further away, maybe to the edge of the earth, where the world ends and the entire universe begins.

Chapter 4

I would wake up and stroke her chestnut hair, cover her shoulders with kisses, explore the curves of her dormant body with my hands, while she hadn’t yet opened her eyes from her slumber and she was not bestowing on me her tender gaze. A wave of pleasure would sweep over us; we would hide in the sheets. I would enter into her looking straight into her eyes. She would extend towards me and fall back down. I would hold her in my arms, taking pleasure in the movement of our bodies, the meeting of our souls. She would cry out my name in orgasm, and after a moment in fear.

We were in some dark deep waters. She was drowning, gasping for air. I tried to dive deeper towards her, but something prevented me from reaching her. Marina was stretching out her arms to me, but no matter how hard tried, I could not reach her. She was calling out, but I could not make out her words. Water was filling her lungs. She was going deeper and deeper, dissolving in the darkness. The water prevented me from reaching her, as if something was keeping me at a distance. I felt like my body was not responding to my mind. She was almost gone. I filled my lungs with the seawater, hoping to follow her. Something pushed me to the surface. Gasping for air, I flung my eyes wide open.

It was just another nightmare. I tried to pacify my heartbeat. Fragments from my dream would keep playing over and over again in my head. I leaned back on the sheets of my cold bed, stroking the space around me. She was not there. Never again will the woman I love lay there.

I would close my eyes and go back to her.

‘It’s only a dream’ Marina said as she stroked my head, like the mother of a frightened child, ‘a bad dream.’

‘You were slipping from me,’ I hugged her tighter.

‘I’m always here. I’m always with you,’ her lovely voice whispered to me.

‘Always with me,’ I muttered in my dream.

Chapter 5

The kitchen was a complete mess. It has been a long time since I had not cooked a proper meal for myself. Usually, I oatmeal with nuts and fruit did it for breakfast. Sometimes, I replaced that with an omelette and sausages. In short, whatever would take less time to prepare. My lunch always consisted of a sandwich and a coffee. When for dinner, I enjoyed deliveries. I loved Italian pizza and Chinese noodles. Of course, they were not brought in from Italy or China, but for the price of a coupon. These were the lavish dinners of a bachelor.

I was preparing steak with fried potatoes. Last night’s dream would not leave me. Outside the window, the thermometer had rocketed to seventeen degrees above zero, and it was only March.

“I’d love a drink,” I thought as I opened the bar. “Not much of a bar though.” There was a bottle of expensive rum that has been lying around for seven years, and a cheap bottle of wine. It was not lunchtime yet, so I left the rum there for another year or so and uncorked the wine bottle.

The steaks were starting to burn, and as if out of spite, the doorbell rang.

‘Coming!’

I quickly scraped off the pieces of meat from the pan and transferred them to a plate. I wiped my hands and headed to open the door for the uninvited guests.

‘Good day. My name is Valeria. Friends call me Valerie,’ said a smiling girl as she extended her right hand. ‘You are my new painting teacher.’

It was the same beautiful girl who had called me rude a few days ago.

‘Are you going to ask me in?’ she asked as she lowered her hand without waiting for my shake.

‘Yes, of course.’ I stepped aside letting my pupil in. ‘Rude?’ I asked smiling.

‘It seems so.’ Valerie nodded, and we both laughed.

‘To be honest, I was expecting you at three.’ The fingers of my hand reached for my eyebrows.

‘My dad was giving me a lift. He has some business today in downtown. We do not live close to the Andriivskyi Descent, so I tagged along. But if I’m too early, please let me know,’ she said as she moved slowly back to the door. ‘I can take a walk around here and come back in an hour.’

‘Oh, no. That won’t be necessary,’ I said trying to remedy the situation. ‘I’ve just made lunch. If you’re hungry, I’d be glad to share it with someone.’

‘Mmm…’ She closed her eyes and inhaled the smell of the food, adding: ‘I haven’t had a burnt meal for a while. So be it. I’ll keep you company.’

She laughed and without waiting for my help took off her coat, put it on the couch and ran to the kitchen.

‘How can I help?’

‘No need. I’ve already burnt what there was to burn.’ We both laughed. ‘Have a seat at the table.’

I served her a plate and one for myself.

‘Oh, that’s too much for me.’

‘It’s fine, you don’t have to finish it if you don’t like it,’ I reassured her.

‘You haven’t introduced yourself,’ the girl said boldly, looking straight into my eyes.

‘Vladimir.’

‘Patronymic?’

‘You can call me by my first name.’

‘You, too.’

She was probably insinuating that from the very start I was ill mannered to call her by her first name.

‘Bon appétit!’ I said.

‘You, too!’ Valerie replied.

‘Would you like some wine?’ I stood up for the bottle, which was on the table behind me, but then it dawned on me. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t, you’re probably too young to drink.’

Without looking up at the girl, I poured some red wine into a cup. When I was done, I was feeling awkward as she was staring straight at me in silence.

‘Is anything wrong?’ I said at a loss.

‘Yes, something is wrong.’

Valeria got up from the table. I thought I had hurt her, but she confidently came up to the kitchen cabinets and, as if knowing the location of the dusty wine glasses that I never used, took one wineglass. She rinsed it under cold running water, and came up to me, put the glass on the table and poured the wine herself.

‘I am seventeen already, and wine is the last thing that can harm a person at my age’.

She was seventeen. She said it so proudly. But she was only seventeen.

‘Well, to our meeting!’

Valerie raised her glass to my cup to clink, but I moved my cup away, took a sip and said: ‘I’m sorry, I don’t clink glasses.’

‘Why not?’ she asked puzzled.

‘I’m not used to it.’

She took a sip, sat down at the table and began to eat.

I do not know what confounded me so much about her, but I just sipped my wine slowly and watched her. “Can all schoolgirls be so carefree at this age?” I wondered.

‘Is anything wrong?’ she said noticing my gaze.

‘No, everything’s just fine.’

We went on with our lunch. To break the silence, I decided to ask her a few questions: ‘How long have you been painting?’

‘Two years. And you?’

‘About seven.’

She looked surprised but did not bother with the figures.

‘So, what do you paint with, Valerie?’

‘Watercolours, oils, pastels.’

‘Have you taken any painting lessons before?’

‘Yes, as a child, my parents enrolled me in an art school. I used to really like it. Then I quit, and only five years later did I get back to this hobby, which can become my vocation.’

‘Wow!’ I said as I nodded. ‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, if someone were to ask me what I’d like to do for the rest of my life, I would definitely say paint.’

‘That’s an interesting aspiration,’ I said and started cutting the second piece of meat.

As if not eliciting any real understanding from me, she looked down at her plate with the potatoes and steak and after having a small piece of the meat, said: ‘You’re not a bad cook.’

‘I don’t cook at all.’

‘Oh, then I’m very lucky that you decided to reveal this side of you on the day you were going to meet your new pupil. I will remember this dish.’

‘I cooked it for myself.’

She felt the nervousness in these words and changed the subject to one which was even more inappropriate.

‘Do you live here alone?’

‘Yes,’ I said quickly, tossed the last piece of meat into my mouth and started chewing energetically.

‘Why?’ the girl asked naively. She probably did not even realise that she was rubbing salt into my wounds with these questions.

‘Valerie, it’s none of your business.’ I placed my fork on the plate and stood up from the table. ‘Have you finished?’

‘Yes,’ she answered changing the tone of her voice.

I put my dish into the sink and was about to remove her dish, but I noticed that her plate remained mostly intact.

‘But you haven’t touched it?!’

‘I’m not hungry,’ she pushed her plate away and took a sip of the wine.

‘Well…’ I put her plate aside, took my cup of wine and invited my pupil into the studio.

‘Can I take my glass with me?’

‘Yes, you can. But I hope you won’t turn into an alcoholic during our lessons.’

She smiled again and followed me out of the kitchen.

‘How many hours a week would you like to attend?’

‘Vladimir, I have to fulfil some entry requirements to the Academy of Arts mid-summer. I hope to improve my skills greatly by that time and I think I’ll need at least one lesson per week. What do you think?’

I disregarded her question and asked whether she had brought any of her works along. Valeria took out her phone and showed me photos of her paintings. I was pleasantly surprised. This seventeen-year-old girl was definitely talented.

‘I believe you are perfectly capable of meeting those requirements without my help.’

‘No, Vova, you don’t know how strict selection is to this Academy. A hundred applicants per place, and all of them paint no worse than I.’

‘Well then, let’s make you the best applicant! How is the selection process conducted?’

‘There are certain criteria. We have to present our works, drawn from nature. They will be evaluated and only then I may be admitted to the competition, where I’ll have to demonstrate all my skills and painting technique.’

‘Then we should focus on painting from nature,’ I noted and lit a cigarette.

‘Right.’

‘Do you mind?’ I pointed to the lighted cigarette.

‘Not at all, go ahead.’

Valeria looked around.

‘So, this is your studio.’

‘Yes.’

‘And is this your latest work?’ She walked up to the table with the canvas with the blue sky and a field of poppies. ‘That’s strange, this painting is nothing like the ones I saw yesterday on the descent.’

‘You’re right. Do you like it?’ I asked her with dubious indifference.

Valerie was silent for a moment, then said: ‘It is different…’

‘How different?’ I said as I puffed out smoke.

‘It lacks that depth of sadness which I noticed in your other works. It is warmer but, at the same time, superficial, so to speak.’

I took the cigarette in my mouth again, came up to the girl, turned around the canvas and looked at it myself again. She was absolutely right.

‘I was painting it to make money to pay my bills.’

‘What about the other paintings? You didn’t paint them for the money, right?’

‘Right.’

This time she did not try to find out the details, apparently, she learned her lesson from the previous experience of questioning me.

‘So, how many hours would you need to spend with me to pay all your bills?’

‘It depends on how many hours I’ll be able to stand you.’

The corners of her lips crumpled into a smile again.

She was very pleasant and uninhibited as company, but her numerous questions have from day one either thrown me off balance or revived my ability to smile. I thought she was a cute and goal-oriented schoolgirl, who did not lack care on her parents’ part and was probably spoiled for choice with boys’ hearts. It was not surprising: Valeria was a beautiful, fit girl with already developed breasts and good posture. Her thick golden hair would charmingly change shades as it caught the light.

We went out into the balcony, and she asked for some more wine.

‘Are you sure you’ll be able to hold the brushes steadily after the second glass?’

‘Stop it. Someone is just afraid of getting drunk first,’ she said smiling.

I was not afraid of getting drunk. Yet the wine and cigarettes had already unwound me a little. I had not had alcohol for long. The winter did not predispose to that. For many people, winter with its holiday season is the period when the level of alcohol in their blood rises, but not for me. I practically do not celebrate those holidays that transform the homes of normal people.

‘Let’s begin then.’

I removed my painting from the table and walked out of the studio for a second. When I returned, I saw Valeria sitting at the table and examining the room’s interior.

‘What’s that?’

‘An apple. We’re going to compete in drawing this apple from nature.’

Drawing an apple is an elementary exercise that demonstrates a budding artist’s basic skills.

‘What will we use?’

‘Coloured pencils,’ I took out two sheets of white paper and pencil stubs from a drawer. ‘Here you go. We’ll start on the count of three. We’ll have ten minutes all in all.’

‘I’m ready,’ my pupil assured me.

‘Three!’ I started drawing.

‘Huh? Already?! What about one and two?’ She laughed, but having seen how fast my pencil was running on the paper, she set about drawing too, only adding: ‘Cheat!’

I smiled and continued to concentrate on the lines. Four minutes in and my apple was ready. All that was left was add some volume with colours. I began colouring without rushing and glancing at Valeria’s work from time to time.

She was doing everything right: contours of natural shape, a dimple at the top, and a base at the bottom. Time for shadows. I noticed how Valerie hesitated when deciding where to place the centre of light in the drawing. She was moving her eyes from the apple to the sheet and back to the apple.

‘Why are you peeping, cheat?!’

I smiled again and got back to my drawing. The ten minutes were running out. My apple was ready, and I watched Valerie finish hers.

‘Time’s up!’

She put the red pencil aside and moved her drawing towards me. I examined it silently, looking at her work. It had the correct proportions of the object, the shape was analysed constructively; the lines, strokes and the light and shadow ratios were well combined.

‘Well done…’

‘You, too,’ Valerie said as she passed back my drawing.

I realised that this girl was not a beginner, and decided to give her a more difficult task. I added her glass of wine and a low vase with painting brushes next to the apple. But something was missing. I got up and drew the curtains over the window and balcony door. I took out a thick candle, lit it and placed it behind the glass. The red wine shimmered with ruby hues in the crystal glass and the candlelight cast shadows on the objects.

I looked at Valerie’s face and realised that she would easily take on this challenge. I had to make the task even more demanding.

I lit up a cigarette and placed it glowing into a glass ashtray that was full of cigarette butts.

Valerie took a sheet of paper from the same chest of drawers, gave me a sheet and began to draw with enthusiasm.

The cigarette smoke slowly rose in a narrow wisp, skirting the contours of the glass and flirting with the candle flame. When one cigarette burned out, I replaced it with another…

We were drawing carefully, locked in a dark room in the middle of a sunny spring day. I have to admit, it was the first time in a while that I was enjoying this activity. I even turned on the music, which helped me relax and concentrate on the drawing.

When he turned on the music, everything transfigured suddenly. The darkness, the smell of the cigarette smoke, the play of the shadows in the glass of wine, the music drifting away, the man’s sinewy hands in the shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the scribbled curves and lines, his rare sighs, like measures of beats, his glancing and my shyness cast a spell over me and carried me away to distant shores.

I did not even dare to look at him anymore. Just the still life and my paper. If I said that I was able to focus, I would be lying.

I felt an unusual bewilderment. I found myself in a confined space, alone with a man I barely knew, who was lonely and could sometimes be rude. I thought he would try to make a pass at me. But his aloofness and detachedness for the entire next hour or two really astonished me. I realised that he was present physically, but in fact he was elsewhere, absorbed in the single source of light and the smoke around him.

We finished. The rays of the setting sun seeped into the room. The cigarette burned out. The candle went out.

He took my picture without even looking at it. In a minute, he was already helping with my coat and said that he will see me next week.

I was dumbfounded as I descended the staircase. There was something mysterious about this man… This something left me in a state of confusion and unusual curiosity. “Why is he alone?” this was only the first in a series of questions spinning in my head.

‘How did it go?’ her daddy asked.

‘Well.’

I was still under the spell of this new acquaintance when I got into my father’s black Audi, and we drove home.

A cigarette filled my lungs with smoke. I was holding the picture of this talented girl in my hands. It was perfect. Just as her life would be. Their car disappeared around the corner of the house. I left the unfinished cigarette to languish in the crystal ashtray on the balcony.

Chapter 6

The teal blue sea, bringing forth dozens of waves that rise and fall in furling white crests, with tossing blows battles the grey creation of man. Three hungry gulls scan for prey at the beginning of this pier, not heeding their ilk soaring upwards to the single beam of light. The birds are flying towards the sun amidst the cloud-bound, menacing sky. They do not suspect that a storm would soon break forth and flying would become unbearable.

On the other end of the pier, a couple in love is in hiding, whispering something to each other. A man in a tweed coat, wet from the salty water, is hugging a woman with chestnut hair blowing in the wind. Squeezing her with his embrace as if something is predestined to separate them any moment now. He is embracing her as if for the last time. For the last time, their eyes look at each other while his lips utter words dissolving in eternity three minutes before the storm.

‘How much is this painting?’ asked a middle-aged man in a black tweed overcoat. His left hand was hiding inside the coat pocket while his right hand was holding a black hat that was actually pointing at the painting.

‘Which one?’ I promptly replied.

‘With the couple on the pier,’ he said bending towards it as if trying to identify the protagonists.

“Three Minutes before the Storm…” ’ I said realising which one it was as I tried to calm the storm billowing inside me. I added: ‘It’s not for sale.’

The man scrutinised me with his big black eyes, with his left thumb and forefinger stroking his greying black moustache from top to bottom, and then looked back at the canvas.

‘I’ll give you ten thousand for it.’

‘I think you didn’t get me, it’s not for sale,’ I said as I cleared my throat to disguise my trembling voice.

‘No, I think’ – he looked at me over his shoulder – ‘you didn’t get me. I’m talking about ten thousand dollars.’

I pinched the edges of my lips and I stood up to him, looking right into his face: what type of a man was this who was willing to pay for one of my paintings a sum that an average artist barely made in months? At first he returned my look, and then, as if on command, we both turned to the painting. I do not know what he saw in this combination of paints and torment. I cannot even imagine why or for whom he was willing to splash out such a hefty sum. One thing I knew for sure, I could not just part with it. I silently looked at the painting and all I could see was my beloved and I standing at the edge of the precipice. I was experiencing the same emotions, calling for help to the sole and last ray of light streaming from the sky. I recalled how powerless we are before the elements, nature and the skies. Before those forces that furtively watch us from behind the clouds, casting our lots.

‘The painting is not for sale,’ I said slowly.

‘Then what is it doing here?’ asked the man as if a match sparked and immediately went out, following up with a new sum of twelve thousand now.

‘No,’ I refused again.

‘Fifteen.’

‘Unfortunately, no.’

The man looked at me in incomprehension, then looked around at the other sellers, the other paintings, and back at me. He did not move and was about to say something when I said:

‘Maybe you would be interested in any other of my works?’

‘Are you the author?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I think it would not be difficult for you to paint something similar one more time. I appreciate your other works, but I only wish to acquire this one.’

‘I understand,’ I said like a troublesome kid and looked down, ‘but I won’t be able to.’

‘Able to what?’ he frowned as he tried to make out my quiet, dry voice.

‘I won’t be able to paint another one…’

‘So, you find my offer to be too low,’ – I was mistaken to think that this man would be able to feel the full extent of this painting’s importance to me – he nodded and continued to bargain: ‘Fifteen thousand.’ He stroked his beard with anticipation, putting my principles to the test.

‘Unfortunately…’

‘Damn it! How much do you want for this piece of art?!’ he burst out in irritation.

‘I can’t sell it to you, or anyone else for that matter.’ I was still looking at the ground.

‘You know, artists are very strange people,’ intervened Gennadiy Vasilevich, ‘they paint for others, but when it comes to parting with them, it is as if they were giving away part of themselves. And the fact of the matter is that they are not always ready to give away a part of themselves, however weary they have grown of it.’

The man heard out Gennadiy Vasilevich and tried to overcome his irritation.

‘Well, I have offered a fair price for this work. Fifteen thousand US dollars. I am quite confident that most of you have never even seen such money in your dreams!’

Gennadiy Vasilevich put his arm around the man’s shoulders and moved him away towards his stall: ‘You have to understand, Vladimir is a very special person.’

‘Why should I understand? If he’s here, then he’s surely selling something. And why on earth would he refuse such a generous offer?’

Gennadiy Vasilevich did not attempt to explain to the buyer again why he won’t be able to acquire “Three Minutes before the Storm”.

‘Here, take a look at my works, I believe you will appreciate them and find value in them, too.’

However, the man in the black tweed coat only glanced at Gennadiy Vasilevich’s paintings and barely a few seconds later said: ‘Thank you, but there is nothing in these works that would interest me.’ He looked in my direction again and shouted: ‘You shouldn’t have turned down such an excellent offer.’ He put on his hat and slowly walked away.

‘You’re a weirdo, Vova, a total weirdo.’ Gennadiy Vasilevich patted me on the back shaking his head. ‘Just now you were not only offered a huge sum of money, which you turned down, but also the chance to come one step closer to your freedom. Freedom from your thoughts that ensnare and gnaw on you from the inside. These thoughts are very similar to those that have been pursuing me for many years.’

‘If they are truly similar thoughts, as you say, is it possible that you would have accepted his offer if you were in my shoes?’

‘If I were forty, yes. You are still at an age where you can let the full force of life into your days and change your way of being.’

I lit a cigarette and, without uttering a word, contemplated all of what had been just said.

‘Our thoughts bring our end. And in your case, your seven painted memories are only speeding it,’ he added.

I remained silent, blowing the cigarette smoke.

‘You are bound by your past, Vova. You are destroying yourself. Listen,’ he said as he shook me by the shoulders, ‘get rid of them and your life will be easier. You’re still young. Don’t take that path. I’ve been there. It’s a dead end.’

‘Why?’

‘Because one wonderful spring morning in your old age, you will wake up and realise that you are completely alone. You will understand that when your lifeless body will be lowered into the burial pit, there will be no one there. No one will shed a tear or shudder at your disappearance. Your friends, the ones you could have relied on, would have either passed away or would simply not come to say goodbye. Moreover, your memories of love will die along with you. Do you hear me? All your memories that surge in your heart will go along with you. And what will be left?’ – he went on with his train of thought calmly – ‘I’ll tell you what will be left. Your seven paintings, that’s all. However, if you can’t let them and your memories go, nothing but oblivion awaits them. Paintings don’t live without owners. Hiding away in attics, they’re useless.’

‘So, what should I do?’

‘Sell them or throw them,’ Gennadiy Vasilevich advised with insistence and walked to his stall.

‘This one? Three thousand hryvnia,’ he responded to the enquiry of a passer-by, ‘You’ll take it? Sure, I’ll pack it for you straight away.’

Seeing how he was selling another one of his paintings, I simply packed my seven works in their covers and left. I had to ponder all what had happened, the old man’s advice, my own feelings, everything.

Once home, I lit a fire in the fireplace, grabbed the unfinished bottle of wine and poured myself a glass. My seven paintings leaned against the old armchair like seven sirens calling to my soul.

Nevertheless, the old man was right: it really was not that easy for me to part with these paintings. They were the thread that tied me to the past. Each of them preserved the deep feelings of the love Marina and I shared. Some we had even painted together. Can the sincerity and the warmth of memories be ever really sold?

‘You’ll ruin it again!’ I shouted teasingly as soon as her brush touched the canvas.

‘Stop it, I won’t,’ my beloved would say as she tinkered around the easel fully concentrated on a small part of the canvas. ‘I would just like to add some shades to your grass.’

‘Hey, it’s my watercolour. And so are the shades!’ I said as I leaped from my chair grabbing Marina, putting her over my shoulder and carrying her away from the easel. Startled, she screamed, waggling her legs, menacing to paint all over my T-shirt.

‘Let me go, Vova!’

I carried her all around the flat.

‘Did you have your fun?’

I put her down.

‘Yes,’ I said in satisfaction as I caught my breath.

And at that very moment, using the brush that she was still holding in her hand, Marina started painting all over my face: I was turning into a cat with a green beard. She was laughing. Oh, how divine were her peals of laughter! I would have let her pour a whole jar of paint on me only to see her as happy. I stood motionless charmed by her laughter. Completing her work, having turned me into Shrek, she pressed herself to me and kissed me on the lips.

‘Well now, beware, I’ll show you now!’ I grabbed her in my arms and carried her into the bedroom. At first, she asked me to leave her alone. But later she could not resist anymore, begging me to punish her more and more. We started making love…

The flame crackled as it consumed the wood, while I greedily finished the wine. I would not dare get rid of the paintings; perhaps I am just a bit too thin-skinned. Deprived of his freedom shall be he who truly loves.

I took a box from the cabinet. It once stored cookies and now holds our memories. She started keeping this memory box on the first anniversary of our love. I, a thirty-three-year-old successful businessman, was just only considering offering my hand and heart to this girl. On the inner golden side of the lid, an inscription glistened: “To those brought together by destiny”.

The box held around two dozen Polaroid photographs, the Valentine’s Day card I gave her, my boutonnière from our wedding, the pearl necklace I offered her. Oh, how beautiful she looked with the rows of pearls framing her graceful neck… How anxious I was proposing to her, offering my hand and heart to her on Valentine’s Day.

Catching the glow of the fire, my wedding ring glinted with gold reflections. I still wore it. It had become an extension of me. Outweighing all photographs and gifts. The eighth thread tying me to Marina.

I took out the photographs and started looking through them. I knew each one by heart. I could repeat every word uttered in those moments flooded by the camera’s flash.

On this one it is the first time Marina got behind the wheel of a car that I had bought her. On that September day, she nearly crashed the brand new Aston Martin. Driving was not her forte, and like many other women she did not have a particular passion for cars. It’s a pity that the car had to be sold. It was really her style. Yet Marina did not really care much about how people perceived her. Her main virtue was compassion. She believed it was shameful to drive luxury wheels while majority in this country could barely make ends meet. Although, in my opinion, another reason why she rejected my gift was that she loved riding in the city tram. In this lovely time-wrought tram around Podol. The tram that slowly and deliberately moved along the old and narrow streets of one of the most beautiful cities on earth.

Often, something would spring to her mind, and on a day off she would drag me by the hand to the tramway stop. We would jump into the red and yellow tramcar and slowly accompanied by the beat of rails and mechanics, take a ride down the memory lane of her childhood. It was a tribute to the time when the parents of little Marina would take her to kindergarten and school in a tramway just like this one. Those memories were so sweetly preserved in her memory that it sometimes seemed that her longing for banging mechanical parts was stronger than her love for me.

She would always grab some change for such rides and pay the ticket for both of us. As if taking me out on a date. I would always joke that I had to repay her quite dearly afterwards for one such ride.

A young woman’s standing in a red knitted dress with her back to the viewer and a man’s hand in the frame: we were at her birthday. Blowing out the candles on the cake, she would make a wish to become my wife. I would have continued to make her dreams come true, if only God had given us more time. Perhaps, we would have been able to explore a thousand more universes for two, but we would never find out.

She has left me all alone in the fathomless universe of solitude.

No, I am not ashamed of it. I have even come to love this feeling, for beneath it lurks the opportunity to spend time with her. Even sitting here, spending this evening by the fireplace, I am not so alone after all, as long as the sparks of love for my wife continue to warm my heart.

When you are alone, you cannot figure it out straight away. Sometimes our daily lives swamp us so fully that even if we are in a love relationship with someone, we remain alone. Many a couple experience such a feeling in their family life when the breadwinner who provides the material amenities is engrossed in the mission of providing for the family. Such a menace loomed over us, too. In the first year of our love, I was still managing a bunch of quite successful projects in Russia and Europe, and, as a result, was spending many days and nights away from home.

When I was still a very small boy, I dreamt of travelling around the world and making big money. It took me a few years to achieve it. My dream came true when I was appointed executive director of one of the biggest Ukrainian companies. It was that year that we met.

Upon arriving in Kyiv from the airport, I would always pay visits to relatives and friends. But it was not the only reason for overcoming such great distances. It was in this city that I was able to find myself. During my walks in Kyiv’s parks I would find this unity.

One warm spring day, as I was whiling away before a meeting with an important state official, I strolled in a magnificent park stretching over the Pechersk hills. Women and men confidently swept by in business suits without outerwear. I, not having considered the weather conditions for that day, was suffocating in my beige overcoat, until I took it off and slung it casually over my arm. Thus, as I was strolling and lost in thought, I realised that I am already over thirty, and being constantly between Vienna and Riga or Moscow and Kyiv, I had remained a bachelor. It was time to live not only for myself or for my father and mother, but it was time to become a father and a husband. They may well be unusual thoughts for a guy, but these were exactly the thoughts that were on my mind on that day, the day when she crossed my path.

Suddenly all these thoughts about family and marriage came into focus. I saw her. A young woman in a beautiful light blue dress with golden brown hair. My steps slowed, and I could barely contain my desire to brush against this angel. Struck by her beauty and grace, I was too lost for words to be the first to strike up a conversation. Not to mention that chatting up girls on the street is not something I was brought up to do. At first she seemed unattainable, like a distant star to a pilgrim. Walking towards each other we simply parted ways without saying a word.

I could not but turn around, my eyes demanded more, my heart started beating faster. “I turned around to see whether she turned around to see whether I turned around.” Alas… The young woman marched on slowly and confidently, taking in the warm day. I did not know how much longer I would have to wait for my audience with the official, so I decided to follow the stranger. I turned around immediately and started following her slowly, and I was ever more charmed by her gait. She was so light, just like a bird in flight. Watching her thus for a few minutes, I realised that possibly she, too, was waiting for someone. Suddenly, she turned around brusquely and, with an unperturbed attitude, started walking towards me quickening her step. I wanted to say something again, but chickened out. This time, as we had twice passed one another, I was able to get a better look of her face, cherry-coloured lips and emerald eyes.

‘My name’s Marina, and I know that you’ve been watching me,’ I heard a woman’s voice say.

I stopped. It seemed that she was giving me another chance to make the first move, but I, a fool, missed this chance being at a loss.

‘I’m Vova, pleased to meet you.’ Our eyes looked at each other and our hands touched for the first time. ‘Why don’t we have a cup of coffee?’

‘I’m engaged, but why not.’

It was as if someone had poured a bucket of hot and then cold water over me. My smile resulting from touching this young woman almost disappeared. But there was no room for disarray anymore. I quickly remembered a good restaurant located in the vicinity and we headed there.

Fortunately, Marina turned out to be very sociable and spontaneous. The barrier that sometimes arises when meeting a new person was as if demolished by a bulldozer. Only two minutes into our walk towards the place that served excellent French snacks and hot Belgian chocolate, we had burst into peals of laughter. That day I found an incredible lightness of being. A stranger had offered me this happiness in less than five minutes.

‘Good day, Vladimir Romanovich,’ the restaurant manager greeted me obligingly as we came in. I felt like a Communist Party bigwig in the times of the Soviet Union.

‘They even know you by name here, Vladimir Romanovich. Do you moonlight as this establishment’s promoter?’ said Marina jokingly.

‘Well, I have no choice at times,’ I said playing along.

We were seated at my favourite table, at the window on the second floor. I was a friend of the restaurant’s owner and we often had lunch together at this table in between the daily hustle and bustle.

‘So what do you do?’ asked my new acquaintance with sparked interest in her eyes.

‘I’m a test pilot.’

‘Test pilot?!’ she burst out delighted.

‘Not really, I was just making a joke, in fact I am just an employee in a big company.’

Her enthusiasm died down.

‘And you?’

‘I work in marketing, but my heart is not in it, I like painting. That is why I create designs for various products.’

Marina named a few brands noting that their designs were developed with her help.

‘Quite interesting,’ I remarked.

‘In fact, not quite. I’m actually thinking of quitting my job.’

‘How come?’

‘This job simply steals too much time from me, and I have none left for my hobby.’

‘Interesting. I hope you’re not drawing in children’s colouring books?’

‘No. I prefer Japanese manga, if you know what I mean.’

We both laughed. She was pretty damn witty too.

‘What’s your hobby?’

‘I earn money.’

‘Boring.’ She deliberately yawned.

The waiter brought us the menu. My acquaintance was lost before all the choices. Whereas I was replaying in my head her saying that she was engaged, looking at her fingers that displayed a couple of nice rings. I could never remember which finger wedding rings went on, as I was not an expert at these things.

‘Could you suggest anything?’ she asked as she flipped through the menu.

I readily responded to her request and after enquiring about her preferences, I recommended my favourite dessert. The order was made.

‘Marina, has anyone ever told you that you were very beautiful?’ I let the sentence slip thinking: “Why did I ask something like that, what a fool, of course she has been told.”

‘Thank you.’ The girl accepted my inept compliment. ‘The weather is excellent today,’ she said looking through the window flooded with the sun and enquiring about what I was doing in the park.

‘Taking a walk. The weather is gorgeous indeed. And you?’

‘My office is nearby, and it is lunch time,’ she said as she flapped her lashes and looked at her watch, ‘was lunch time.’

‘Do you have to go?’ I asked barely able to conceal disappointment in my voice, fearing that someone might be waiting for her and that our time together could end here and now.

‘No. I have agreed to have a cup of coffee with you. And they still haven’t brought us our coffee,’ said the beautiful woman reassuring me.

‘That’s good.’

Actually, on that same day I experienced a feeling that is widely known as love at first sight. Marina was divine. Her looks, voice, manner of speech and being. I was spellbound from the very first minute. And each subsequent minute with her I felt growing attraction. It was a string of electrical charges between two people, a string that bound, warmed and drew two hearts to each other.

We drank hot chocolate, talked, nibbled on sweets, laughed. And our conversation became more casual. As I walked her to her office, I finally mustered the courage to ask: ‘Marina, when we first met, you said that you were engaged, is that true?’

She stopped, took off a ring from one finger and put it on the other hand.

‘No, it was a meaningless phrase.’ Marina turned her face away and then looked at me with great tenderness and faith. I decided not to delve into the details of why she had said that, I was just happy to have such an opportunity. I did not let the opportunity slip away and immediately asked her on another date.

I took our first photo out of the box. We were strolling on Khreshchatik on our second date and she dragged me into a photo booth where you sit and grimace while it clicks away giving out an entire strip of photos. I obviously looked like an idiot on most of the photos. But these are precisely those photographs that captured on film her incredible laugh.

Today I would give anything to merit this woman’s laugh.

The fire in the fireplace was flaring at times and then subsiding. It was time to throw in some more wood. I sat back in the armchair and threw back my head.

‘Why did you go?! Why did you leave me?! Marina, Marina…’ My eyes were filled with sadness and my blood spread a fire in my body that was burning my heart.

I was alone and I wasn’t. Physically the apartment is at my disposal. But I know that her presence always accompanies me. And perhaps, even now, this quiet evening, she is feeling sorry for me, calling on the fire to warm me as she can no longer do herself.

The bell rang. I got up to get the door.

‘Valeria?’

‘Hello,’ said a girl wrapped in a scarf waiting at the doorstep. ‘I apologise for not calling first but I don’t even have your number.’

‘Come in,’ I said.

‘I’ll only be a second. I might have forgotten my clutch here.’ She looked around, bent down and from behind the couch pulled something that belonged to her. ‘Here it is. It appears that when I was leaving, I was in such a rush that I dropped it. Are you okay? You look preoccupied. Is anything wrong?’

‘No, all is well. I just wasn’t expecting you.’

‘Vova, if you give me your telephone number it would be easier to agree on lessons.’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t have a phone.’

‘You don’t have a phone? How could that be in the twenty first century?’ Her eyes were out on stalks.

‘That’s just how it is’ I said smiling.

‘No mobile or landline?’ she asked to verify.

‘No.’ I really did not have a phone. Nor did I have people to call or who could call me. And there are no phones in the otherworld.

‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re strange?

‘Yes, has anyone ever told you that you’re strange?’ she asked looking at me in disbelief still.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I asked having decided to show hospitality.

‘Yes, gladly. It’s freezing outside today, and at your place the fireplace is burning as usual.’ Without taking her coat off, she walked into the hallway seeing the burning fireplace in the studio.

‘Yes, I too keep warm as it turns out.’ I remembered that I did not have tea. I usually have coffee. ‘I offered tea but I don’t have any. Maybe some coffee?’ I asked apologetically.

‘No, thank you. I don’t have coffee in the evenings. Well then, maybe some other time.’

‘I can run to the store downstairs,’ I proposed without really knowing why.

‘It’s really not a big deal, don’t bother,’ Valerie assured me.

‘Make up your mind. I have to go out for cigarettes anyway.’ I began putting my jacket on.

‘Maybe you’re busy and I’ll be keeping you from something?’

‘It’s not a problem,’ I said trying to show hospitality again, besides it was clear that she was truly freezing. ‘Take your coat off and go into the kitchen, I’ll be back in five minutes.’

He closed the door as he went out. I was left alone. But I had a feeling that someone was nearby. I unbuttoned my coat and approached the fireplace to warm up. It was a nicely ornamented old fireplace executed in black marble with brown wood inlays. I wonder how they got the permission to install it in a five-storey building. Judging by the cold heaters, it was this piece of equipment that was warming the entire apartment. I sat down in the armchair next to the fire and accidentally hit something that came crashing on the floor. It was a box with photographs and trinkets. I hurried to quickly fix everything and return it to its place, but the photographs piqued my interest.

All the photographs were showing my new teacher hugging a beautiful woman, glowing with happiness. At first, I could not believe that the guy on the photos and the man that I knew for the second day were the same person. They were on a beach, in a park, in a photo booth, at a birthday party… They were a beautiful couple. Every photo effused love and tenderness. I even wished I were in the place of this beautiful woman. They were wonderful. I neatly put everything back in place and gazed into the fire. “Why aren’t they together?” I wondered, but was aware that I would not be able to ask such a question at this time.

My cheeks recovered their colour from the fire. I warmed up; it was even hot. I took off my coat and left it in the hallway. A cold gust of air rushed from the front door opening. Vova was holding a packet of tea.

‘It’s true, the cold outside is really not typical of March, but I managed to get some tea. Shall we?’

‘With pleasure.’

We walked into the kitchen; he put the kettle on. We sat at the table.

‘I’m sorry but I forgot that I had nothing to offer you with tea.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘How come? Don’t children like sweets these days?’

‘Children might still like sweets, but a high school student watching her figure, doesn’t.’

‘Is that so?’ Vova said letting out a laugh.

‘Indeed.’

‘And how is this high school student’s love life going?’

I do not know why but such a question coming from this man made me highly uncomfortable. However, sensing that this could be an excellent opportunity to touch on a subject that was eating at me, I responded with sincerity in the hope of establishing a trusting relationship.

‘I’m not lost for choice with boys. But I’m in love with just one. Although he’s an idiot. I guess all boys are idiots in their teens.’

‘Oh, I see that you madam are perhaps over that age?’

He laughed at me.

‘No, but sometimes these boys behave so strangely that there’s nothing one can do but stop speaking to them,’ I said with a slightly raised voice as I remembered how angry I was at my boyfriend.

‘It comes with time.’

‘What comes with time?’ I asked trying to understand Vladimir’s advice.

‘A sense of tact and good judgement.’

‘Oh, I think that women and men will always be poles apart.’

‘Is this what your mother tells you?’ He smiled again.

‘No, my grandma.’ I was getting annoyed with him not taking me seriously. ‘My grandma really believes that men and women are too different to be perfectly happy with each other. But it is this same polarity that attracts them to each other, filling the gaps of one with what the other has.’

‘Interesting theory,’ responded my companion to my grandmother’s idea, ‘What if two people meet who can offer each other perfectly calm happiness?’

‘You think?’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I think that even Cinderella had squabbles with her prince.’

We both laughed.

‘Sometimes, something so ridiculous comes to my mind and I can’t help but blurt it out. Nevertheless, with every passing year, it seems to be happening less and less.’

‘Obviously, you’re growing.’ Vova got up for the kettle and poured boiling water into the cups.

‘Vova… You’re a man, an adult, tell me, did you ever have a relationship with a woman without a single squabble?’ This is how I decided to steer the conversation towards the subject that was of interest to me.

He thought for a minute, possibly recalling all his amorous affairs and then, sitting down he said: ‘There is not one love relationship that does not have its share of fights. How do you know that the tea is sweet if you haven’t tasted bitterness before?’ he said as he caringly offered me the hot cup of tea. ‘Here, warm up.’

‘Thank you.’

His company and our conversation definitely warmed me quickly. He always seemed so glum at the start, but so far I have managed to quickly elicit a smile on his face. And I think that he did not regret taking me on as a student. At least now he had someone to have tea with in the evenings.

‘We should think of a way to reach you, it’s really difficult without a phone. I don’t think I’m ready to send letters with pigeons.’

Finishing my tea, I continued to pester him with my questions for a little while longer, but I was not able to ask him straight out. Perhaps it wasn’t even worth it. When our cups were empty, he offered me some more but I declined. I didn’t want my parents to worry and the phone tucked in my jeans pocket was vibrating from time to time. It was most likely text messages from my boyfriend. But since we had an argument recently, I could afford to switch on the “do not disturb” mode and torment him with my silence.

‘Thank you for the tea and the company, I think I should be going.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he said with a smile and got up first.

Seeing me to the door, he made sure that I did not forget anything and wished me a safe trip home.

I was walking to the tramway stop within easy reach of his house and the pictures that I had seen were going through my head. I did not know what had happened, but judging by everything, he loved this woman deeply. I was hoping that some day he would want to tell me all about her. For now it was none of my business.

The tram finally arrived and I got on number seven that went straight to my house, enjoying the views of Podol at night. Ah, I really didn’t feel like going to school tomorrow… Seeing Vlad again. Remembering Vlad, I took out my mobile phone and I was right – it was his texts that I was receiving during our tea with Vova. I read them all and, without replying, I glued my face to the window, behind which Kyiv in the night was lighting up with a thousand strewn lights.

I took a shower, put on my bathrobe and went back to the armchair by the fireplace. With a gentle hand I closed the box and put it back in its usual place. Then I took the paintings standing nearby and placed them around the studio.

Yes, I could not part with them. I could neither sell them or get rid of them. They could not fit in that same box. Leaving them in clear sight, I was laying bare the feelings Marina and I shared, that lived in these works. And if Gennadiy Vasilevich believes that paintings die with the artist if they are not offered to the world, then so be it, it is not such great loss. I did not consider myself to be particularly talented. Just an ordinary amateur with the feelings of a man still in love. Perhaps the rekindled memories would inspire greater things in me.

Life is about decisions. And my decision is not let her image out of my heart. As long as I can hold her near me, I would know that she is still here, that we are still together.

Chapter 7

'Hi. Why aren’t you at school?'

‘Hi. My classes are over.’

‘I thought that high school students had a tighter schedule.’

‘Don’t be smart! Better tell my why you’re not on Andreevskiy Descent. I went over the stalls twice looking for you.’

‘I’m taking time off.’

‘Time off? Are you planning on going somewhere? Are you thinking of getting away from me?’

‘If it were only possible!’

Valerie laughed and slipped a small box into my hand.

‘Here.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Your new mobile phone. The SIM is already in.’