Into her eyes, the wind drove smoke and ash from a poorly kindled barbecue and made the sky dissolve. Celestial bodies rolled about like billiard balls, be it the stars, the moon, or satellites with the ISS. Our heroine felt them upon herself, their brightness, their weight, their distance, both physical and metaphorical. The sky above the dacha was clear. Visibility stretched far, so far, that one's eyes rippled from all its magnificence. Too beautiful, she thought. Such beauty ought not exist. Such beauty could drive one beyond wit. Such beauty should be outlawed, denied legal counsel, stripped of the presumption of innocence. It, this unattainable beauty, is the prime cause of all human joys and sorrows. Yet, for some reason, no one else paid any attention to this unattainable beauty at that moment. Instead, they looked at each other, and not just looked ("Would be terribly awkward, wouldn't it?"), but interacted, conversed, socialised. Was their interest genuine, or was this a game with untold rules that everyone pretended to play? The people around were far from celestial, not yet anyway ("Touch wood!"), and far from luminaries, except perhaps in sciences ("Fingers crossed"), but was pleasant to share the same space and time with them, to observe them, to analyse their Chekhovian or Beckettian dialogues for meaning, while remaining silent herself. She could crack a joke when appropriate, throw in a sharp remark, answer a question directed at her. Yes, there were oddly many of those — she had suddenly become interesting ("Suspicious…"). For hours, she could wait, listen and re-listen, all while drifting somewhere else. Always this "somewhere else", there's no escaping it. It's celestial, goo, visible yet untouchable, impossible even to give it a proper name, for words are never enough to describe what you'll never see. Some things have no name at all and cannot have one, so we call them names foreign to them, just to give them some form.
—Are you here?—with a hint of smirk asked her friend Alyona and sat beside her.
Me? Oh, if only I knew, she thought. Seems I'm here—here I sit. How are things? Going splendidly awful, no offspring to report. Here I watch the stars? Here I listen to Kolya's mediocre yet rather sweet guitar playing. But am I here? Perhaps. I'm just all dreamy, mysterious, unapproachable, with a special alt-girl aura, quiet but with volumes of Nietzsche and Machiavelli in my little black rucksack ("The straight-A student aura has long become boring to cultivate; straight-A students aren't interesting to anyone, and possess no mystery, except perhaps the ability to irritate those around them").
—Uh-huh.
—Not cold?
—Nope.
—Want a blanket?
—Won't say no to a blanket,—she smiled.
—Back in a sec,—Alyona smiled back and vanished into the dacha house.
Inside the dacha house, laughters could be heard. Loud music played, something from the charts, some nameless, thoughtless, worthless, mechanical repetition of three notes ("Sometimes even fewer") and verses about nothing. It wouldn't let her think, yanked her out of "somewhere else". Inside the house, she couldn't hear anything but the music, neither others' voices, nor her outer voice nor her inner voice, hence being there was a waste of time, meaning, and eardrums—pure, imbecilic decibels, in other words, music for dimwits. Even Kolya's guitar, though imperfectly tuned, had some soul and sincerity.
Alyona returned with a blanket and draped it over our heroine's shoulders. She brought a bottle of wine and plastic cups with her.
—Beautiful,—she looked at the sky.
Our heroine nodded. They sat, stayed silent. Silence is pleasant, you can observe it meditatively, like fire, the only difference being it doesn't crackle.
—Well then… Ripe for some?—asked Alyona and shook the bottle.
I'm not an apricot, thought our heroine. "Ripe…". Why does everyone use this phrase? Ripe for what? Ripe for wine? Ripe for a husband? Ripe for children? Being a ripening apricot would be far more interesting, for you can extract cyanide from it. "Ripe" indeed… this phrase in another context would seem like an attack, but from Alyona it sounded soft and unobtrusive. The cyanide wouldn't be meant for her. She probably wouldn't have said that word at all if she herself hadn't already been "ripe" for four glasses ("No, I'm not keeping track. The girl's grown up").
Everything from Alyona always sounded soft and unobtrusive. Suspicious, as it seemed to our heroine at first ("Truly suspicious"). Usually, if someone was kind and courteous, friendly and glowing with interest, it meant they wanted something from her.
—Maybe we could go somewhere?—they said.
—Looking good today, you. Nice skirt,—they said.
—May I borrow your essay? No, I won't copy. It's for inspiration. I'm in some sort of writer's block,—they said.—I know it's about personal feelings, but isn't personal universal?
—It's five minutes to midnight on the doomsday,—they said.—Geopolitical situation is complicated. Our predicament isn't predetermined.
—You're the smartest girl in the class,—they said.—Did you know that?
—Oh, we were born on the same day!—they said.
—I'm a foreign businessman with a very, very big black Lamborghini and hair transplanted from my arse. Pleasure to meet you. Want to see my cock? Though why am I even asking.—they said.
—Massive, indeed, like your mum.
—I'm honest, I'm always honest with you,—they said.—No, my sincerity isn't ephemeral. It actually exists. No, why are you saying it? No, I don't have "an ulterior motive". It's your "motif", thinking that. I just want to be friends.
—Oh, please,—she said.—Spare me, won't you?
With Alyona, with Kolya, and the others gathered at the dacha, there was none of that. They needed nothing from her. They, like her, enjoyed sharing the situation, gossiping about professors falling asleep during lectures, deans running corruption schemes, discussing anything but studies, laughing at her politically incorrect jokes, except those about God, for Alyona took her baptism too seriously ("The girl's grown up").
Our heroine didn't notice how all slow rationality abandoned her, and something inside her decided—ripe ("The girl's grown up").
—Really?—Alyona couldn't believe it.
Our heroine and alcohol were supposed to neither be mixed nor shaken, not invited to the same party, kept apart in every way possible, even putting them in the same sentence wasn't recommended, or else one might receive a witch's wrathful glare, a disgruntled feline hiss, accompanied by "I've already said I don't drink", "Well, maybe you've changed your mind?", "Maybe I haven't changed my mind", "Well who knows, maybe you have changed your mind after all", *threatening screech of rolling eyes*.
—Pour before I change my mind,—she felt coldness on her neck.
The wine appeared winely, for she knew well what it looked and smelled like. At every family feast, there was always cheap cardboard box wine for the ladies and vodka for the gentlemen. In respectable company, the form of alcohol wasn't important, for everyone got sloshed in the same manner and practiced the same disgusting behaviour, though each in their own way. They did and said things they wouldn't do or say otherwise.
—She can drink already. She's here at the table with us adults. It's just a spoon anyway, isn't it? No more than a cough syrup.
—She mustn't, she's only a girl.
—Oi! Look at him, ha-ha. Face in a salad.
—I wash my rug every week. They say it in the news.
—The capital punishment is what we need.
—You, uncle?
—Well, not we, the country.
—Why would you wash your rug every week? What's the point?
—Look at her, grown up everywhere in every way, a fine girl, I must say. Can't believe she's only fifteen, can you?
—Wasn't your grandfather executed by the KGB?
—There was no KGB back then.
—There was, always been.
—I just use washing powder, there's no secret.
—You blink, and she's married, just wait. The girls are nasty these days. You'll babysit your grandkids soon, I'm telling you. Look at her.
—Do you know Galina, a friend of mine? Her son, Denis, they spent a week with us when you were three, got all As.
—I heard he's also grown up everywhere, in every way. Back from the army, he is.
—No, mum, he and his brother have one brain for two.
—Don't say that. Why would you say that?
—He's an idiot, mum, it's no secret to no one, is it?
—Listen to her. Young but already cunty.
—Language! She's a teenager.
—Should it be whitening washing powder?
—I heard they just use soot because why not.
—Why not indeed.
She would crawl into the wardrobe in her room, plug her ears, wait for it all to end. If there was no wardrobe, she would just sit, ignore everyone and everything around here and be "somewhere else", somewhere where she had all the bitterest remarks to every retarded dialogue.
—Well, how's the wine?—asked Alyona.
—Like wine, I suppose.
—Tasty?
—Strange. Sweet.
—Georgian.
—Thought it would be bitter.
—There's bitter wine too, probably.
—Like what?
—Like bitter wine, I suppose. Ha.
—Like wallpaper paste?
—Wallpaper paste??? What does wallpaper paste taste like?
—Very, very, very bitter.
—Did you taste wallpaper paste?
—Accidentally. I was bored when everyone was putting up wallpaper. I was five.
—What was the wallpaper?
—White as a hospital.
Alyona smiled. She had a beautiful smile. She could sing too, did ballet, had fair hair, but wasn't friends with mathematics, wouldn't have managed without our heroine—in other words, her complete opposite.
—Really never drank before?—Alyona asked.
Our heroine shook her head.
—Nope.
—You're having me on.
—Nope.
—Everyone drinks.
—I don't.
—Never?
—Not in my memory.
—Why?
—First it wasn't allowed, then didn't want to, by inertia, then read "Brave New World", and well… you know me,—she finished the phrase and took a few sips.
Besides sweetness and the taste of surrounding smoke, she felt little else. It burned her throat slightly, like cough syrup. That was all. How much does one need to drink to get drunk?
—What would a female Savage do? I mean, what if the Savage were a woman?—asked Alyona.
—Anything but suicide. Why all that drama? She'd fly off to a retreat on a quiet island in the Pacific, get into numerology, write a book "How I Escaped Toxic Consumer Society and Found Myself". Or just marry some City trader and open a yoga studio.
Alyona laughed with a full mouth, spraying wine on the blanket.
—What?—smiled our heroine.
—A bit cynical, don't you think?
—You know I'm cynical.
—You're not, though you want to be. Not everyone's an influencer these days.
—Not everyone, but even Thoreau would have a TikTok about life at the lake.
Alyona's laughter was ringing, almost childlike, unlike our heroine's.
—A toast. We need to drink to that. This one's on you.
—My first glass, and you want a "toast". I've no experience in the matter. I don't play games I cannot win.
—Well, learn and win.
—People probably spend years learning before winning.
—You're clever, learn quickly.
Our heroine couldn't deny that. In a dead end, in a dead end, in a dead end. She didn't want to think about anything, for thinking meant being "somewhere else". To think—means to immerse yourself in one fantasy, which leads you to another fantasy, and then to a third fantasy, and so on, spiralling. Yes, respected teacher? Where am I? I'm here ("Actually, I'm somewhere there"). I'm not distracted at all. No, I'm not thinking about boys. Get a grip, do you think I'm a stupid girl? A nymphomaniac? I think about great things, Varvara Petrovna. If you think about boys, doesn't mean everyone's like you. What am I allowing myself? Nothing special, nothing that wouldn't be within my powers, the powers of a student. You asked, I answered. You won't give me a failing grade anyway, even for bad behaviour, I behave well, or rather "not at all", behaviour interests me little, and you can't reproach me for unfinished homework, unlearned verse, unsolved test. I know everything, sometimes even more than you ("Right, what was I… ah yes, toast!")
—To all this fuckery!
—Ha. Just like that?
—Well what? I don't know what people usually drink to. To health? To love? To peace? To friendship among nations? To a bright future after dictatorship?
—Sometimes you can drink to all this "fuckery", I suppose.
—Well then, to all this fuckery.
They raised glasses and clinked, though plastic against plastic doesn't create an authentic experience. Our heroine emptied her cup in an instant.
—Well, you're going for it, girl.
This was purely intellectual interest and pathological curiosity. The expected sensations of intoxication weren't there for some reason, and our heroine wanted to understand what was wrong with her again, and what would happen when / if suddenly these sensations appeared, what they were like, what would become of her, and what of her "somewhere else". Mother sees Spot run, father drinks beer, mother scolds, father hits, mother cries, I hide, first in the wardrobe, and then, when the streams of spirits reached it and began to seep inside through the embrasure between its doors—in "somewhere else". Advanced problem: when she starts drowning in wine with, how will Gandalf come to the rescue: on eagles, on a blue helicopter, on a yellow submarine, or on an ark ("Without a pair, please—the world won't bear two of us")?
—Want more?
—Don't know yet.
—Who knows, maybe you're wild.
—Me? Wild?
—Maybe wild, and we never knew.
—Anything but wild.
—Who knows, quiet-quiet, but here you are—wild. Your classified personality will reveal itself.
—Better you don't see it.
—We don't know that yet, maybe she's nice and not wild at all. Tell me, what do you feel?
—Nothing,—she shrugged.
—Stand up, walk around. Get your blood moving. Stand up, it'll go straight to your head.
Wrapped in the blanket, our heroine rose and began taking big steps along the garden paths laid with blackened boards, to the fence, around the barbecue and back ("Hmm… Not even wobbling a bit"). The sky was clouding over and the celestial bodied started fading.
—Nope. Nothing.
—And in your head nothing?
—Nope.
—And your mood? Happy?
—I wouldn't know, I'm always happy.
—Oh, sure…
—Well yes.
—Comédienne.
—Secret happy personality.
—That's for sure.
—Pour more. I get more drunk from kefir.
—Truth is in wine.
—In vino veritas.
—Lush.
Why do people always dissolve into etherial substrates? Poof! And gone as soon as you stop reminding each other of their existence.
—We must see each other,—they said.
—Let's keep in touch,—they said.
—If you're in Tulubaika ever again, write me,—they said.
—At least post some stories from your Europes,—they said.
—No. I won't. You know I don't post anything.
The riddance is good, but where do they go? Were your school friends even real? Some managed to drink themselves to death, get hooked on drugs, go to prison, become family people, rare — fly abroad, even rarer — be found hanging from an old birch in Victory Park after, presumably, an unsuccessful escape either from fascists, or from antifa, or after some of them, or simply being a marathon runner. Got carried away, ended up in the wrong district, stumbled, hung on a rope, didn't even bother to soap it, didn't even invite to the funeral, what kind of person does that, eh… Friends, they say, are tested in misfortune, and better if these aren't misfortunes with the head ("Oh, seems like the fingers on my hands are starting to pulse").
—I'll step out.
—Go ahead.
In the mirror above the sink she still saw a familiar face, no red eyes or red swollen nose, only ears… ears slightly reddened, as did her cheeks. She ran her fingers through her hair to push it back. The skin on her head was tense, a tad less sensitive, yet more pleasant to touch. The experiment was going steadily, the subject was normal, no sudden desire to dance, nor to pour out her soul to those around or beat someone's face was observed, neither a straitjacket nor an adrenaline shot were required, on the contrary, mental activity was bubbling. She wanted to think, think more, think about everything, think about the past, about the future, about thinking itself, metathink, if you will, about the best moments, about the worst moments, about the best moments that became the worst, about the worst moments that turned out to be quite alright. Should have thought earlier, now you can't think it all in a couple of hours. Think, think, think, think, or you'll drown, weave a raft from thoughts, or you'll drown, think, think, think. No, don't think, don't think, don't think, or think about how to stop thinking, think yourself out of this thinking somewhere far away. Enough thinking for you, you've thought enough, thinker.
Rain began drumming on the toilet window.
How frightening, how frightening to be under control, and oh how frightening, how frightening to lose control, but how terrible is the desire to create uncontrollably, having taken control over chaos.
—Are you alright?—asked Alyona.
—Yeah.
The rain drove everyone to the table. They settled inside on old wooden benches covered with blankets to avoid catching splinters. The bottom of the hot three-litre teapot inadvertently stuck to the plastic tablecloth, making it shrink and wrinkle. The perpetrator of this mishap couldn't be determined.
—Want some wine?
Our heroine's face wrinkled, she shook her head and nodded at the teapot. Into a gigantic cup with a heavy bottom poured the so-called world-famous "fragrant dacha ambrosia", a sweetened tea drink made from mint leaves, gooseberry and black currant. She wanted to remember this taste. Soon, in a few days, she'll have views of the Mediterranean Sea from the office on twentieth-floor, unlimited espresso, seagulls crying in unknown languages, perfectly paved and treed streets, galleries, museums, theatres, and all such cultural things ("And the sun will shine more than once a year"). In foreign lands, over the hill, over the border, in strange parts, in the West, there won't be muddy pavements, no view of road potholes and puddles, no stinking buses, drenching you head to toe. There won't be still dark at eight in the morning and already dark at three in the afternoon. But neither will there be them, those very people, across whose faces her gaze jumped, to and fro, to and fro, as if recording how they distribute under- and over- grilled meat onto plates, serve improvised salads, cut and pass home-baked bread, wave forks, knives, napkins, make toasts, "clink" glasses, drink, laugh, make toasts again, "clink" glasses, drink, laugh, play guitar, sing, make toasts, drink, laugh, laugh, laugh, chat, take pictures, drink laugh, chat, chat, chat, take pictures. Cosy, strangely cosy, but at the same time suspenseful, as if she needed to be on guard, as if everything was unreal and out of time, not an event, not an occasion that was in her calendar and was about to end, but simply a phenomenon, a fragment of life into which she had stumbled by accident, and where she shouldn't have been, for she had always wanted to be somewhere else, but now, for some reason, did not.