The Fantastic Worlds of Yuri Vynnychuk

by Yuri Vynnychuk

  “Take care of my Danusya for a bit because I have an important call. Be careful she doesn’t mess up the whole bathroom!” His cousin tossed out at him as she flew out and disappeared in the next-door room.

  Boomblyakevych sat down on the edge of the bathtub, and the little girl, achieving her freedom, began to dive up and down in the water, to turn in every direction, showing him all her goods, because the clean, clear water even without that failed to hide anything. He looked at her as though he were under a spell. The little girl was, maybe, eight years old, but she was rather tall and plump, and on her breasts two little pink nippies were painted. Her full round thighs, as though she were doing it on purpose, didn’t stay together. She lay down in the bathtub, spreading them and riveting the eyes of her uncle to her puffed up lips, that had frozen in some kind of dreamy state, as though right after a kiss.

  It suddenly dawned on Boomblyakevych that this had been going on for several minutes, from the time the little girl stopped her craziness and had lain down in front of him in this embarrassing pose. She lay there and looked at him smiling, and his eyes darted nervously and continuously returned to the captivation of her thighs. Now he distinctly saw that the little girl was interestedly observing him gazing at her, but at the same time this was quite dangerous — what will her mother think when she finds her little one spread apart like that?

  “Well, take your bath,” Boomblyakevych said. “Keep bathing.”

  And he splashed water on her. The little girl started to laugh and puffed out her tummy, but she didn’t change her pose. Then he splashed water on her one more time. But the little girl refused to move from her spot.

  His hand, touching the water in which the little prankster lay, was no longer capable of retreating. A certain incomprehensible power drew it to the deep, to those little thighs that waited for his touch. He watched as the little girl swam around with a smile as his hand dove deeper and deeper and, it seemed, that diving would never end. The water wet his shirtsleeve that was rolled up above his elbow and began to rise up higher, his fingers already felt like they had to push forward to those taut little thighs, but for some reason didn’t push forward. He bent over the edge of the bathtub and even dunked his head into the water and, opening his restless eyes, tried hard to see where those little legs had disappeared. His fingers scratched the bottom of the bathtub, further along the sides, but it was empty everywhere. He plucked his head from the water and saw that there was no one in the bathtub. The water was not as transparent as it was at first, some kind of yellow cloudiness rose up to the surface, and waves spread in all directions as though from a breeze. He sensed this draft on his back and even began to sweat.

  He sprang up onto his legs and surveyed the bathroom with his eyes in terror. The girl had disappeared. Did she drown? Without thinking very long, he dove into the water and started to swim, nervously paddling with his arms, and from the bottom a caustic yellow fog rose up and blocked off his view, slashing and burning his eyes with fire. At every turn he sensed as though something were striking him along his legs, something like the tail of a fish or the fan of a coquettish little lady. Palmated algae stuck to his face, and his ears were already gurgling from the water, as though ringing springs with myriad tiny bubbles were beating, tearing upward, and it seemed as though his soul was being torn from him, and there was quite little left to do — just to open his mouth and let in the intrusive cloudiness in order to settle in these parts forever…

  With strength he pushed off from the bottom with his feet and sprang to the surface. He plaintively swallowed the air, but he already had no strength to reach the shore.

  Someone’s gentle hands dragged him to them, helping him get out of the bathtub.

  “What are you doing?” His cousin was astonished. “Why did you crawl into the bathtub with your clothes on?”

  “I… I was looking for her… she was drowning…”

  “The frolicsome girl?” His cousin began to laugh. “She’d sooner want to drown someone herself. Danusya, come on get out! Where are you hiding?”

  Boomblyakevych waited for the muddy waters to part and for the little girl to dive out of them, but the waters didn’t part, and instead a hamper with clothes opened up, and the tiny naked prankster jumped out, laughing uncontrollably.

  His gaze again fell on the water — it was just as yellow… What could it have been?

  “What kind of tricks are you doing?” His cousin chided her daughter. “Do you know how much you scared your uncle? Poor guy’s all wet.” Here she also took a look at the water. “Yikes! Well, you’re going to get it now! Who poured egg shampoo into the water?”

  And she smacked her on her bare little bottom that immediately became red and turned into a ripe apple; a full mouth of saliva congregated on his lips.

  “It wasn’t me-e-e, it was uncle-e-e,” the little one sobbed.

  From then on little girls constantly visited his imagination, and it was entirely the same to him whether they have round little rumps or ones like pears, whether they have breasts or just tiny nipples. The main thing was that they should be young kissie pie virgins — extremely sexy and obedient, inquisitive and seductive… Whatever you suggest — agreeable to everything. Just at the end you have to give them a chocolate, or a mandarin, or a little picture book…

  But when Malva appeared, all the captive girls were trumped completely.

  She first used to come just in those non-existent meetings and conversations, which he fantasized for the sake of his mother, but later one evening something happened that changed everything. Boobmlyakevych slid his hand under the covers and tried to summon from his imagination one particular little girl who lived nearby … He suggested to her to go on the roof to look at a star that was called Malva Landa…

  “Malva Landa?” She whispered and eagerly followed him.

  And there on the roof he hugged the little girl and randomly pointed his finger into the starry sky:

  “There, do you see it? That star — that’s Malva Landa.”

  “Oh, wow!” The little girl said, spellbound staring at the sky and entirely unaware of the fact that the hand of a grown up guy was petting her little round legs, petting her round little stomach, then taking off her little white underwear, with his lips falling to her round little bottom.

  “Malva Landa!” The little girl utters, as if she were under hypnosis, and sets Boomblyakevych onto his knees, and the entire starry sky, the completely starry sky watched with thousands of pupils as they make love on the roof beside the cats and gutters…

  But then suddenly a single star began to grow and grow and to shoot out rays, flying to them so so rapidly…

  “My Lord!” Boomblyakevych shouted upon seeing that the star had turned into a queen and was standing on the chimney.

  The queen was in a translucent tunic that fluttered in different directions in the wind, and her name was Malva. She moved close to the little girl, grabbed her by the skin as though she were a kitten, and flung her off the roof into the darkness.

  “Now you are mine!” Malva said imperiously and forced Boomblyakevych to belong just to her…

  Malva took him by the hand, and they flew off somewhere above the buildings, into the deep blue warm air of the night…

  7. Pears a La Crepe

  Pears a La Crepe

  Waking up in the morning in Vynnyky on the outskirts of the city of Lviv, you don’t hear either the piercing screeches of the tramcars or the rattling of cars on the cobblestones. Instead, the frolicsome chirping of birds, the buzzing of bees and the lazy cackling of chickens will tickle your still semi-somnolent ears. Every morning. And at night you’ll fall asleep to the rhythmic croaking of frogs and the delicate chirring of crickets. I won’t even speak about the dizzying scent of gillyflowers and lilac.

  The sun’s rays slowly penetrate through closed eyelids, and the gray cover of drowsiness crawls from your eyes to reveal this quiet sluggish world of the house. A morning like any morning. It could
have been like countless other ones. But it wasn’t. Because when I woke up, my sensitive ear caught someone’s rhythmic breathing. Someone was lying next to me, and his warm breath in just barely perceptible waves touched my cheek. Who could it be? I strained my brain that was still mellow after sleep and suddenly came to the conclusion that it could only be a woman. If it were a man, then he would have been sleeping on another bed, because I’m not queer. So – it definitely had to be a woman. But my thoughts further ran into a solid wall. I couldn’t remember at all where she had come from.

  I tried to examine her, but this didn’t give me anything, because her head was covered. For some reason I’ve only been lucky with girls who cover their heads in bed. Why they do that, I’ve never been able to figure out – for the simple reason that this happens with them completely subconsciously. Because when you ask a young lady why she always covers up her head, the very same answer resounds: “Really?”

  Imagine – they are even surprised at this, the only thing they distinctly remember is what they’re sleeping in. Women here are divided into two more or less identical halves: those who sleep in their panties, and those who don’t. They have one answer to the question: “I’m used to it like that.” At least you can understand that habit. Therefore don’t even try to re-educate them. It’s the same as trying to teaching a cat to bring your slippers. A woman, when she gets used to something, won’t part with that habit till death. One half of them before going to sleep won’t take them off under any circumstances, the second won’t ever put them on.

  The young lady, who was snuffling next to me that day could have belonged to either half. To be honest, the ones who upset me the most are those who, after passionate lovemaking, slip on their panties as if they hadn’t taken them off. I could never fathom what that’s supposed to mean. That she’s already accomplished her mission and the gates are closed for the night? That she’s afraid I might rape her in the middle of the night? Or maybe, the underwear for her is something like a garland of innocence?

  Is this one in her panties? I slipped my hand under the covers and felt a hot female body. My fingers touched her springy bottom and I sighed with relief. It wasn’t enough that I finally remembered her. I lifted myself up on my elbows and looked around the room. Carefully folded jeans and a white tee shirt lay on an armchair. My clothes were scattered all over the floor. This was just like me. Sometimes I toss them on the table. This time the table was cluttered with bottles of champagne, Hungarian wine, horilka and beer. O Lord! It’s not odd that my memory was knocked out of me.

  Was it just memory? Somehow I couldn’t remember a single moment of sex from last evening. Did we make love at all? It was logical to assume yes, for when two people of the opposite sex lie in bed, it’s not for discussing the latest decisions of our parliament. The quantity of empty bottles struck me. What was the occasion for the party? Where is everybody else? What were we doing all evening?

  If the chairs and table were not in the middle of the room, but by the walls, then people must have been dancing. I glanced at my watch. Half past noon! Well… It’s all clear. The party was till early morning. At six AM when the buses start running, the warm company made its way to the bus stop. It’d be interested knowing, did we make love after that? It’s hard to imagine that after an all-night party. I carefully crawled out from under the covers, grabbed my shirt from the floor and dragged myself to the bathroom. Neither hot nor cold water returned my memory to me. I still couldn’t figure out who was lying in my bed. When I went to the kitchen, I fell into a stupor. Everything was clean and tidied up. The table was no longer littered in dishes, little boxes of seasoning and crumbs of bread, and the floor shined and glistened. And, as if this were not enough for total happiness, all the dishes used for yesterday’s party shined and glistened.

  That was 1992, when I turned forty, and I’m a bachelor again. After the regular concerts with the “Don’t Worry!” comedy troupe, a cheery bunch often inundated my place, one that I had to see off the next day no earlier than lunchtime. But this regular flood of guests miraculously left behind itself a clean house. And, additionally, this time, a certain mystery person.

  I boiled some coffee in a Turkish pot and, drinking it pensively, stubbornly tried to imagine the way she looked. Tall. I figured that out when I accidentally touched her stretched out leg. She doesn’t snore. And sleeps without her undies. She hung her clothing carefully on the chair. Though in ecstasy she might have flung it onto a lampshade. And she undressed herself, because if I had undressed her, then everything would have not been hanging on the chair. In my opinion, too many positive qualities here. And once again we need to divide women into two halves. Those who get undressed themselves, and those who wait for you to undress them. The entire fact of the matter, however, is that even when you break it down, all the same you won’t figure out who she is, your young lady. The fact that she doesn’t undress herself, but shyly gives in to your hands, doesn’t entirely mean that she’s doing this for the first, second, third or eighth time. There are young ladies who just love it when you peel off all their husks, and are prepared to be in ecstasy from it for the one thousand and first time as much as the first. There are those among them who do this not from ecstasy, but to rouse you up, and when you ask them how many men they’ve had, you can have no doubt there will be a single answer: “You’re my second.” Therefore it’s stupid to ask about such things. You won’t hear the truth anyway. And because, when she whispers to you in moments of tenderness: “Ah, how long it’s been since I’ve done this,” accept her words with gratefulness, as if you have no clue about anything else.

  A young lady who undresses herself does this for two reasons: a) she doesn’t give a damn about your sorry butt and doesn’t care what you think about her, b) she doesn’t give a rat’s ass about you and doesn’t want to play a dummy.

  With great satisfaction I came to the conclusion that the young lady doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me, because if she did, she wouldn’t have tidied up in the kitchen. Though this doesn’t testify to her passionate feelings. Maybe just by nature she can’t tolerate a mess. There are also these types. Mostly they turn out to be colleagues of my friends and, tidying up my kitchen, they’re striving to make an impression not on me, but on the person they came with.

  But it’s one thing to tidy up the table, and another – to wash the floor. Maybe she doesn’t love me, but to wash the floor, not giving a rat’s ass about me, that’s already pathological. I’ll be damned, but I won’t believe she loves me.

  The only thing that bothered me was when did she have time to do this? And the further I thought about this, with even more dismay I comprehended this shameful picture for myself. But she didn’t go to bed until after she had tidied up everything. That is very praiseworthy. This shows her best side. But if I don’t remember it, it means I was sleeping. I conked out. And she, poor girl, finished this ordeal, and with hope took off her panties and lay down next to me. Maybe she even cuddled up, maybe she whispered something tender in my little ear. And I barely comprehended it. What a scoundrel I am! I grabbed my head with my hands and intensely got lost in thought. And what is there to think about here! Just now it dawned on my completely cleared up head: I was in my underwear. Well, that’s it, I’ve disgraced myself forever. I have no justification. It’s clear that the night passed full of chastity and lazy snoring.

  And despair with such power shook my soul that I decided to do something nice for this girl. In my understanding of nice – something tasty. Breakfast in bed. And what do young ladies like for breakfast? From innumerable thickheaded men, who offer their young lady garlic sausage for breakfast, an omelet, fried potatoes or yesterday’s Salad Olivier with a great big chunk of bread.

  O horrors! O the wrath of God! This is an awful mistake, this is a blow to the system and the crashing of all expectations. With this kind of breakfast you can ruin everything that was built up over the evening and night. During the night you could have demonstrated
the pinnacle of sexual prowess, and in the morning it will all go to waste. No! No! Three hundred times no!

  Write this down, ignoramus. A person’s life is given one time, and you have to live it in such a way that you don’t ruin your future with one little breakfast. Therefore, the main this is: a young lady doesn’t like to chew anything in the morning. No garlic sausage, ham, stuffed pig stomach, smoked lard, or macaroni. Breakfast has to be light and airy, it needs to melt in her mouth, run along her gums and not get stuck in her teeth. And with the first mouthful of coffee, her lips should overflow like the song of a Carpathian Hutsul woman over green mountain tops.

  What doesn’t get stuck in your teeth? Well? I ask you! For example, flat pancakes don’t get stuck in your teeth, or filled rolled ones, and apples a la crepe. You whip up two eggs with a glass of milk, sugar and flour, you dip apple slices into the mix and then fry them in a frying pan, or bake the stuffed rolled pancakes and spread them all over with jam, preserves, fruits, marmalade, chocolate, with memories about last night, sunny little bunnies, and your own secretions. And here a sacred moment arises. At the first sounds of the awakening of your lady to active life, you carry in a tray with coffee, rolled pancakes or apples a la crepe to the room. This historical sight will never be effaced from her memory; she will carry a recollection of it throughout all the calamities of her life. And when she will be parting from this befouled world, from her darkened lips words will fly directed at her husband: “You never brought me apples a la crepe in bed.” He, poor guy, will immediately give a start, will grab her by the shoulders and say: “Who! Who has done that for you? Who?!” In response he’ll just get a bitter smile – the last one of her life.

  I didn’t have apples. But I did have juicy pears. But pears a la crepe – write this down! – are even more tasty than apples.