by JV Love
but a void in the mind.
Petya Soyonovich sat at his tiny desk staring at a sheet of paper with one sentence written on it. It read: Ivan chimed the bell three more times than he was supposed to and he knew there would be hell to pay from the other monks. Petya couldn't think of the next line.
He had written that first line forty-five minutes ago. Since then, he had stared out the window for five minutes, organized his small library of books by author (he had sorted them by title just the day before), made a grocery list, shaved, written his friend in Moscow a long-overdue letter, and stared at the empty page once again for ten minutes. For such a supposedly gifted writer, he wasn't the least bit productive with his time. For such a supposedly gifted writer, he thought bitterly, he wasn't worth a damn.
His room was small, a perfect square except for a shkaf - a large wardrobe closet - that hogged the corner opposite the door. The room was intimate in a claustrophobic kind of way. The lone window overlooked a dirty red brick wall and the sun never shined through it and a breeze never blew through it. The room was stale, not meant for those who enjoy living.
Petya felt he was cursed. By what or whom, he didn't know. He knew only that he couldn't meet people's expectations. Try as he might as a young man, he couldn't live up to the standards of success that had been set in his childhood.
When Petya was only twelve years old, he wrote a short parody of Pushkin's famous poem, "Eugene Onegin." He had been informed on that day that he was a mere step away from being a genius - a step away from being the next great writer of classic Russian novels. It had been fifteen years since that day, and Petya was still struggling to take that step.
On many days, today for instance, Petya felt that not only had he not taken that last step forward but had actually taken a step (or two!) backwards. The excuses were endless: not enough time, too much time, no inspiration, too tired, too alert. Each day that he couldn't write, he came more and more to believe he was an imposter, a fluke. He told himself that if he couldn't write something good before his next birthday, February 23rd, then he would accept his fate: he wasn't a writer and would quit writing forever.
He threw down his pencil in disgust and went out into the stairwell of the building to smoke. He shared the small apartment with two other people: Boris, a plumber originally from Novosibirsk whose wife and two-year-old daughter had already been evacuated, and Oksana Petrovna, an older lady with a finicky black cat. Oksana didn't smoke and she forced both Petya and Boris to go outside or to the hallway to light a cigarette.
The stairwell was only a little dark now since it was daylight out. At night it was pitch black because someone kept stealing the lightbulbs. The entire stairwell smelled of rotting food, and at least a hundred flies now made their home there. It wasn't usually like that. It was a nice building, but someone had spilled some garbage and for some reason neither they, nor anyone else, had cleaned it up.
Looking at the potato peels on the floor, Petya realized that he hadn't eaten in quite a while. Everyone thought he was fat because he ate too much, but in reality Petya ate no more than others. His excess pounds were a result of a slow metabolism and an inactive lifestyle. The majority of his days were spent sitting at his desk tapping his pencil against the side of his head.
After he finished his cigarette, Petya thought about what else he could do before getting back to writing. Since he was running low on tea, he could go see his friend and buy some from him. Then he imagined his friend might not have much left. Perhaps he had traded most of his tea to stock up on flour or canned meat? After all, that's all he heard everyone talking about - how the stores were running out of everything. Perhaps his friend had already run out of tea. The thought made him panic. How could he survive without tea? He cursed the Germans for taking so long to capture the city and restore order. With the Germans in command, he was sure the city would never run out of tea. He went back inside his room to comb his hair and get some money to go see his friend.
As he retrieved the money from his secret hiding place behind the radiator, he heard a knock at the front door. To improve his writing skills, he had trained himself to pay attention to details, such as the way people knock on doors. He knew everyone's knock - from the "takity tak tak" of Guzman, to the "duk duk" of his artist friend, Vladimir. The current knock - "tump tump tump" - didn't fit anyone he knew.
He stood at the door a minute and listened to the voices on the other side.
"Damn, it stinks out here," a male voice said. "You'll fit in perfectly if this is the right place."
"I don't think anybody's home," another male voice, much younger, replied. "Let's go get some food. I'm hungry."
"We just ate a few hours ago."
"It's my money. Give it to me. I'm hungry."
"We used up all the money your parents gave you a long time ago."
Petya opened the door and saw before him a young soldier in army fatigues and an adolescent boy with big ears and a pug nose. Petya was about to ask them what they wanted when Oksana's cat appeared out of nowhere and bolted out into the hallway.
"Get that cat," Petya yelled. "It's not supposed to be out."
The young man in army fatigues quickly maneuvered to pin the cat against the wall with his leg. Then he grabbed it by the back of the neck and threw it inside the apartment. The cat landed on its feet, shook its head, then sat down and licked its fur as if nothing had happened.
"Thanks," Petya said. "There would have been hell to pay had that cat gotten out."
"No problem, comrade," the taller one said. "My name is Misha, and this is Igor. We're looking for Grigori Selenii. Does he live here?"
Petya stared blankly for a moment, wondering what they wanted with Katya's father. "Do you have an appointment to see him?"
"He's my uncle," Igor announced.
"His parents died," Misha said, jerking his head toward Igor. "Before his mom died, she asked me to take him to her brother in Leningrad."
Petya knew that Katya did indeed have an aunt who lived in the country. She had spoken about her a few times. Apparently Katya's father refused to speak to his sister because of some terrible event that occurred a decade and a half ago.
"Did you knock on the door down there?" Petya asked, looking down the hallway toward the entrance to Katya's apartment.
They nodded yes.
"Well, then they're not there," Petya said. "Katya is probably busy at the hospital, but she should be back in an hour or two. Check back then."
"Who's Katya?" Misha asked.
"Grigori Selenii's daughter."
"Oh," Misha said, peeking over Petya's shoulder into the apartment behind him. "Are you going somewhere?"
"Why?"
"I was hoping maybe Igor could stay here with you until Katya gets back."
Petya looked at the boy and felt sorry for him. He knew what it was like to lose one's parents. Petya's parents had been shot - murdered by the Bolsheviks - right in front of his eyes when he was four years old. It was an image that he expended a great deal of energy on trying to block out of his mind every minute of his waking life.
"Don't worry," Misha said. "He'll be quiet and won't bother you." Misha elbowed Igor. "Right, Igor?"
Igor shrugged and looked at the floor.
"Ok," Petya said. "He can stay with me until Katya returns."
"Great," Misha said. "Stay out of trouble," he said to Igor and patted him on the head like a dog. Then he pushed Igor toward Petya's door, turned, and walked down the hallway.
Igor watched Misha until he descended the staircase and was out of sight, then he thrust his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor once again.
"Come in," Petya said, directing the boy to his room. He decided not to go out for tea just yet since he didn't know when Katya might return.
Igor shuffled his feet into Petya's room, still studying the floor. "He didn't even say goodbye," he mumbled, just loud enough that Petya heard him.
"Who? Misha? I'm sure he
meant to. He probably just forgot." Petya sat down at his desk. "You can relax on my bed until Katya gets back."
Igor jumped on the mattress and scooted over to the mirror on the wall. Petya watched him stare at the ceiling for a few minutes and then turn his face toward the mirror and begin scratching and popping the numerous pimples on his nose, forehead, and chin.
Petya's right cheek began to twitch involuntarily. It frequently did that when he was nervous or irritated. He was quite particular about keeping his room clean and orderly, and he worried about the effects this foul-smelling, juvenile boy would have.
"Would you like to take a bath or a shower?" Petya asked, desperately hoping he'd say yes.
"Nah," Igor replied. "I don't like taking baths." He was holding his face inches away from the mirror as he methodically squeezed one pimple and then the next.
Petya's cheek twitched even more. "I'd prefer you don't get the mirror dirty."
"I won't," Igor said.
Petya turned so he couldn't see Igor and decided to try writing again. It was probably best to ignore the boy as best he could until Katya got back. He picked up his pencil and thought what the next sentence of his novel should be. As he concentrated, he alternately chewed on the pencil and twirled it with his fingers. After a couple of minutes, Igor started humming, softly at first, but then progressively louder.
"Stop that, please," Petya said, the twitch returning to his cheek. "I need to do some work." He didn't have much experience with children, particularly twelve-year-olds, and started questioning his decision to take the boy in. He tossed a newspaper on the bed. "Here, you can read that if you want."
For the next ten minutes, Petya contemplated one idea after the other for the second sentence. Nothing seemed to fit. He kept wondering why he had to choose writing as a career. It was an impossible profession - trying to create perfection when he knew damn well that perfection was unattainable. Perhaps he should have been a street sweeper. That seemed like a nice occupation - nothing to think about, no pressure, no lofty goals. It sounded so enticing not to deal with all the bullshit he put himself through every day trying to write.
Igor had moved so that his back was on the mattress and his legs were stretched up against the wall. At first he slapped his hands on the mattress, then he began tapping his feet against the wall.
"Stop that," Petya said, exhaling loudly.
"I'm bored."
"I gave you the newspaper to read."
"There's no pictures in it."
Petya's friend, Vladimir, had somehow got his hands on a French magazine a few years back. It was full of advertisements and pictures of stuff to buy. Petya dug it out of his desk drawer and gave it to Igor. "Here, this one has pictures."
Petya sat back down and returned to contemplating the next line of his novel. When nothing came to him, he began cursing God for creating him in the first place. He didn't ask to be born. It had been forced upon him. He would much rather not exist. If he didn't exist, he wouldn't have any worries, or discomfort, or insomnia. He wouldn't have to try to write. If he didn't exist, then those damn voices in his head wouldn't exist either. He thought how nice it would be to have never been born. It would be total bliss for sure.
But once you are born, that's it. You're stuck in this world whether you like it or not. Even if you killed yourself, Petya was convinced you couldn't get away. You'd just be in some kind of holding tank for a while until you were shipped back to earth, reborn to live another life of sorrow.
"I'm hungry," Igor announced.
Petya's first reaction was one of rage. He wanted to whip the boy for being interruptive and annoying. But he knew where that came from. That was how Petya's aunt had raised Petya as a child.
After his parents had been killed, he was sent to live with his aunt and uncle. He loved his uncle, but he was always traveling and rarely ever home. His aunt was an ardent Baptist who made Petya study the Bible, and beat him mercilessly for every sin he committed - and even some he didn't. As a result, he tended to feel guilt or shame for half of everything he ever said or did now.
He didn't want to pass that wretched legacy on to anyone. Nobody deserved that.
He went to the kitchen and grabbed a bowl of black sunflower seeds off the table. When he returned, he handed them to Igor, stressing that he didn't want any empty shells on his bed. "Now could you please stop talking and making noise for a little while?" Petya asked. "I like to work in quietude."
"You like to work in what?"
"Just shut up for a while. Ok?"
"No problem," Igor said. "You won't hear a peep out of me."
Petya went back to his desk, read the first sentence again, and then - much to his surprise - began to write:
But the Lord had confided his wishes to Ivan. And who was he to argue? God had explicitly stated that he was a chosen one, and Ivan, though humbled, accepted his fate.
He retreated to the green onion-domed church and knelt before a painting of John the Baptist. It showed the man's disembodied head on a silver platter, and Ivan felt a capacious void in his bosom. "There's nothing without love," he said aloud. "I am your lamb. Lead me, oh Lord." He then began reciting a prayer as . . .
"Hey," Igor interrupted. "Why ain't you in the army?"
At first, Petya thought he might be able to get away with ignoring him, but after ten seconds, Igor simply raised his voice and repeated himself.
"I ain't in the army because of my leg," he answered. "Now will you leave me be? I'm trying to . . ."
"What's wrong with your leg?"
Petya clenched his jaw tightly to try to stop his cheek from twitching. What could he do to get this boy to leave him alone so he could write? When Boris' daughter had started bugging him, his trick was to tell her a scary story. She'd usually be so frightened that she would leave before the end. Igor was considerably older, but he was from the countryside so Petya thought he was more likely to still believe in folk tales and superstitions.
Petya moved over to the bed and sat next to Igor. "Ok, I'll tell you," he said in a low whisper, "but you have to promise me you won't tell anyone. Cross your heart and hope to die."
Igor's jaw dropped slightly as he nodded his head yes and moved in closer.
Petya tried to look as serious as possible and fixed his gaze on Igor. "A couple years ago," he said slowly, "my cousin and I were walking out in the country at night. I guess it must have been around midnight. I remember there was a full moon and it was really quiet for some reason. We were walking to the next house over when something started making noise from the sunflower field next to the road. The noise was a cross between a dog's growl and a bear's heavy breathing. Whatever it was, it followed us for a long time."
Igor swallowed a few times and his eyes grew bigger. "Eventually, we started running," Petya continued, still in the same low whisper, "and then it burst out of the field and started chasing us. We ran as fast as we could, but it caught us. It got my cousin first and ripped his throat out. I looked back and saw it was huge, whatever it was. It had dark gray fur and a huge head - much bigger than a bear's. I kept running and almost made it to the house when it caught me too. It bit my leg off and would have killed me had not an old man come out of the house and fired a gun in the air. The beast picked up my leg with its giant jaws and ran back into the sunflower field."
Igor held his arms tightly across his chest, a look of terror on his grimy face.
"So, since my cousin was dead, they cut off his right leg and gave it to me. The only problem is that my cousin was a couple inches shorter, so my left leg is a bit longer than my right. That, and sometimes when I feel irritated, I get this urge to bite people's legs. It's happened a few times - the people had to go to the hospital and get stitches - so I have to be careful not to get irritated."
Igor stared at Petya, eyes still wide open, jaw hanging even lower.
Petya went back to this desk, feeling smug and smiling to himself. He heard someone coming up the stairs and liste
ned intently for a few seconds before accepting that the footsteps belonged to his roommate, Oksana. He had so hoped it was Katya. He began dwelling on his disappointment but then caught himself and returned to writing.
. . . a young woman walked in wearing a short dress and a veil over her face. She knelt beside Ivan. There was a softness and lightness about her that he could feel by her mere presence - a maddening grace about the way she moved through the air. Her arm brushed up against his. It sent a tiny shiver up his spine. He knew she wanted him. She wanted him violently but just couldn't bring herself to admit it.
Ivan slid his arm over, slowly pulled her dress up and stroked the smooth tan skin of her thighs. She arched her back and moaned in pleasure. Her beauty was flawless, angelic. Ivan leaned over and kissed her neck. "Katya," he moaned. "Oh Katya, I can't take it anymore . . ."
"Damn it!" Petya yelled. He thrust his face into his hands, then threw his head back in frustration. He ripped the piece of paper in half, then wadded it up and threw it across the room.
"Damn it. Damn it. Damn it," he cursed.
"I didn't do anything!" Igor pleaded. "Please, don't get irritated."
Petya went over to his shkaf and began searching for the clear glass bottle he kept there. When he found it, he pulled the cork out and drank two large gulps of vodka. He caught Igor's reflection in the mirror and wondered how he could possibly be related to Katya.
"Don't worry," Petya said. "You didn't do anything." He put on his black beret and grabbed his apartment keys. "Come on," he said to Igor.
Igor looked at him suspiciously. "Where are we going?"
"I need to go see my friend to get tea."
Igor hopped off the bed. "Tea? Who cares about tea?" he said. "You should buy some food before it's all gone. Misha told me the city will run out if the Nazis surround it."
Petya sighed, disappointed that the alcohol hadn't taken effect. "I can live without food. I can't live without tea," he said as they walked out of his room. He closed and locked the door behind him and limped down the hallway. The vodka warmed his throat and stomach. More than anything he hoped it would help him forget about Katya for a while.
