Tatiana Tolstaya

Night

In the morning Alexei Petrovich’s mommy yawns very very loudly: hurrah, up and at’em! The new morning sprays into the window; the cactuses shine, the curtain trembles; the gates of the nighttime kingdom have slammed shut; the dragons, toadstools, and terrifying dwarfs have vanished underground again, life triumphs and heralds trumpet: A new day! A new day! Too-roo-roo-roo-oo-oo-oo!

Mommy scratches her balding head very very fast and tosses her bluish feet off the high bedstead: let them dangle and think a while about having to drag around all day the two hundred and ninety pounds mommy has amassed in her eighty years.

Alexei Petrovich’s eyes are wide open by now. Sleep streams gently off his body; the last raven flies off dreamily into the gloom; the nighttime guests have finished gathering up their spectral, ambiguous props and interrupted their performance until the next time. A light draft sweetly fans Alexei Petrovich’s bald spot, now and then unshaven stubble prickles his palms. Is it time to get up? Mommy will see to it. Mommy is such a big, booming, capacious woman, and Alexei Petrovich is little. Mommy knows the ropes and gets wherever she wants to. Mommy is all-powerful. What she says, goes. And he is a late child, a little lump, nature’s blunder, a fallow patch, a soap silver, a cockle, and empty husk destined for burning that by chance ended up among its sound brethren when the Sower lavishly broadcast the full-blooded seeds of life over the earth.

Can he get up yet or is it early? Don’t give a peep. Mommy is completing her morning ritual: she trumpets into a handkerchief, pulls clinging stockings up the columns of her legs, and fastens them under her swollen knees with little ringlets of white rubber bands. She raises a linen frame with fifteen little buttons onto her enormous bosom; it’s probably hard to fasten them from behind. A gray chignon is fixed to mommy’s zenith; refreshed teeth flutter out of the clean night glass and shake themselves off. Mommy’s façade is covered by a white fluted dickey, and a coarse navy casing goes over the entire majestic edifice, concealing laves down the back, wrong sides, rear formations, service stairs and emergence exits. The palace is erected.

Everything you do is fine, Mommy. It’s all right.

All the Men and Women in the communal apartment are already awake, bustling about and talking. Doors bang, water gurgles, tinkling noises come through the wall. The ship of morning has left the slip, it slices through the blue water, wind fills its sails, and well-dressed travelers laugh and exchange remarks on the deck. What lands lie ahead? Mommy is at the helm, Mommy is on the bridge; from the tip of the mast Mommy peers into the shining ripples.

“Alexei, get up! Shave, brush your teeth, and wash your ears! Take a clean towel. Screw the cap on the toothpaste! Don’t forget to flush. And don’t touch anything in there, do you hear me?”

Fine, fine, Mommy. That’s how you always say the right thing. That’s the way it all suddenly makes sense, the way the horizons are flung open and it’s safe to sail with an experienced pilot! The ancient colored maps and unrolled, the rout is drawn in a red dotted line and bright, easy-to-understand pictures mark all the dangers: here’s a menacing lion, and on that shore there’ a rhinoceros; here a whale spouts a toy like fountain, and over there is the most dangerous of all, the big-eyed, long-tailed Sea maiden, slippery, deadly, and enticing.

No Alexei Petrovich will wash and tidy himself; Mommy will come to check that he hasn’t made a mess in there, or else the neighbors will make trouble again; and then something yummy to eat! What has Mommy made there today? You have to fight your way through the kitchen to get to the bathroom. Old women grumble over hot stoves, brewing poison in small buckets, adding the roots of frightful herbs and following Alexei Petrovich with their bad glances. Mommy! Don’t let them hurt me!

He splashed a bit on the floor. Oy.

There’s a crowd in the hall already: the Men and Women are leaving, they make noise, check their keys and purses.

The corner door with the frosted panes is wide open; the impudent Sea Maiden stands on the threshold, smirking and winking at Alexei Petrovich; she is all tilted; she blazes with Tobacco and has her leg thrust out; she has spread her net-wouldn’t you like to get caught, eh? But Mommy will save him, she’s already rushing up like a steam engine, red wheels clacking, hooting: Out of the way!

“Braze hussy! Go away, I tell you! It’s not enough that you…and to a sick man yet!”

“Ha-ha-ha!” The Sea Maiden isn’t scared.

Quick-into the room. He’s safe. Phoo-oo-oohhh… Women – it’s very frightening. It’s not clear why, but it’s very upsetting. They walk by – thy smell so nice… and they have – Legs. There are lots of them on the street,  and in every house, hat one, and that one, and this one, behind every door; they’re hiding,  and doing something, bending down, and rummaging around, tittering behind their hands; they know, but they won’t tell Alexei Petrovich. So he’ll sit down at the table and think about Women. One day Mommy took him to a beach in the country where there were a lot of them. There was one there… a wavy kind of fairy… like a little dog… Alexei Petrovich liked her. He went up close and started looking.

“Well, anything you haven’t seen?” cried the fairy. “Blow, get out of here, you retard!”

Mommy came in carrying a sizzling saucepan. He peeked. In t were rosy little nozzles of sausage. HE was glad. Mommy loads up his plate, moves things around, wipes up. The knife breaks loose from his fingers and strikes sharply somewhere to one side, cutting the oilcloth.

“Your hand, pick up the sausage in your hand!”

Oh, Mommy, guiding star! You’re pure old! You’ll take care of everything, wise woman, you’ll untangle all the knots! You knock down all the dark corners, all the labyrinths of the incomprehensible, impassable world with your might arm; you sweep away all the barriers – now the ground is flat and level. Be bold, take another step! But farther on – there are more wind-fallen trees.

Alexei Petrovich has his world, the real one, in his head. There everything is possible. And this one, the outer one, is wicked and wrong. And it’s very hard to keep in mind what’s good and what’s bad. Here they’ve made arrangements and come to agreements, they’ve written Rules, horribly complicated ones. They’ve learned them, the have good memories. But it’s hard for him to live by other people’s Rules.

Mommy poured coffee. Coffee has a Smell. Drink it, and it shifts to you. Why aren’t you permitted to stick out your lips, squint your eyes to your mouth, and sniff yourself? Wait until Mommy turns her back!

“Alexei, behave yourself!”

After breakfast they cleared the table, set out glue and cardboard, laid out scissors, and tied a napkin around Alexei Petrovich: he was going to glue little boxes. When he finished a hundred, they took them to the pharmacy. That brought in a little money. Alexei Petrovich really loves the boxes, he’s sorry to part with them. He wants to hide some unnoticed, to keep at least a few for himself, but Mommy keeps a sharp watch and takes them away.

And afterwards strangers carry them out of the pharmacy, eat little white globes from them, and tear up he boxes and throw them away! They throw them right in the waste bin and not only there – in their own apartment, in the kitchen, in the garbage pail he sees a ripped and defiled little box with a cigarette butt inside! Then a terrible, black rage overwhelms Alexei Petrovich, his eyes glitter, he gushes saliva and forgets words, fiery spots jump before his eyes, and he’s ready to strangle and tear someone to pieces. Who did it? Who dared to do it? Just get out! He rolls up his sleeves: where is he? Mommy comes running, placates and leads off the infuriated Alexei Petrovich, takes away the knife, and tears the hammer from his convulsively clutching fingers. The Men and Women are afraid then and sit quietly, taking refuge in their rooms.

The sun moved across to the other window. Alexei Petrovich’s work is done. Mommy has fallen asleep in the armchair, she snores, her cheeks gurgling, and hisses: psht-sht-sht… Alexei Petrovich very very quietly takes two boxes and cau-utiously, on ti-iptoe, tup tup tuppity goes over to the bed and car-r-refully puts them under the pillow. At night he will get them out and sniff. How nice the glue smells! Soft, sour, muffled, like the letter “f”.

Mommy woke up, it was time for a walk. Down the stairs, never in the elevator – you couldn’t shut Alexei Petrovich in the elevator, he would struggle and squeal like a rabbit. Why can’t you understand – they pull, pull on your legs and drag you down!

Mommy sails out ahead, exchanging nods with acquaintances. Today we are delivering the boxes: it’s unpleasant. Alexei Petrovich deliberately trips over his own feet; he doesn’t want to go to the pharmacy.

“Alexei, put your tongue in!”

Sunset fell behind the tall buildings. Golden panes burned just under the roof. Special people live there, not like us: they fly like white doves, fluttering from balcony to balcony. A smooth feathery little breast, a human face – if a bird like that should land on your railing and bend its head and begin to coo, you would stare into its eyes, forget the human tongue, and begin to trill like a bird and jump with shaggy little legs along your iron perch.

Below the horizon, below the plate of the earth, gigantic wheels had begun to turn, monstrous belt drives revolve, and cogwheels drew the sun down and the moon up. The day was tired, he had folded his white wings and flown off westward; large in his roomy garments, he waved his sleeve and released the stars, he blessed those walking on the cooling earth: Until we meet again, until we meet again, I’ll come back tomorrow.

On the corner they’re selling ice cream. He really wants some! The Men and Women – but especially the Women – thrust bits of money into the square little window and receive a frozen crunchy goblet. They laugh, they throw the round sticky papers on the ground or stick them to the wall, they open their mouths wide and lick sweet spiky cold with their red tongue.

“Mommy, ice cream!”

“You can’t have any. You have a sore throat.”

If he couldn’t, then he couldn’t. But he really wanted some! It was awful how much he wanted some! If only he had bits of money like the other Men and Women, silver and shiny; or a yellow paper that smelled of bread – they took those in the square window, too. Oy, oy, oy, how he wanted some, they all could have it, they all got it!

“Alexei, stop turning your head!”

Mommy knows best. I’ll listen to Mommy. Only she knows the true path through the wilds of the world. But if Mommy were to turn her back…. Pushkin Square.

“Mommy, is Pushkin a writer?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to be a writer, too!”

“Of course you are. If you want to – you will be.”

And why not? If he wants to – he will. He’ll take a piece of paper and a pencil, and he’ll be a writer. That’s all, it’s decided! He’ll be a writer. That’s fine.

In the evenings Mommy sits in her roomy armchair, lowers glasses onto her nose, and reads in a deep voice:

Storm the sky with darkness cowls,

Snow in eddies whirls and sweeps;

Now like a feral beast it howls,

Now like a little child it weeps…

Alexei Petrovich really likes that a lot! He laughs broadly, baring yellow teeth, he rejoices and stamps his feet.

Now like a feral beast it howls,

Now like a little child it weeps…

Just like that the words reach the end – and then turn back, and go on again – and then turn back again.

Stor mthes  kywi thdar knessc owls

Sno win ed dies whir lsan dswe eps

Nowl ikeaf er albea sti thowls

Nowl ikeaf itt lech il ditwe eps

That’s great! Here’s how it howls: oo-oo-oo-oo-oo!

“Hush, hush, Alexei, calm down!”

They sky is all covered with stars. Alexei Petrovich knows them: little shiny beads, suspended on their own in the black void. As Alexei Petrovich lies in bed trying to get to sleep, his legs start to grow down all by themselves, and his head up to the black dome, always up, and it rocks back and forth like a treetop in a storm, and the stars scratch his skull. But the second Alexei Petrovich, the inner one, keeps shrinking and shrinking; he contracts, disappearing into a poppy seed, into the sharp end of a needle, into a little microbe, into nothing and, if he is not stopped, he will vanish into it altogether. But the outer, gigantic Alexei Petrovich sways like a lodge pole pine, grows, and strikes his bald spot sharply against the night dome – he won’t let the little one disappear into a point. And these two Alexei Petroviches are one and the same. And that’s sensible, that’s right.

At home Mommy undresses, and demolishes her daytime body, puts on a red robe, and becomes simpler, warmer, and easier to understand. Alexei Petrovich wants to jump into Mommy’s arms! What nonsense! Mommy goes off to the kitchen. For some reason she’s away for a long time. Alexei Petrovich checked if the little boxes were still in place, sniffed the glue, and took a risk – he went out into the hall. The corner door, whereat night the Sea Maiden’s guests titter, is ajar. He can see a white bed. But where’s Mommy? Maybe she’s there? Alexei Petrovich peeks cautiously through the crack. Nobody there.  Maybe Mommy is hidden behind the wardrobe? Should he go in? The room is empty. On the Sea Maiden’s table are open cans, bread and a pickle with a bite out of it. And something else – a yellow paper and little round silver bits. Money! Take the money, rush down the dark stairs, into the labyrinths of the streets, search out the square window, there they’ll give you sweet cold little glass!

Alexei Petrovich snatches, jingles, overturns, runs, bangs the door, breathes noisily and hastily, stumbles. The street. Darkness. Which way? That way? Or this? What is that in his hand? Money! Somebody else’s money! The money glows throw his hairy fist. Put your hand in your pocket. No, it glows through anyway. Somebody else’s money!  He took somebody else’s money! Passerby turn around and whisper to one another: “He took somebody else’s money!” People pressed to the windows and nudged each other: let me see! Where is he? Over there! He’s got money! Ah-ha you took it? Alexei Petrovich runs into the darkness. Clink, clink, clink, clink – it’s the money in the pocket. The entire city pours out into the street. Shutters are flung open. Arms jab from every window, eyes glitter, long red tongues are thrust out: “He took money! Loose the dogs!” fire engines howl, hoses uncoil: where is he? Over there! Go get him! Alexei Petrovich thrashes about in panic! Throw it away, rip it from your hands, get rid of it, get rid of it, that’s it, there! Use your foot, your foot! Tr-r-ram-m-mple the bits! That’s the way… All of them… They aren’t breathing. They are silent now. The glow is gone. He wipes his face. That’s it. Which way now? Night. It smells. Where’s Mommy? Night. In gateways wolves stand in black ranks, waiting. I’ll walk backwards, that will fool them. That’s good. It’s stifling. I’ll undo my button. I’ll unbutton everything. Good. Now? Women with Legs went past. They turned around. They chortled. Ah, so, so-o-o! Wha-a-t? Me? I’m a wolf! I’m walking backwards! Aha, that’s scared you, has it? Now I’ll catch up and pounce on you – we’ll see what sort of legs you have! He rushed at them! A scream. A-a-a-ah! A blow. Don’t hit me! A blow. Men smelling of Tobacco hit him in the stomach, in the teeth! Don’t!... Oh, leave him alone – can’t you see… They walked away.

Alexei Petrovich propped himself against a downspout, spat black stuff, and whimpered. Poor little fellow, all alone, lost on the street, you came into this world by mistake! Get out of here, it’s not for you! Alexei Petrovich cries with a loud barking noise, raising his disfigured face to the stars.

Mommy, Mommy, where are you? Mommy, the way is dark, the voices are silent, and the paths lead into trackless swamps! Mommy, your only, your best beloved, long awaited child, borne in suffering, is weeping, he’s dying!...

Mommy comes running, Mommy gasps for breath, stretches out her arms, shouts, seizes him, clasps him to her breast, runs her hands over him, kisses him, Mommy sobs – I found him, I found him!

Mommy leads Alexei Petrovich by the bridle into the warm burrow, the soft nest, under her white wing.

His swollen face is washed! Alexei Petrovich sits sniveling at the table with a napkin tied around him.

“Do you want a nice soft-boiled egg? Soft, all runny?”

Alexei Petrovich nods: Yes, I do. The wall clock ticks. Peace. Delicious hot milk, mellow, like the letter “n”. Something becomes clear in his head. Yes! He wanted…

“Mommy, give me paper and a pencil. Quick! I’m going to be a writer!”

“Oh, Lord! Misery mine! What on earth do you… Well, don’t’ cry, calm down, I’ll get them; hold on. You need to blow your nose.”

White paper and a sharp pencil. Quick, quick, before he forgets! He knows it all, he’s made sense of the world, made sense of the Rules, he’s grasped the secret connection among events, grasped the laws that link millions of fragments of disparate things! Lightning flashes in Alexei Petrovich’s brain! He frets, grumbles, snatches a sheet of paper, shoves glasses aside with his elbow, and amazed at himself at his joyful regeneration, hastily in large letters, records his newly found truth: “Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night.”