Praise for The Museum of Abandoned Secrets

“I’m sorry,” the painter says. [She looks baffled, and attempts to smile, haplessly.] “I lost my train of thought.... Oh yes,” [Her voice gradually regains its self-possessed tenor and flows evenly, stumbling only occasionally over the most treacherous twists and shallows of thought.] “it’s not just about technique. I work with objects that have been in everyday use, or, rather, what’s left of them. The pieces of china that form a mosaic on the canvas are shards of actual dinnerware and figurines. The same goes for the car visors, and the pieces of fabric, burlap, knitting—I rarely use anything new; things that have been in use have a special feel to them, they’re warm. So, if you want to talk about my sense of a female legacy, I’m kind of inverting, mirroring something women had done since ancient times—decorating their everyday lives. Traditionally, it is the applied arts, and not studio painting, that has been the feminine domain, especially here in Ukraine, where all ornamental painting has always been done by women. That’s the tradition all our primitivists come from—Prymachenko, Sobachko-Shostak—where else if not from the world of painted stoves and sideboards? Even Aleksandra Ekster in the mid-1920s designed patterns for artisan carpet-making co-ops around Mykolaiv, until the government sent them all packing.”

“Really?” the reporter croons. “I had no idea...”

“So yes, there you have it. And I do the opposite—I work with what’s ruined, the wrecked home, so to speak—trying to build something new, but different, out of it.”

“And succeeding,” says the interviewer. [Her sudden response has an unintentional reverence that instantly erects an impenetrable glass barrier between her and the object of her admiration. The painter squints.] “Contents of a Purse Found at the Scene of the Accident is, in my opinion, absolutely brilliant.” [The painter mumbles incomprehensibly.] “Really, I mean it; it’s a postmodern classic! Who bought it?”

“The Lausanne Hermitage.”

“Well, how nice for them—they could just go and buy themselves a Vladyslava Matusevych!” [She turns to the camera emphatically, so that no one could possibly miss this. A few sparrows blow off a table nearby, startled by the dramatic pronouncement.] “And we are too poor even to put together a national museum of contemporary art! It is a splendid piece, truly splendid.” [She slows her pace to a luxuriant purr, as if savoring the painting’s every detail in her mind again.] “And now we’ll only have the slide to appreciate.” [She looks down and reads from prepared notes.] “The painting visualizes a complete drama, composed of small fragments of evidence that usually go unnoticed. In its own way, the work is highly cinematographic, like a montage in which each cut speaks volumes, so one can spend hours reading it, frame by frame—the broken glasses, the receipts, a customs declaration, a picture of a husband and a child tucked into a notebook, a bronzer with a shattered mirror, and those horrific bloody smears on top of...”

“That’s lipstick, Daryna!” the painter interrupts, laughing. [She is visibly relieved to have the conversation move off the laudatory and on to the technical track.] “The smudges on the mirror—that’s actual lipstick, Revlon, I just fixed it with varnish.”

“No kidding? Finally, I have a chance to ask—I’ve been dying to ask you this: Didn’t it scare you to make this? Wasn’t it unsettling—to compose, literally, a still life?”

The painter shrugs. “I was curious,” she says after a moment’s hesitation. [The word is like a clear spot she’s found on an icy sidewalk.] “I’ve had this idea since that Swissair flight went down over Halifax, remember, back in ’98, and for a week divers fished personal belongings out of the water to help identify the victims—what if all that’s left of you is your purse? What will it tell people who never met you? And then one day my own lipstick came uncapped and smashed all over my compact in my purse, and that’s when I saw what it should look like on canvas. But to say I was unsettled? You should tell me—you’ve seen the whole series in my studio before it went to Switzerland—did it feel unsettling to look at?”

“That’s the amazing thing—it’s a radiant piece! It’s got this easy energy, like it emanates light—all your Secrets do, despite the chaos they portray. It’s as if you tamed death, domesticated it.” [The interviewer falters, unsettled a little by where the train of thought has carried her, and instantly hurries to explain herself.] “I don’t mean it in the way Hollywood horror flicks would have it; there’s not a whiff of fright in your work, but—How do I put it?...There’s your elegant composition; the warmth of your incredibly vivid, sun-drenched Southern-steppes palette; and your delicate ornamental touches, so sweet and so domestic—it all makes you forget that the whole series is about death, ruination. A piece like your Contents would look fine in a living room—not just a museum!”

“And you’d put it there? In your living room?” [The painter leans in, intently, in an upward motion, again like a cat about to leap into a tree, her gleaming eyes wide and expectant, and her lips parted slightly, ready to lap up the words that drop.] “Honestly—would you?”

“Oh my God, are you kidding? I’d kill for it! Only I’m sorry, Vlada, who has the money for such luxury?” [The brunette giggles lightheartedly, electrified like a woman in a jewelry store, giddy at the mere chance to look, touch, even try things on.] “I certainly don’t make enough to afford a Matusevych.”

[She says this with a clear note of pride—the kind of pride easily recognized by any first-generation career professional in a country where to identify specifically what you cannot afford (a BMW 6 Series, a Tiffany necklace, a Matusevych) is to draw a wide circle around scores of less-exclusive possessions that you can in fact afford, unlike the vast majority of your compatriots, and with the same naïve, neophyte pride of a global provincial dropping the name Vladyslava Matusevych, as meaningfully as the world’s art-loving bourgeois utter Picasso or Matisse—the pride of a teenager who feels at home among the grown-ups. The painter, however, is not flattered by this intonation—she appears to occupy a different store altogether.]

“Thank you, Daryna,” she says simply. “This is very important for me, what you’ve just said. I’ll give you a painting, no worries, as a present. Not Contents of a Purse, of course, a different one, but from the same series, from Secrets. You’ll come over and choose one, okay?”

[Even under the thick layer of makeup, one can see the interviewer’s face grow suddenly darker as she blushes with a breathless thrill—all the way past her ears.]

“Don’t shoot this!” the brunette cries out, laughing. [She turns her entire body to the camera to block the shot. The sudden motion makes the silk Versace scarf wound carelessly around her bare neck slip and begin to slide off, and she pins it with both hands against her collarbones. This looks comical in the frame—like an ingénue actress in her first role as a simple-hearted provincial maiden who’s just cried out in joy and clasped her hands to her bosom.]

“Vovchyk,” she pleads. [The interviewer is now consciously playing the part, sensing she’s being adored.] “What did I say? Stop the camera right now! You monkeys, what are you thinking? I’ll cut it anyway—the last thing we need is to air a pronouncement like that, I’d never live it down, they’ll say Goshchynska takes kickbacks for her interviews!”

[Men’s voices rise from behind the frame in a low mutter:]

“Yeah, especially from politicians!”

“Hey, she’ll take her men where she can get them!”

“Ha-ha-ha!”

[And that’s when the camera stops rolling—at last.]

***

You’re a doll, Daryna Goshchynska, a stupid painted doll, she tells herself, having found much to detest, if not altogether abhor, about her bubbly on-screen persona, having pressed the stop button on the control panel and lowered her head onto her arms in the darkness. You’re a good-looking woman to be sure; people look at you and think, she’s got it. Blowing sunshine all over and up whose ass? You want a medal or something? What the fuck? You forty-year-old bird, compulsive valedictorian, peddler of eye candy and book smarts, you doll, you stupid, stupid doll.

***

Later, after she was gone, and the stirred-up viper’s nest of the Kyiv bohemia couldn’t get enough of the event (not without the schadenfreude at the comforting prospect of things returning to their natural order in which all Ukrainian artists, without exception, are starving and unknown), it became intolerably painful to accept that realization about Vlada’s life, especially after the cost of her lavish funeral became the subject of greedy, whispered calculations—“a fortune for the coffin alone!” (The first time I heard this, I wholeheartedly wished, on a swell of pure molten hatred, that the appraiser get one of those coffins for his own use, and wished I could take my imagined curse back when I remembered that the moron had thyroid cancer, and that Vlada herself had bought him some rare drugs from Switzerland, out of her own pocket, of course, because he had no money, and she’d always paid for everything out of her own pocket, the invincible iron girl, except, as it turns out, not invincible, and not made of iron at all.)

Where did she get it—this unwomanlike certainty of hers, the rock-solid confidence in her chosen path? I, who was conditioned to hone in, like a radar, on applause, who withered like a flower in stale water without a regular dose of male admiration (what an idiot!), in the course of our friendship gradually learned to take a mental tally of my actions—for her, first and foremost, and tried my hardest to earn her praise, made only more reliable by the fact that, unlike the approval of men, it had nothing to do with the length of my legs or the size of my rack—to the point where the smallest vexations sent me scrambling for the phone, to cry on Vlada’s firm shoulder, and she never once told me to get lost and get a life, as I, undoubtedly, deserved. She seemed so unflappable and solid: her career grew like a cottonwood sap—up, up; her boyfriend shot straight from the launchpad of his shadowy business (I still don’t really know what it was that he did exactly, but the money must have come from the kind of sources our nouveau riche prefer not to advertise and only mention in passing, as a joke) into elected office, and just kept going, and Vlada said he was almost done with the mind-blowing mansion he’d been building for the three of them somewhere in Roslavychi, the exurb dubbed “a slice of Switzerland,” among pristine meadows and ponds; her Katrusya went to the British Council School, with the children of foreign diplomats, to the tune of ten thousand bucks in tuition per year (Vlada paid). Her life was wonderful and would only keep getting better—and this also gave me security, a firm foundation for the confidence I needed so much, as if Vlada’s success promised, by some primitive, inaccessible logic of association, that everything would be similarly wonderful in my life as well, if not today, then tomorrow for sure. What else feeds female friendship if not this associative twinship, this reciprocal mirroring and intertwining, and don’t friendships die precisely and only when they run out of such associations?

That’s why, when a month or so after our interview she complained to me of not being able to sleep—and she so rarely complained about anything, and always only in the past tense, after whatever difficulty had vexed her had been overcome, the barrier cleared, and the effort involved reduced to a source of comforting insight for a friend in need, as in “I know exactly what you’re dealing with, I’ve gone through the same thing, but see, I made it, and so will you”—I simply missed the alarm, failed to receive the signal, or, more precisely, ignored it like background noise: such signals, apparently, are only recognized by cretins like myself in deep hindsight, after the funeral, when all the heaving and sighing and shaking of heads adds up to a critical mass and reveals that such signals fell around the deceased in her last weeks like hail. How could we all have missed them, under what collective curse?

“Would you believe it, I can’t sleep,” she’d said on the phone, as if extending an invitation to marvel together at this unusual phenomenon, but at two in the morning the tireless gurgle of her voice bore into my ear like a subcutaneous irritation because I had to get up at six for a live session and was close to falling over as I moved around my apartment, bumping into furniture, half-aware of packing my bag, with the phone against my ear that seemed to be slowly mashed into a bloody mess as she dripped, “I have this idiotic fear, like, if I fall asleep, I will die.... ”

“Vlada, you’re simply overworked,” I said, for the sixth time in the last hour, “nothing comes without a price; you’ve had a hard year, leave it all and go on vacation somewhere far away”—thinking that the newly elected representative also needed some resting, since apparently he had no way of helping a woman fall asleep and was turning into one of his brethren who get from stress to stress by drinking their way through a sea of alcohol, only to be diagnosed with erectile dysfunction by age forty—and Vlada was still babbling, unflinchingly, that yes, I had a point, and they were already planning a trip to Dubai, or Abu Dhabi, one is cheaper and the other more accommodating, and which one she’d recommend in case I decided to get away, finally, too, until I had to plead for mercy and howled, “Vlada Matusevych, would you please shut up and let me get away for the four hours I still have?!”

She laughed—a short, erratic flute scale, strangely melodic but suddenly awkward, as if she just then realized that she’d been keeping me up, and unsettling, too, because I also felt awkward for having flaunted my sleepiness to a friend suffering from insomnia—and it felt like I’d left her to fend for herself at night in an unfamiliar place. The laugh stuck in my ear like water, except that it did not, like water, seep warmly into the pillow as I slept through the short hours, and I woke still hearing its silvery echo, which, should I have had the wits to stop and listen to carefully, would have spelled out another warning signal—a sign that my outburst, which had slipped out of my grip like an ax falling from tired arms, had cut an invisible cable from the great edifice that is life, and it shuddered in response. In Vlada’s tinny laugh, high like a taut string’s ear-splitting response to an errant touch, razor on glass—that’s the dissonance that the four hours I still had must have sent into the widening, humming circles of infrasound vibrations that were already swirling around Vlada, because the truth was that at that point, I had many more hours left than she had; hers were countable, hers were slipping away, hers were almost drained to the bottom, but neither of us could have known it then.

And three weeks after that she did fall asleep—precisely as her late-night fear warned her not to—in the middle of the day, in her car, on the highway to Boryspil, on her way to meet her agent who was flying in from Frankfurt with her paintings; he insisted he’d given them to her and they parted at the airport; but when Vlada’s overturned Beetle, crumpled like a tin can around her body, which was speared, hard, by the steering wheel, was lifted from the ditch and cut apart, there were no paintings in it, neither in the back seat, nor in the trunk, and, of course, one could assume that the car was robbed after it had crashed, or one could indulge a swarm of far worse and entirely outlandish suspicions about the accident, of which the only one that retained any vestiges of common sense, and thus could keep the living from losing all of theirs, was the idea that Vlada had fallen asleep while driving and the car had swerved off the wet highway (it had been raining just before the accident), and no one would ever know—this haunted me for a long time afterward—whether in the last split second before impact, as the Beetle flew into the ditch, Vlada was shaken awake in time to realize what was happening (Long enough to be terrified? To scream? To feel the pain? To hear the sound of her own bones crushing?) or if she’d woken up already on the other side, trying, unsuccessfully, to rub her eyes and slowly coming to realize that she no longer had eyes nor hands to rub them with. (This would be better—so much better that I spent many months convincing myself that that’s exactly what happened.)

“I killed her,” repeated Rep. Vadym, face frozen into a bizarre half-smile, as he sank, fat and red (Vlada, small as Thumbelina, had always preferred large-scale men), into the ottoman; his shirt had come undone and a patch of high-quality underwear stuck out; a bottle of Courvoisier stood on the rug at his feet, and he held his glass with both hands, mechanically swirling his drink and repeating his mantra—“I killed her, I killed her, it’s my fault, I should have been in that car”—and this grotesque teddy-bearishness of his was the hardest to take, especially when paired with what he was saying, so inconsistent with reality, so discordant with what had happened—like the sound a razor blade makes on glass—as if he’d been cut and pasted here from a different movie altogether. I thought he was beating himself up for having let Vlada go alone, that he was crushed with the desperate realization that if he’d gone with her, she would’ve lived—and it was hard to argue with that—but it dawned on me that he was not feeling guilty about Vlada so much as feeling sorry for himself. It took all I had not to scream at him, Shut up!, even though he was not really speaking to me, or asking anything of me, and would’ve been asking the same question if I weren’t there, would ask his drink, and the ottoman on which he sat: “Dear Lord, how am I supposed to go on living?” And then with a precision amazing for his size, he put the glass down on a coaster and hid his face with his hands, half-moaning and half-mumbling something completely incomprehensible and leaving me to stand there helplessly and stare at his fingers splayed against his baby-pink bald head like a bunch of sausages.

It wasn’t duty that brought me speeding to his damn nouveauriche apartment on Tarasivska—just finished, with a penthouse, and a glass roof—I hadn’t come to comfort him or to meld with him in shared grief; there was something else I wanted: I was watching him like a slowly darkening mirror that still held Vlada’s image, to find on him still-warm bits of her presence from the day before and pick them off him, like lint, to see him—as I realized I’d begun to do—with her eyes, something I’d never done before, when he was just a boyfriend (that’s how Vlada referred to him, always in English), not her lover, not her man, her boyfriend; that’s why, on some level, my mind put check marks of approval against his underwear, and the unexpected delicacy of his movement as he put the glass down—a quick aha, so these paws with sausages for fingers know how to be sensitive—and noted also his dry eyes—Vadym poured much more into himself than he let out, a sign of healthy virile appetites, of a vigorous bladder and other organs (once, when the two of them came over, we spent five hours sipping Courvoisier, but he never once got up to go to the bathroom; Vlada always said they had a great physical relationship, she wouldn’t have said anything if it weren’t so, so her insomnia had nothing to do with that). But it wasn’t like I’d run there to appraise him for an auction and grade his condition either; these things flashed in my mind at random, in double-exposure, I felt neither distaste nor sympathy for this man, and when I told him it was not his fault, I did so not because I felt sorry for him but solely out of respect for Vlada’s death, which belonged to her and her alone, and must have been woven according to the unique design of her lifetime. As for Vadym, I instantly and irretrievably cast him the role of the banana peel on which people in old movies slip at fateful moments and crash to their deaths, but real life, unlike movies, sets up its fateful moment long before any banana peels make themselves available, and that’s why Vadym’s mechanical screeching—I killed her, I killed her—was irksome and offensive: it disgraced my proud and independent Vlada by claiming agency in her life, it reeked of yellowish newspaper clippings, which were, no doubt, to appear very soon, scandal-mongering vultures must’ve caught the whiff of offal already and begun circling around the house, tomorrow there’d be flocks of them, see if you can hide from the flashes then—but this was also something one had to survive one way or another, and it would all happen later, in the noxious weeks when her death would be deboned, quartered, and roasted with different sauces in a breathless recipe contest broadcast to every household in the nation, until the thing got so frayed and worn that even my heart stopped seizing every time I saw her portrait and the portraits became just pictures of a famous person, an entry in a Who’s Who.

In those first few hours, there was only one thing I needed, and that’s why I came to Vadym’s apartment and sat there with him, as he vacantly drank the cognac that refused to do its work, while Vlada lay somewhere on a freezer shelf with a tag tied to her toe—I couldn’t shake off the pesky and senseless idea that she was cold there and kept shivering myself, ripples of sudden chill shimmying up and down my skin just like that time in the Passage during our interview, when Vlada shape-shifted for an instant into an acolyte on the eve of his vows, someone destined for other-worldliness, only now the chill would not stop; I could not get warm and kept going back to the cognac, and every sip I took, instead of warming me lodged in my chest, solid and unyielding, like the steering wheel—and the only thing I wanted, the thing I came for, was to confirm, right there and then, that Vlada had been happy with Vadym. If I had that reassurance, I’d feel better; I’d be able to craft the horror into some semblance of meaning, like if she herself had showed up and said, with a resolute bounce of her bangs, I’ve no regrets, you know? None, you have my word.

Again I washed up in her apartment just as I always did in moments of panic and confusion—I’d come looking for comfort that only she could give, in the very apartment she’d left the day before, and then gotten into her sunshine-yellow Beetle. And then slammed the door shut.

Later, someone must’ve rung the doorbell, or come in, or Vadym finally had to go to the bathroom, because I was left alone in the living room and stood next to the uncurtained window watching a dense, fluorescent Gauloise-pack blueness quicken and solidify outside; during those days, all colors appeared painfully saturated, all lenses focused in all directions at once, and my eye kept tripping on utterly irrelevant frames—on the way to the cemetery out the car window a pair of dogs, one spotted and the other black and shaggy, rolled on a pile of lacquer-glossy wet leaves; and on the subway bridge, as the funeral procession passed under it, a homeless man with a patchwork tote, bowed against the low-hanging sky—with the kind of sharpness that also happens when you’re in love and every randomly arranged instance, once it falls into your sight, swells, rounds, and breaks off like a distinct drop of water; so, maybe it’s only in love and death that life becomes truly visible for us. Through the window, amid the fluorescent blue, I could see children playing on the sidewalk across the street, sharp moving silhouettes, black cutouts, with only their white sneakers flickering in the dusk like dying lightbulbs; in the foreground an old woman in a tiny knit hat, swaddled like a cabbage in many layers of clothes, searched slowly, with mesmerizing, dendritic stiffness, through the trash cans; and then, very slowly, as if filmed with speed-ramping, a car crawled by, a dark Mazda with blazing lynx-like headlights, and as I stood there in the raincoat that I never did remember to take off, I saw myself from outside too—someone painted into this creaking, straining, but still unfolding picture, and also saw, with the same piercing clarity, that Vlada was no longer part of this continuous time. We were being separated by its implacable flow; its forceful tug, so palpable at that moment, dragged me—now only me—blindly along and left Vlada behind, in the yesterday, marooned in the past as though on an ice floe, and the widening gap between us was rapidly filling with a roiling, rushing surge of new frames of life without her. I watched this flood come and knew I would never be able to tell her about it—up till that moment, from the minute I heard, and later with Vadym, the whole time, my mind kept addressing her, sharing its shock with her, chastising—Why did you go alone, Vlada? and a million other trifling post-factum warnings—and it was still she I entertained, and soothed, and came to ask: Were you happy with this man?—but it was already like talking into a dead phone, and all I had left to do was hang up and let this terrible, slow current carry me irretrievably forward, without her.

I understood that Vlada had died and I had remained to live.

When Vadym returned and we started talking again—finally, the cognac took effect and memories burst out of him, random and unstoppable—I said “she was” for the first time about Vlada and was surprised at how easily it came and how easy it was to continue, from then on, in past tense.

This must be it, then—ground zero—when a new count is set to begin and a new system of coordinates takes root and reaches outward into the unknown. Time fills you in, layer after layer, like calcium encrusting joints, and the things and places that once bled with the dead person’s presence dry up and scab over with repeated daily use in this new time, the time “without”: the crosswalk, next to the movie studio where Vlada once sneaked her yellow Beetle behind me and stuck her shaggy, golden-wheat head out the window and hollered, “Daryna!” having been crossed another dozen times, sheds her presence and no longer hurts, becoming just another crosswalk; the windows of her apartment—the ones I checked for light as soon as I came out of the subway, the ones whose glow made me walk faster in anticipation of our kitchen-table talk after she’d put Katrusya to bed—first became the dark windows of an empty home, and then dissolved into a row of other windows, as if swallowed by a crowd, until one day, as I walked by, I realized I could no longer find them—was the first one the second or the third from the corner balcony?—and stood there on the sidewalk struck with my mouth open, like Lot’s wife, trying to remember the layout of the apartment, while lines from Hamlet swirled in my mind, “My father died within these two hours. / —Nay, ’tis twice two months, my lord.” (Or twice two years—does it get any easier?)

Fighting a pile of old letters at home, in another useless fit of resistance against the expanding paper chaos, I recognized the hand on an envelope with such intense emotion that it pinned me to the spot like an animal in a spotlight: This is from someone I once loved! And only after I read the return address did I realize it was Vlada’s writing. Is it truly not the person that we remember, but only our own feelings attached to them? Does the loss hurt because it leaves us flailing, throwing our severed emotional limbs after something that’s no longer there? Only the places that were unsoiled, untouched by subsequent visits retained the memories they originally held: the bench on Prorizna Street, next to Yama Café, where in the fall of 1990 the two of us sat burning our palates with “the double-halves” of coffee from Soviet cups with handles broken off to discourage anyone from stealing them, while below, in front of the Central Post Office, the not-yet-renamed Independence Square roared as a single body—its low drone swelled into one explosive boom after another, reverberating off walls, running quakes and shudders through window panes, all the way across the deserted city to the old Jewish market and the striking trolleybus depots—and the empty trolleybuses, their poles lowered and wires drooping like wet whiskers, stood aligned in two rows along Khreshchatyk, as if readied to be used as barricades; our faces felt the hot breath of stormy, combustible air—the crackling air of unrest that is released from the fissures between epochs like subterranean gases from between slipping tectonic plates, the air that picks you up and carries you along, air you can walk on, run on, shouting and not hearing your own voice. Our lips, parched after a day of standing on the square, burned as we passed our single cigarette to each other; we drank the boiling-hot double-halves and Vlada talked and talked without pause, as though she’d broken through many years of silence—about her divorce, about how things can’t go on the same, how life had to change, how it had to begin, finally, for real. “We had no youth, Daryna,” she said, meaning the students who’d lain down in the square and no longer got up—the students on their backs, face to face with the sky, their features starved into seraphic transparency, their suicidal headbands with the words “hunger strike” etched meekly in white on their foreheads—and we envied them because, unlike them, “we had no youth.”

Vlada’s verdict cut me to the quick—it was so brutally true; she always possessed that unsparing clarity of vision, an astonishing degree of honesty for a comfortable Soviet girl. I felt the same as she did, but she was always first to recognize and articulate what it was, and as I listened to her then I felt, for the first time, a stab of another thought, one that I had been afraid to acknowledge—that my own marriage had expired just like hers, and I had to find the courage to tear it apart soon, to sever it surgically before the rot infected the two souls entangled in it. The world melded into a giant, rolling mass; our lives, and the only era we’d known, were falling apart in front of our eyes, and they were being ground down to irreducible solid specs that could then be sucked into the dark maelstrom of history. We had both married very proper Soviet boys, handsome and nice, college and, later, graduate students; and it was only when time came crashing down around us that we realized that these proper Soviet boys, so handsome and nice, feared nothing more than growing up—that an insurmountable horror of the adult life in which one had to make independent decisions had lain latent in them like an incurable virus, and it took nothing less than an utter collapse of the social system that had relied on men just like them to bring it out. Vlada had sensed all this a step ahead of me and was first to jump ship, to paddle her one-woman rescue raft away, with the infant Katrusya at her breast—I don’t think I would’ve had the guts were I in her shoes, but then again, I didn’t have the guts to have Sergiy’s child either. She had not a shred of fear in the face of the unknown; her whole being hummed, aimed at the future, as though she were set atop a tightly coiled steel spring ready to pop, and the energy she contained charged me, too, giving me some of the same confidence—she was wearing a black leather jacket that day, and I remember thinking with a smile, in a sudden rush of tenderness, Biker girl! All she needs is a white helmet...

The bench on Prorizna is still there—after they closed Yama Café, they turned the place into a casino so it no longer serves as the perch for bohemian smoke breaks and now sits empty most of the time, on a blank slab of asphalt, no longer hidden by lilac bushes that were cleared to make a parking lot for the casino-bound Mercedes and Porsches—the only surviving monument to that autumn when we were, as it turned out later, still young, so young that we didn’t even know it. Because only youth, having found itself straddling a widening chasm between two eras, can leap forward with an easy heart, away from its crumbling past, can send whatever has been to the trash, like a bad draft, and set out, at not-quite thirty, to “live for real”—it is only youth that has the arrogance to cross out the years that have not satisfied its ambition: time teaches you to waste nothing, to savor unhurriedly, like wine, things that years earlier you would’ve brushed aside on a princely whim, thinking, as young Katrusya said whenever she missed her bus, “Dey’ll send us anoter one, bettuh.” Time teaches you that no, unfortunately, they won’t.

Vlada had ten more years exactly—ten berserk years of living “for real,” at the speed of a Harley barreling down a mountain road (with Katrusya in her backpack); ten years in which she, a single mother without any material resources, except the studio on the Andriyivsky Descent that she inherited from her father, transformed herself into a truly accomplished artist, possibly the most successful painter in Ukraine—if you can measure national success in foreign sales, of course (although lately even our homegrown fat cats have begun to warm up to the idea that owning a Matusevych is badass), or in foreign sales and Ukrainian envy, because the latter is far more precise and sensitive than money alone: money, after all, is relative, and no one ever has enough, but envy always circulates in reliably high supply, and the more of it that roils around you, the thicker and more noxious its vapors, the more certain it is that you have risen, damn it, risen above the crowd.

(As if she did it on purpose, as if she’d stood up from the trenches and let the sniper’s bullet find her. As if someone up there cared that we shouldn’t rise too far above anything, that we should toe the line. Inch forward, slowly—not the way she wanted it, “for real.”)

It is always on Prorizna, when I pass the orphaned little bench on its bare knoll, that the stubbornly offended, purely childish thought—It’s not fair!—pops up like a forgotten buoy and hits me anew. If there’s still someone up there who enforces the rules, then it was even more unfair of him to rip her out of a life that she lived full tilt (literally) like a crock dentist who pries off a good tooth—Oops, sorry, a bit of a mistake here, but you can’t put it back, can you?

Vlada herself must have been more than a little cross after she’d been deposited in the next world so unceremoniously: the very first night, while her body lay on a morgue shelf, she appeared in my dreams unusually furious—in her studio, wearing those same threadbare overalls and rummaging through drawers in search of something; she waved me off when I called out to her, desperately, with my whole being—meaning, leave me alone, I’m busy—and said something truly bizarre, something about “a bill of ward” that she urgently needed because “there are too many deaths.” I memorized those words exactly because, although the language of dreams is as impenetrable as that of prophecies, it is incapable of untruth and therein lies its central distinction from what we say and hear in daylight; it is our perception that skews the dreamt messages, “instrument bias” as scientists call it, and that’s why whenever I manage to preserve something I heard in my dreams until morning I write it down verbatim, even if it sounds a hundred times less meaningful than what I heard Vlada say to me on that first night, especially since, as it later turned out, on the same night in Vlada’s mother’s apartment, where Katrusya was staying, lights spontaneously went on and off in different rooms, doors opened and closed, and the girl cried out in her sleep, “Mama!”—apparently, Vlada was searching there too, searching for her bill of protection, but against what? And to be given to whom?

At the funeral, the teary womenfolk chatted themselves into the consensus that Vlada must’ve been looking for the lost paintings, the “many deaths” referring to her subject matter, and one gallery curator, turned irretrievably kooky on canonically dogmatic Orthodox grounds, blurted out what would feed the whispering, watery-eyed gluttons in certain circles for a long time hence: “You must not toy with a topic like that, you know?”—not without a dose of moral superiority, like someone officially tasked with watching over cosmic justice (Vlada couldn’t stand these born-again types and called them “the church CheKa”). The men, who generally held more positivist views, found a different interpretation more appetizing right there at the wake, especially after they’d had a couple drinks and the quickest of the ladies joined in and went to work with their knives and forks. To them it was quite obvious that Vlada had been “marked,” and for quite a while, “’coz everyone knows you could hire a professional hit man for five hundred bucks on a slow day, and a single one of Vlada’s painting would fetch many times as much, enough to whack your own mama—Five hundred, ha!” “Didn’t you hear on TV the other day? Just outside Donets’k, someone dug up a grave the day after the funeral to pull ten hryvnas out of the dead man’s suit pocket that a neighbor saw the widow put there.” “No, that’s not what I’m talking about, stuff like that always happens, I mean professionals, for them to slip a car into a ditch, especially off a wet highway, is easier than falling off a log!”

And so the conspiracy theories spread and knotted one over another, growing more incredible the further they spun away from the actual event, and it was no use trying to talk sense into the people who’d never seen, other than on TV, either Vlada or Vadym (whose imposing representative’s figure at first thoroughly discombobulated the police; I remember seeing an inspector in the maelstrom of kin and friends, and a few others, all in uniform caps and with identical shifty looks of small thugs caught red-handed). They wouldn’t hear that A) no signs of any contact with another vehicle were found on the smashed Beetle; B) the investigation was able to reconstruct, rather competently, the path traveled by the car as it swerved off the highway, which C) made the crash a clear and conclusive accident, to the great relief of the police, who nonetheless purported to keep looking for the lost paintings, although you didn’t have to be a genius to guess that they’d never be found, unless, I don’t know, someone tripped over them—and what Ukrainian cop, if he still had his wits, would wear down his soles chasing after some “pitures,” no matter how many times you tell him that they cost more than some stolen Volga?; and, most importantly, that D) we do not, thank Lord, belong to the EU, regardless of how hard our anointed leaders thump their gelatinous chests to make precisely the opposite point, and one would be hard-pressed to find a decent art-thieving mafia in the deep ass that is our independent-of-any-rationality nation, where a modest bribe to a local official lets you carve out a piece of a brick wall with any Bruno Schulz fresco you fancy, or any fresco for that matter, anything, really, and the pickings have been slim ever since our last Goya and Ribera were sent to Moscow for “conservation” in the 1960s, never to be returned, just as no one intends to give us back the gems of the Tereshchenko collection that Grandpa Lenin himself traded off to Armand Hammer for his relief effort in 1921; so, no, it’s been a good half century since a self-respecting art thief could find regular sustenance on our lands, not to mention the fact that one needs a good network of legitimate art dealers to smuggle things out, and, as our cameraman Antosha puts it, Where the fuck do you find yourself some of those?

Ukrainians, as any preschooler will tell you, focus on much simpler, homely things: arms, drugs, non-ferrous metals, poached Carpathian lumber, girls “for work in Europe”—fail-safe operations, with good cash flow, and who needs academies and shit like that; let things take their course, the country’ll find its way; let all those nutty artists and other trash feel secure as they would in their mommies’ bosoms for the simple reason that no one gives a flying fuck about them; let them live and graze, if they can find themselves a pasture.

Against my better nature, I had to admit, nothing is better suited for a story than the sudden tragic death of a brilliant and famous young woman. No young man’s death could ever produce the same effect—it’s as if men were expected to die, were doomed to die by some silent communal pact, if not in war, then somewhere else, as if the poor things were quite unfit for anything else, and that’s why with men, it’s not the fact of the death itself that we judge but how well it was performed: Did the deceased meet his fate chin-up, did he take it bravely on the chest, thus fulfilling a man’s purpose, or did he try to hide, like a coward, and betray said purpose dishonorably? We must reach one of these conclusions—call it The People’s Death Police, if you will—and that’s why we will not forget the case of journalist Georgiy Gongadze until we are delivered his tangible, bleeding real death instead of anonymous beheaded remains dug up somewhere in the woods. But no one remembers Vadym Boiko, the face of Ukrainian TV in the early 1990s, who shortly before a blast in his apartment was giddily showing his colleagues a thick file—I’ve got them all, those old Commies, right here, at last, you’ll see it all tomorrow!—and when the smoke cleared everyone saw Boiko’s burned body and cracked concrete ceilings. Boiko is quite forgotten because why would anyone bother remembering if everyone knows what happened?

A young woman’s death is another matter altogether: it is always seen as a violation of the very natural order of things, since the first thought is inevitably about her brood—when there isn’t any (and will never be) and when there is (who will watch, oh, who will care, who will wash my orphan’s hair as the folk song mourns, and a million like it, century after century). A story is badly needed here—it alone can help restore the natural order of things; it can focus the frame and present this one death as a horrible aberration, a painful disruption for which someone, somewhere, will have to answer, if not now, then eventually, and if not in a court of law, then to a higher Judgment. If, on top of everything else, the victim was seen as a princess, showered with gifts by fairy godmothers every birthday and Christmas (Which already hinted at a trespass, inserted the required measure of injustice into the equation: Why should she be the special one?), and if she never once in her life acted the victim because she was too proud, or had principles, or for whatever other reason, then it only makes more sense to blame her for everything—let her take it all, if she’s so special—and close the case, turn, spit, curse, nothing like this would ever happen to me. A story like that is a chant, a protective spell that seals the other person’s death, puts it in an airtight glass sarcophagus, fit for a museum display—you can look, you can walk around it, you can even run your fingers on the glass and tap it with a pointer as you teach the lesson of how one ought not to live, lest one intends to find oneself at the height of one’s powers—and six feet under: Always buckle your seat belt, follow the rules, avoid dubious liaisons, don’t paint unsettling pictures and, for God’s sake, don’t rise so far above the crowd. All my dogged As, Bs, Cs, Ds, and so on were no more than a pathetic, wasted, toothless attack at this thick glass sarcophagus—an assault on people’s fundamental, self-preserving belief that death, our own or someone else’s, must have a sensible reason, that the world is just. And what did I have to counter this—my wimpy, childish, and inconsolable “It’s not fair”?

As if all this weren’t enough, Vlada veered off the Boryspil highway at the same spot where the politician Viacheslav Chornovil crashed in 1999, and Vlada’s death stoked a new fire under the old rumors of foul play suspected in his accident; it was after these flared up again that I first had the inkling that her words about “many deaths” did not refer to Contents of a Purse Found at the Scene of the Accident and a few other, less funereal, paintings on the theme of death, did not refer to her work at all, but communicated a much more literal—and menacing—insight she had come back to share. The place where she went off the road had long enjoyed a very bad reputation among Kyiv’s motorists; it was an evil, fateful spot: at least once every season, someone got into trouble there, lost traction on perfectly dry asphalt and swerved all the way out into the oncoming traffic, or collided with another car while passing it, or had his gas tank explode for no apparent reason—had it been the custom, along the preeminent Boryspil highway, to festoon its flanks with memorial wreaths and flower bouquets, as folks did along more common roads, the rainbow of colors at this spot would announce it from afar, like a cemetery entrance set in a lush bed of florists’ stands.

It seemed, then, that Vlada, as countryfolk say, found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time, and was caught on the track laid by earlier deaths precisely at a time when her own life juices were sucked almost dry—she did have a very hard year, but what do I really know about that? What does Vadym really know about that, despite being territorially, at least, the closest person to her? How stunned he was—with a brief flash of a childlike delight, as if at a message relayed from her from a distant land, a sign of a persisting connection—when I told him about Vlada’s midnight terror of dying if she fell asleep. “You must be kidding?” Was it because he would’ve ignored it, would’ve told her to take some pills—so you’re stressed out, no big deal—or because she didn’t share with him anything he might have indulgently interpreted as silliness? After all, Vadym belonged to the class of people who were used to dealing with Problems That Had to Be Solved and not with Misfortunes That Had to Be Endured, and this, as they say in Odessa, is a big difference. It is the demarcation line that divides us into the strong and the weak of the world, and the reason why it is the strong who, at the end of the day, are the least equipped to deal with tragedy and therefore collapse dramatically when one befalls them: Vadym coped by drinking himself into a mute stupor and then climbing into his Land Cruiser and driving off into the night, toward Boryspil, as if he hoped to see Vlada somewhere along the way, so he had to be watched and fought nightly into bed, first by his friends, and later by some provincial relatives summoned to Kyiv for this purpose; but, for reasons that defy understanding, nothing ever happened to him on these nocturnal sojourns, except the money he lost paying the traffic cops, or, rather, whatever US dollar bills he grabbed and blindly thrust at them when they stopped him. What followed usually depended on the cops’ benevolence: one time they towed him to their station and kept him there for the night, pouring him strong tea from their thermoses and calling every single number in his address book until they roused a friend to come take him home—the ticket must have been especially impressive that night, or maybe he just ran into some really kind cops (Why not? Things happen.), some good folks who listened to him pour his soul out and tell them, over and over, how his Vlada perished, until he fell asleep on a cot, or they finally knocked him out, instantly and professionally, and who would blame them if they did?

It had never occurred to me before that, of the two of them, Vlada was the stronger one. The ancient mythical notion (branded into me since infancy by my mother) that the husband—the Man!—unless he was in jail or in hospital, must be “the leader” and “take care of everything” was apparently more persistent than I had suspected, outliving hell, high water, a ruined marriage, and a broken (multiple times) heart, providing the dusty peephole through which I viewed (without really seeing much) Vlada’s marriage as a fulfillment of our poor mothers’ ideal: here—finally!—a strongman shielding you from all worldly mishaps with his mighty shoulders, both physical and financial; all you have to do is bloom, look pretty, and pursue spiritual improvement, without a care in the world, other than scheduling your interviews on national TV. The funniest thing is that women like that still existed in our mothers’ generation: the ladies who stayed home, cooked borsches, studied esoteric literature, patronized persecuted and unrecognized artists, occasionally penned or crafted something, and were held in high regard as impressive activists by their communities; but the fact that some humble hardworking husbands bankrolled all their activism—their artists, their books, and whatever went into their borsches, too—was never mentioned in polite society, just like it wasn’t proper to point out that a person has to piss and shit; the knack these ladies had for arranging their lives so comfortably belongs to the ancient feminine arts that were irretrievably lost by the end of the twentieth century, like weaving on an upright loom or treating hives with herb smoke. By the time we came around, the ladies were in their decline, widowed—their humble hardworking husbands, naturally, having all died first—we found them not grandmotherly even, but as a tribe of mothballed ancient girls who didn’t know how to go out alone or where the phone and electricity bills were; they responded to an innocent “How are you?” with a two-hour-long lecture on their existential condition, and generally seemed slightly batty, an impression that could not be alleviated even by the glow of their former glory and that was made all the stronger by how laughable they were, which, in turn, cast retroactive doubt on that much-publicized glory, the times that made it possible, and the incredible persistence of the ideals they embodied.

Only when Vadym collapsed without Vlada, like a sack dropped in the middle of the room, did I see how things really were between the two of them—but it didn’t make me feel any better. I remembered her the way she was when she first fell in love with him—it seemed like yesterday, but no, ’tis twice two years, my lord—how suddenly charming she was, as if her face, posture, and gestures were lit with a soft low light, and the lumbering Vadym melted in her presence like butter in the sun, clearly not having eyes for much of anything else, and it was all so darn nice that often, after I’d said goodbye and was alone, I’d catch myself still smiling and feel silly, like I had jam on my chin and no one told me. True love always becomes a source of warmth for the people around it, a small hearth, and I was also happy for Vlada in a purely woman’s way—happy that she got so lucky, and juiced, like on an essential vitamin, on the fact that her new affair, no less intense at thirty-eight than it would’ve been at eighteen, showed me, just as Vlada did back in 1990, during the student hunger strike, that, no matter our age, the possibilities continued to be endless, the future was open and would remain so for the rest of our lives—that it would forever beckon like a gate through which one glimpsed the misty-gold horizon.

No one could give me this feeling like she did, except men, for a very short time during the same period of being acutely in love—before the gates slowly screeched closed again. Where could a feeling like this come from in this eternally despoiled country that still lives according to the kolkhoz-era dictum, that one exhausts one’s entire stock of possibilities when young, and once that’s done, all one has left to do is live through one’s children? Something in me always revolted violently against this massively psychotic urge to hurry up and settle, make a tight nest out of life and curl up in it as if for a good night’s sleep; it must have been the memory of mom’s swift and sudden descent, after she got married for the second time, into a stolid, shapeless, middle-aged womanhood—so radical for the woman who, with Dad, remained trim and elegant, even through the worst of times, someone men turned to look at in the street. Being a clueless teenager at the time, I promptly blamed her transformation on my stepfather: Uncle Volodya may have be a hero and a saint in his surgery, and I didn’t doubt my mom’s assertion that he went above and beyond to make Father’s last months tolerable—although I doubted that it was necessary to extend her gratitude all the way to marrying the man—but, at home, this knight of scalpel and catgut lived like an absolute slob in old bubble-kneed sweatpants, that inescapable domestic uniform of Soviet men. He shocked me with hospital jokes that came in just above barracks humor on the idiocy scale—he’d say to someone on the phone, “Cunt you slick up?” and that was supposed to be funny. And he was acutely disgusting in every bodily function: he could be shaving in the bathroom with the door open and break wind like he was blowing out rusty valves, could keep on talking loudly from the bathroom over the unmistakable sound of his indomitable peeing, made me blush at the dinner table with his comments about the laxative or constipating properties of the meal; he approached eating very seriously, loved “grub,” and after a meal of rabbit stew at a friends’ house, while picking his teeth, would offer the insightful eulogy of “Yeah, this rabbit did not die for naught”—and everyone laughed, and Mom laughed, and didn’t even look awkward! After my sophomore year, after I took my very first camping trip, with guitars, fires, and sex on a windbreaker spread on the ground as an excuse to hightail it from a home ruled by this, as I dubbed him, “Odessa louse” into a marriage, I still hung on to my belligerent belief that it was he who pulled the plug on Mom; he cut the power, turned off the lights, dragged her down, and debased her to the endless, pointless culinary clucking, “Darynka, dear, I’ve canned some tomatoes for you and a couple of jars of eggplant, and the jam didn’t come out right, must’ve overcooked it, I’ll try again while the strawberries are in...”—she, who wrote poems when she was young, good ones!

I earnestly believed she was the innocent victim who could no longer be rescued, and that belief hurled me into my own life as if riding a rocket-powered broomstick, armed with the determination not to let anyone, ever drag me down; every hint of settling down threatened to do precisely that, tied my hands and loaded rocks into my shoes, and I needed more than one year, and a whole bunch of bumps and bruises, to come to the realization that a woman is never a victim in cases like Mom’s, even when that’s what she wants you to believe—that my mother, after she settled down, thank goodness, so solidly and conclusively, had nothing more to look forward to, except Uncle Volodya coming home to dinner, and must have pulled the plug, without much regret, herself—she had no use for it anymore.

All my peers were wired, more or less, for the same purpose: to settle down, soon and forever, as if someone were chasing after them and their lives depended on jumping into a bunker and sealing the doors—all except Vlada. She alone lived without the least concern for what her environment and upbringing dictated—and they dictated a comfortable bunker, and a father for Katrusya, because how could the child grow up without a father, and family friendships, and group vacations that could later be talked about on social occasions, and so on and so forth; an entire carefully knotted net that, by virtue of its own gravity, shapes your life without your participation, and it is only after the net is filled and the life’s minimum passing score is achieved that a woman can allow herself to let her hair down a little—have a solo show of her paintings in a trendy gallery, say, with the requisite presentation of a custom-suited husband who gallantly refills ladies’ drinks at the reception. Vlada, however, behaved as if she’d gone to a different school where they didn’t cover such things: She came and went mercurially, as she pleased, with whomever she pleased and where she pleased, looked fantastic doing so, and painted better and better, so that people began to feel intimidated, especially after she came into money, and it got harder to wave her off, dismissively—“Who, Matusevych? Give me a break! You call that a genius?”—because money, no matter how you slice it, has a way of validating its owner’s way of doing things.

For some reason, people had the hardest time recognizing the obvious: Vlada was born with the gift of inner freedom that usually comes packaged with talent and without which talent has no prayer—without it, you’ll waste yourself chasing applause—and this surplus freedom, like a topped-off tank of gas, let her rev through any external rules that were put in her way without a second thought; Vadym, once he entered her life, could get into the backseat or could man the pit stops and time her laps, but she never thought of their union as settling down, and was irked when her girlfriends insisted on implying precisely the opposite when they congratulated her on, among other things, making such a rich catch—“I’m no pauper myself,” she’d snarl back, incensed. Already then I could see what would be crudely and unattractively revealed after she died: that she was not the only one to whom her inborn surplus of freedom and confidence gave the strength to keep her own council—it nourished everyone around her, all of us, including Vadym. Vadym first and foremost.

Things I wouldn’t have noticed before now ached like fresh abrasions—such as the time when Vadym, drunk, sobbed, “How am I going to live now?” like a spoiled little boy who’s used to having his every wish instantly granted, rolling in a tantrum on the floor without his pants because there’s no one to jerk him back to his feet. “She set the bar for me!” and my mind went on adding businesslike entries to its spreadsheet: Is that so, then? You too, huh? At the funeral he also said, no longer hysterical and instead with measured manly grief, “She was the best thing in my life”—as if this confession could make our good Lord suddenly ashamed of what a great personal harm he’d done to the poor man, and again the ache grated through me: What about her, how are we to make meaning of her life now, isn’t that the most important thing? I could, of course, just blame his nonsense on shock: people are liable to blurt utter insanities in a state like that, and men especially—nothing to do about that, they know neither how to birth nor how to bury; life’s hardest, dirtiest jobs are reserved for women—and no one would expect perfect style from the grief-stricken man.

Now that it was she who lay there, pillowed in a heap of flowers, her name struck me anew every time it was said during the liturgy, as if jolting me out of sleep—Lord, receive the soul of Thy servant Vladyslava, and pardon her her sins, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, whether witting or through ignorance—Vladyslava? This is about her? Lord, Vlada! Vladusya, no!—and tears burst from my eyes like from busted pipes, as I watched them lift her coffin, the one that cost “a fortune” and looked small as a child’s—you didn’t really notice how tiny Vlada was while she was alive; there was so incredibly much of her while she talked, moved, and laughed, and maybe that is why she looked held down by force in her coffin, not just dead but really killed, beaten in, and held up to be ogled, to expose how really defenseless she was. As she lay there like that and we stood around her and tried to utter something (I did, too!), and all our words were so small and pathetic—who could possibly give a damn about who she was to you, mister?—so ill-fitted, even if you put them all together, to measure the thing that was her interrupted life, the same words people would use to talk about other things, after they got home from the funeral and sat drinking tea in their kitchens, that’s when I could tell Vlada I’d have given anything to have someone do “some fine lamenting” over her as they once did over her grandma. I could have told her what we didn’t know before: how your throat swells with your enormous, tumorous muteness, when you don’t know this forgotten ancient ritual, the only one, as it became clear, fit for minutes like these, the one meant to wash a person’s life just as someone washes her body, as common words could never do, to wash—and raise it above the crowd’s heads to be seen above the coffin, to make it fine. This is not cheating, I said into the silence of my dead line; this was art, Vlada, only no one knew it anymore, and I didn’t either, and the only thing that would come out of me, had I dared to give my soul shape with singing, would be the half-choked mooing of a wounded cow.

And after this—slowly, drop by drop—the forgetting began.

Lord, is this really all?

***

Daryna Goshchynska gets up from behind her desk, walks to the window, and stands there for a long time, looking through the dark glass at the scattered flickering stars of city lights below. How little light there is in Kyiv—and it’s the capital. One can only imagine what the country looks like. Dark, dark. How poorly we live, Lord, and how bad we are at dying.

A light switch clicks and the window pane projects—suddenly, so it gives her an unpleasant jolt—an image of a beautiful young woman; in the partial light that eats up the details, she is really young and extraordinarily, piercingly beautiful; it’s almost frightening, this beauty, something pagan, witchy. She’s got long, Egyptian eyebrows and dark lips as if sated with blood—this is not her televised self crafted to make viewers wonder about the designer of her suit and the brand of her lipstick. This face is something carved out of the night by the light of a bonfire—primeval, elementally gorgeous. Before she turns back to the world and Yurko, who has been talking at her all along, Daryna hungrily takes in this impenetrable face, both hers and not her own: so this is what she looks like when she is alone—much stronger than she feels.

She draws from this strength to give Yurko a dazzling smile. “I’m sorry; I was thinking...what did you say?”

“I’m saying, a young man just called for you.” Yurko’s eyes turn silky with insinuation. For a couple years already, their relationship has been balancing on the brink of flirting, which is not much, but no man likes to find himself a herald of another man’s arrival, and Yurko lets Daryna use the small pause, if she will, to explain herself, to dismiss, if only with a twist of an eyebrow, the young man as a second-class citizen. She does not, so he grins magnanimously somewhere in the direction of this man, “He was worried about where you were.”

“Gosh, I turned my ringer off. Thank you, Yurko.”

She glances at her cell. Of course, it’s Adrian. Unhappy Yurko retreats out the door. How strange that she forgot Adrian existed. That she keeps forgetting about him—as one forgets about one’s own arm or leg. She picks up her phone and calls him.

“Aidy?”

“Lolly?” His voice bursts with unmediated delight, as it always does when they haven’t talked for a while, even for a little bit. For an instant she feels the imprint of his hard member, like a silk-covered rock, in her hand and a blast of Adrian’s smell (Cinnamon? Cumin?) hits her with such forceful nearness that she must sit down on the edge of the desk, squeezing her free hand, unconsciously, between her legs. Lolly was the name she was called when she was little, before she could roll the r in Daryna, but Adrian didn’t know this; he derived the name anew from doll—my doll, dolly—Lolly in keeping with the childishness of his love’s language, a characteristic shared by many openhearted men. He couldn’t conceive of being embarrassed by it either, and at first she resisted, feeling uneasy—I’m not a doll!—but the Lolly that hadn’t been heard for thirty-odd years must have worked its magic, overcoming the momentum of her experience and confirming, once again, the nearly metaphysical expedience of everything Adrian did, as if he had, in fact, possessed some secret knowledge about her, which called for respectful obedience on her behalf, and perhaps it was precisely because he sensed this, that he always called out his Lolly! so triumphantly, like a young dad who’s just picked his firstborn’s name and is thrilled with the sound of it. And still it unnerves her a little, and the thought that a stranger might witness this shameless profession of his bliss makes her want to put a hand over his mouth—he could be at his office, in a cab, or a store, or wherever.

The question sounds like she’s worried, and that’s how he interprets it, which makes her feel a little guilty, as if she’d toyed with him on purpose, so she tries to focus and listen diligently as he explains how he finally made it to his unpronounceable department at the university where he is still considered to be working on his dissertation, but didn’t catch the head of his committee, and the secretary promised the boss would be back soon, and he wasted almost an hour drinking a pot of coffee with that hen—except that Adrian doesn’t call her a hen because he never says anything negative about anyone unless absolutely necessary, and even when it is urgently and critically necessary, limits himself to a remark about the subject’s one unattractive deed and does not generalize, while Daryna, on the other hand, has long nourished the suspicion that the department’s secretary has the hots for Adrian and uses every chance she gets to enjoy his company; it’s really shocking what girls will do these days (for fairness’s sake Daryna admits that before she was Daryna Goshchynska, a national news anchor, she herself was not above making the first move with men she liked, but this was ancient history, so shrouded in the mists of time that it doesn’t placate her now). While Adrian talks, she blinks mechanically at her reflection in the glass—now her usual screen image, only badly lit and with a cell phone pressed against her ear.

Vlada and Adrian—they’re separate drawers, parallel channels of her consciousness: she and Adrian met when Vlada was already gone. And now she feels no urge whatsoever to introduce them in her mind to each other—it’s a new era, a new calendar. PV, Post Vlada.

Artem, now he knew Vlada. And, Artem marked the beginning of Olena Dovgan’s story for Daryna (she smiles at the flashback to the humble basement where the story began and her compromised pose at its inception); Adrian appeared after that, in the second act, so to speak. Artem is now in the past, too, and is unlikely to make another appearance in her life, as if he’d played the role he’d been assigned and left the theater. For a split second, Daryna feels woozy, lightheaded, as if she’d soared above the flow of time on a giant swing and looked down on it from above, like from that enormous Ferris wheel in the park when she was little, reeling every time she reached the very top, where she could see as far as the horizon—Was she scared to face the whole world at once, alone?

There was something illicit about that bird’s-eye view of life, of what seemed then like the whole world, like the view from the top of the Tower of Babel; it was something not permitted, something that a human being was not meant to tolerate for more than a slipping tail of an instant—and now she is slipping just like that, unmoored by a sudden meteoric convergence, in her mind’s eye, of people scattered throughout time and space, with no connection to each other that a normal, ground-level view could discern into a single, meaningful design, a complete picture, a vista. A mere flash of a vista, really, because the very next instant the picture disintegrates, scatters, just before Daryna grasps a single line from Artem—through Dovganivna—to Adrian and remains sitting on the edge of the desk with a vision cooling like sweat between her shoulder blades: the sudden knowledge that everything around her is threaded with these lifelines, and a hundred, a thousand of them run invisibly through her and into other people’s lives, but to discern and comprehend the pattern they draw—a picture so grand, so magnificent, that a single glimpse of it fills you with knee-buckling awe—is impossible if only for the single reason that the lines extend way beyond your chopped-off field of vision, beyond the frame of your life, your short, damn it, short years, threading together people from different centuries—let alone generations—different ages, finding them further and further apart, so far apart you could never see them. This living fabric knits and weaves us together, flows, shifts, loops, and passes, and we have no hope, with our meager few decades of allocated time here, of leaping from its midst to see it from above and discern its infinitely scattered pattern, more intricate than a star map, but we all rub together unknowing—the living, the dead, and the not-yet born—who knows how many of us, and what chimerical knots have conspired to have her sitting here with the voice of the man she loves in her hand—and she can’t even see why she loves him, why him and not someone else?

“Hello?” the man in question says gently, as if carefully patting her awake; he has sensed a thinning of attention on her end of the line, a transition, as he would put it, from the solid to the plasma state. “Lolly? Are you there?”

“Uhu...Aidy, do you remember the ontological proof of God?”

He snickers—not because the question strikes him as absurd, and not because it comes out of the blue, but because any surprise coming from her delights him inordinately, still. She wonders how long this will last.

“I used to, but I can’t just give to you off the top of my head. Why?”

“I think I just discovered it.”

He laughs out loud, laughs at his clever girl, his tireless inventor. He’s happy to find her in a good mood.

“I’m serious. There must be someone who sees the entire picture—the whole thing, from above. Like from the Ferris wheel in the park. Only not just right now, this moment, but all the time.”

This sounds exceptionally stupid; it’s been a while since she proclaimed anything so inane with such heartfelt conviction. Like a schoolgirl, really.

“Oh, you are so smart!” But he agrees, he agrees preemptively with whatever she wants to say. As long as it makes her happy. As long as there’s peace and quiet and good counsel—with the only acceptable exception of her moaning in the bedroom on the king-size bed with a Moroccan silk comforter. He likes it when she moans—“don’t stop the music” is what they call it.

For a moment, Daryna is filled with such anguish as if someone has pushed her out of a rocket ship into open space and cut the cord: nothing, nothing, and no gravity. She is alone.

Adrian, meanwhile, picks up her idea from another end, as if with a pair of tweezers, places it on a glass slide under his mental microscope, and sets another on top, until hers is utterly unrecognizable. “I can tell you one thing, from the theory of probability, if you want to know. I read somewhere that statistically the actual number of accident survivors exceeds the projected number by five percent. Consistently.”

No, she doesn’t want to know anything of the sort. She doesn’t even want to make the effort required to decipher his abracadabra—like at a math lesson in school when you know you’re going to be called on next and will have to come up to the board and pick up where the previous victim put the chalk down. But Adrian is a kind soul—she’s being unfair—he’ll explain it all himself.

“Theoretically, the dice should roll fifty-fifty: the number that survives should be the same as the number that dies. But five percent more survive, consistently. These five percent—the X factor, the unknown intervention—that’s God. He’s mathematically proven to exist.”

“No kidding? That’s really interesting.”

She’s not being ironic—okay, maybe a tiny bit—she really finds it interesting, and the classroom is warm, and the lights hum cozily under the ceiling (it’s still dark outside, first period, winter), and the piece of chalk creaks on the blackboard peaceably—only it makes your fingers feel funny, like they don’t belong to you, unpleasantly woolly and slippery on your pen.... Her earlier reverie is gone, vanished; she’s only managed to latch on, like a bulldog, to the word threads, and now it’ll spin in her mind for the rest of the day, she’ll mouth it absently, threads, thready-threads. Threads. Threads that make up a pattern that we can’t see. That’s why no story is ever finished, no one’s. Death cannot put a period on it.

At this point, it finally occurs to Daryna that this deeply intellectual discussion will add a hefty charge to their cell-phone bills, enough that they could have had the discussion much more pleasantly somewhere nice over cake and coffee. Once again Adrian’s yuppie profligacy dulls her own poor-girl instincts: she sees—and apparently will always see—money as a set of opportunities, fanned out in front of her like cards, from which she must be careful to choose only one, the best, and, for Adrian, money is something to be spent on whatever strikes his fancy, here and now. And this, despite the fact that they make almost the same at their jobs (hers pays slightly more), so it’s not a matter of numbers—it’s about an internal freedom that no amount of money can buy; you either have it or you don’t. So it looks like she doesn’t, but so what? Let it go already.

“Why did you call me when you knew I’d be at the studio? Just to chat?”

“Actually...”

His voice changes, recoils as if upset with something, retreats like a scared little snail into the safety of a dark crack. Something happened, Daryna’s stomach sinks—but no, it can’t be, if something bad really happened (And why does she think it has to be something bad? Why is she always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the world to come apart, what is wrong with her?), he would have said so right away, instead of dragging things out—or wouldn’t he? They haven’t lived through a calamity as a couple yet—no accidents, ambulances, or financial disasters—only piddly stuff, the usual everyday vexations, problems that one has to solve and that are amenable to solving, so how would she know how he endured misfortune? Real misfortune.

“Well...I wanted to tell you right away, while it was still fresh. I, you know, dozed off after lunch, just nodded off right in my chair, so weird—that’s how I missed my prof.”

“Vitamin deficiency!” she laughs operatically, like a diva in the La traviata banquet scene—she can’t contain her relief: nothing’s wrong, everyone’s alive and well! “‘I fear daytime sleep: it dreams clairvoyant torment,’ that’s from Tychyna,” she throws in on the same breath, gathering momentum, like an ice-skater heading into a sparkling, spinning toe loop of inspired twitter—and slams on the brakes, with a gulp of deflating lungs when she realizes that’s not it, he hasn’t told her the whole thing.

“That could very well be. I had a dream.”

“A dream?” It’s as if the word was obscure to her.

“A dream,” he repeats stubbornly, which makes the word lose its meaning completely. “Of you and Aunt Gela.”

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” she mumbles, automatically, echoing the meaningless word and groping around for a quote, anything to help her keep her balance as her world rocks: she has no business appearing in his already suspicious dreams in the company of dead people; that’s enough to send a chill down the spine all by itself. But she and Aunt Gela—Olena Dovganivna—do exist together in the waking world, connected by a completely reasonable project: that cursed film of hers, the agony of it, and the fact that still, after all the work she’s put into it, she can’t find the single right turn of the key that will unlock the story, that one twist of the plot that will set the entire mechanism in motion—could it be possible that Adrian, as sensitive and finely tuned to her mind’s frequencies as he is, unconsciously reflected her growing, unsettling obsession with Dovganivna?

“And what were we doing in your dream?” She giggles, and her giggle comes out pitiful, tinny—as if he’d told her a scary fairytale and she now needs him to say it wasn’t true. And yet she already knows—from her gut, from inside, where it resonates loud and clear—that things stand otherwise: he won’t. And it’s not about her film.

“First the two of you were in a café, a summer café; you were sitting under an umbrella. It looked like the place in the Passage...both in summer dresses, you were laughing...drinking wine.”

Aha.

“And then?”

I was, I was, clicks in her head—right when you called, I was looking at the same footage, only with a different dead woman!

“Let’s talk about it at home, okay? I’ll give you the full debrief, promise.... And, Lolly? Let me come pick you up, okay?”

“No way,” she says in her best not-a-care-in-the-world voice—to calm them both down. “I’ll get a ride. Yurko will take me.”

She does feel a true and urgent need for Yurko’s company, for their playful, easy banter in the car along the way, for the juggling of slightly off-color jokes and ironic comments about the day, their regular, pleasant emotional gymnastics, refreshing like a shower or a cup of coffee—one of the well-ordered world’s small rituals that give us the sense of security and stability. That’s exactly what she needs.

“Don’t worry about it, Aidy. It’s nothing.”

“I’m not so sure. Not so sure at all.” She could almost see the way he shakes his head, trying to get rid of the nagging idea that buzzes inside his head like a trapped fly. He looks so funny when he does that, like a boy—and he says, just like a little boy, “Promise me that you’ll be careful!”

She gives another operatic howl, more dramatically now, in a mezzo-soprano, out of Wagner.

“There’s always that margin of five percent, right?”

She shuts her phone and stares for another second into the blackness beyond the window, at her antipode fleshed out of the night by the trembling glow of a fire. The otherworldly, thunderously beautiful face with elongated Egyptian eyes and dark-blooded lips rises toward her, chin resolutely thrust up—and suddenly shivers with a quick chilly tremor, as if swallowing a sob that’s burst from deep inside.

Vlada, Vladusya. Help me.

Daryna Goshchynska turns around, presses the eject button, pulls out the tape with the copy of the interview, throws it into her tote, and yanks the zipper closed. She puts her raincoat on, turns the lights off, and throws the door open.

“Yuurrrkooo!” her throaty, trilling call resounds in the empty hallway over the clicking of her heels—almost like a dove cooing.