An abandoned narrow-gauge railway substation, for example. Everyone forgot the substation and everyone forgot the narrow-gauge railway. I don’t remember where it was or where the railway led, if it even did. It stretched, rusty, through grasses; it was already nearly invisible. Some other children and I were playing under the platform and the sun made its way through cracks in the boards. Grasses stirred, grasshoppers chirped, there was a hot spell. And a cool breeze was blowing there, under the rough flooring. The platform was high so we were all able to stand at full height underneath. We were sitting in pairs, though, leaning against one another’s backs. Sitting was good, soft: grass grew under the platform, too, though it wasn’t thick, and some mosses were also growing. One boy had nobody to lean against. And so, he said:
‘There will be a thunderstorm. It will be the end of us.’
We could see nothing to portend a thunderstorm, but that’s only how it seemed: an absolutely leaden cloud was approaching from behind the grove we weren’t looking at. Unlike the boy who had warned us, we were self-absorbed and had not noticed anything. Later in life, I have observed that solitary people sense more subtly and notice nearing changes before others. And so that cloud rode into the sunny splendor, with a full complement of rain, lightning, thunder, and even hail. Hail the size of pigeon eggs, as is commonly said. Maybe a pigeon egg. I have never seen their eggs but the hailstones truly were large. The way they drummed on the boards made me think the boards would not hold out long.
I’ll add that lightning flashed and thunder boomed. It didn’t even boom, it cracked, infernally loudly. As if the sky were breaking into two uneven parts (the sun was still shining, far away). I, of course, had lived through thunderstorms more than once even before this, but in all those previous storms, seconds passed between lightning and a clap of thunder. My mother and I sometimes counted them. This time, though, the claps of thunder rang out together with the lightning, and that was scary. We were sitting as before, pressing our backs against one another, but now it was fear rather than a friendly feeling that bonded us. Water poured through the cracks in the boards, flowing behind our shirt collars and streaming, cold, along the body. And the boy who remained unpaired shouted in the intervals between lightning:
‘Heavenly electricity!’
I became desperately sorry for him and that sorrow overpowered fear. I moved away from the back I had managed to cling to and gave up my place to the shouter. He did not so much as stir, though. He was enjoying the horror of his solitariness. And the fullness of knowledge.
[ ]
I looked at the menologium in search of a name for our daughter. According to the doctors’ calculations, she should be born around April 13. St Anna is celebrated on that day. I told Platosha that and he was glad. He said that name reminds him of mine and my grandmother’s. I’m glad, too: Anna’s a beautiful name and not everybody can be Anastasia in any case. I decided to look to see who else is celebrated on that day. It turns out there’s Prelate Innokenty, educator of Siberia and America. Amazing.
We’re continuing to prepare for the wedding, mentally, at least, because we don’t want any celebrations at all. Geiger is our only guest. Platosha asked him to keep notes about the wedding. Geiger wavered slightly but didn’t dare refuse: Platosha did write for him for more than half a year.
Oh, this is important: we did register (what a Soviet term!). We came to the Petrograd District registry office and registered, wearing sweaters and jeans. Some old bag came out, lips pursed, to welcome us but Platosha stopped her. He calmly said that was unnecessary. She understood and wasn’t even offended. She limited her performance to ‘Sign the registry here.’ We signed.
We had a beer in the nearest pub: I had non-alcoholic, Platosha had German unfiltered. Over all, Platosha’s mood has lightened a bit in recent days. No, that’s not the word: it’s changed. He isn’t gladder now, but he’s calmer, and that’s an improvement of sorts.
[ ]
I forgot to say: the thunderstorm was short and the sun soon peeked out. The streams through the cracks became ever thinner. I glanced stealthily at the boy who had shouted about heavenly electricity. He was sitting, hands folded, with the sorrowful look of a prophet. Something in him was otherworldly. I wonder who he was and what became of him.
We watched the sparkling of the flowing water for a while longer. Now there weren’t even thin streams. Water initially covered the cracks as if it were a film but that thin film tore suddenly, turning into uniformly large drops. We went out into the open expanse and saw a rainbow. Our rusted narrow-gauge railway was departing underneath it, as if riding under a bridge.
[ ]
Innokenty and Nastya married today at St Prince Vladimir Cathedral.
Innokenty asked me the day before if I would describe the wedding. I offered to film it for them. He took me by the arm and said:
‘No, please describe it in words. In the final reckoning, only the word will remain.’
A debatable statement. I kept silent. But I’m writing: I did promise to write.
The other thing is that I’m not the best describer in this case. I’m a stranger to the Orthodox service. And the Lutheran one, too, when it comes down to it. Though I was christened as a Lutheran.
And so, the wedding. It lasted about forty minutes: that’s the only thing I can say with certainty.
The meaning of its parts is beyond me, with a few rare exceptions. For example, when the priest asks each person if they are marrying of their free will. And when they both drink from the same chalice. That goes right to your heart.
When Nastya drank, Innokenty looked at her so marvelously. I can’t think of the words. As if inspired, perhaps. Yes, inspired.
It would have made a tremendous photograph. Sharp focus on Innokenty’s eyes and Nastya’s face slightly fuzzy. And the glimmer of the bronze chalice. Maybe a photo like that will appear. Someone was taking pictures there, some journalists.
Crazy thoughts kept creeping into my head. Things like, there’s Innokenty, born in 1900, and Nastya in 1980. That’s what you’d call an age difference.
Will Innokenty like my description?
I’m writing and thinking: maybe the wedding will pull him out of his depression?
[ ]
We didn’t go to bed the night after our wedding. We sat on the bed, nestled against one another. And didn’t utter a word. Not one. We held hands and felt the same thing. We lay down toward morning. Went right to sleep.
This afternoon, Platosha was watching TV and suddenly said:
‘How can invaluable words be wasted on TV series, on these wretched shows, on advertising? Words should go toward describing life. Toward expressing what hasn’t yet been expressed, do you see?’
‘I see,’ I answered.
I truly do see.
[ ]
What happiness that I met her.
[ ]
Innokenty and I talked over tea about the role of the individual in history. We had to talk about something other than medicine.
He repeated his favorite thought about political leaders. That the people find exactly who they need at that particular moment.
I cautiously said:
‘How do you picture that: everybody in 1917 needed the exact same thing? Old, young, smart, stupid, righteous, guilty? They all needed the exact same thing?’
‘And where do you see smart there? And, most important: righteous?’
Harsh. There was a time when the notion of universal guilt irked me in Pushkin. Find out, he says, who is right, who is to blame, then punish them both.