In dreams, things are not entirely reaclass="underline" a cup might not always hold water—as if it still hasn’t been trained to. Things in general come to exist not of their own, but only at the moment when they are needed, and as soon as the need disappears, they immediately disappear. They are abstract until you think, “What was the picture on that cup?” And then the picture appears. In and of themselves things don’t get damaged and don’t grow old: they are deprived of any independent existence. That’s what I’ve figured out.
But the third realm is something else entirely. Precisely the way things behave makes it easiest to distinguish a real dream from what I call the third realm. For example, the tea glass Grandmother Evgenia Fedorovna was holding was not a glass at all. It was an identity, like Grandmother herself. Possibly, it had its own name, unknown to me. It was large, of a particular size in order to fit an unusually large tea-glass holder, and both of them were custom-made. The tea-glass holder, it seems, is a distinctively Russian object. Nowhere do they drink tea the way they do in Moscow. But this tea-glass holder was particularly Russian, made of thick silver in the shape of a little tree stump, the surface of the silver imitating wood bark and the holder’s handle shaped like a little ax wedged into an upwardly slanted branch covered with tiny glued-on leaves and stalks of leaves blown away either by the peripeteia of kitchen life or the fantasy of an apprentice at the Fabergé factory where the tea-glass holder had been crafted. An ostentatious object designed for merchant tastes, of the kind intended as a gift, with a polished plaque for the inscription: “TO DEAR VASILY TIMOFEEVICH . . .”
Grandmother had smiled a fleeting smile as she drank her fragrant, dark-gold tea from Grandfather’s glass, but the inscription had been missing. Where could it have gone, that piece of rhymed nonsense composed by his colleagues: “Timofeich, time for tea! Some like honey, some like jam, but Vasya is a cookie man!”
. . . On closer examination the tea-glass holder turned out to be more elegant than the original, which has survived to this day. There in the third realm it seemed to look nicer; at the very least it differed from its real-life self just as the fragrant, exotic tea differed from the ordinary yellowish slops that Grandmother Evgenia Fedorovna had drunk all her life, even when she had lived in her rich father’s house . . . She didn’t like strong tea . . .
Approximately the same thing happened with all the objects I happened to see while not in dreams or in memories, but in that third realm: they were, if not more refined, then enhanced to a certain degree of perfection. As if an invisible craftsman had worked on them in order to return to them their dignity and true character. In any case, that’s what could be said with complete confidence about Grandmother’s formerly dressy dress. The next morning, I woke up back in the completely ordinary world and first thing headed for Grandmother’s armoire and pulled the dress out to look at it in the light: it was slightly faded in the shoulders and the drooping collar was mended in several spots. I swear: at night the dress had been new, and the collar solemnly stiff . . .
And the teapot in the kitchen was still warm . . .
The next time Grandmother invited me to tea was in the spring of 1941. You, Tanechka, were two months old; you were a weak, cranky child, and both Vasilisa and I were exhausted. That night Vasilisa had lain down with you in order to give me a chance to get a good night’s sleep. I was awakened by the smell of tea, the same tea—I recognized it immediately. I went into the kitchen. Grandmother was sitting at the table. The teapot was hot, and the silver tea-glass holder stood on the table in front of her, but she was not drinking tea and did not offer me any. She was dressed strangely: in a beret draped over with a country-style headscarf and in an overcoat with large, neat patches, and buttonholes edged with new fabric. As soon as I walked in, Grandmother stood up: she had a big bundle in her arms. She opened it up and shook her head.
“No, it’s too big.”
And the big bundle immediately became smaller. The bundle’s metamorphosis did not surprise me in the least: one word had been enough for everything to become as it was supposed to be. Grandmother began to gather kitchenware in the contracted bag, meticulously examining each object. Three spoons, three cups, three plates. A small pot, a frying pan, and a metal mug for cooking children’s porridge. Then she added salt and dry cereal to it.
Her demeanor was stern and sad. Then she took the tea-glass holder, pulled out the glass, and poured the tea into the sink. Fresh, strong-brewed, fragrant tea. Then she unbuttoned her overcoat, unfastened from the collar a small golden brooch in the shape of an arrow with emerald gemstones, placed it in the tea-glass holder, and put them in the bundle as well. It seemed as if she wanted to say something to me. But she didn’t say anything, and just pointed to the stuffed little bundle.
I told Vasilisa about it. Vasilisa crossed herself, nodding her head up and down.
“Oh, Elena, they’re coming for us. They’re coming for us . . .”
But they didn’t come for us. I remembered all this when three months later evacuation of the plant began. The little bundle, and the brooch. Vasilisa had everything prepared. She knew what the vital necessities were. The only thing that didn’t make sense was why Grandmother had chosen to appear to me and not to Vasilisa. Vasilisa was much more practical, and she had a lot of experience, although at the time Vasilisa had told me nothing of her secret, heroic, and implausible life.
Anton was certain that he would not be called to the front. He was an engineer, and practically all engineers had deferrals. But owing to confusion and stupidity he was mobilized, while people who knew less than he did remained at the plant. It’s possible this was somehow connected to his unsociable personality. He never was friends with anyone, never trusted anyone. To be honest, I see absolutely nothing in common between the two of you . . .
We didn’t even say good-bye to each other properly. There was terrible panic at the plant: at the end of June rumors were already circulating about the plant being evacuated, and we had to archive part of our work in progress, and the entire section was piled with papers and drawings, while there was already half as many employees, and everything was upside down and hopelessly confused. On top of all that, you were ill, Tanechka, and twice a day Vasilisa brought you to the checkpoint. I would go out to nurse you, but I did not have much milk, and I was nervous and afraid it would disappear entirely.
And so, preoccupied with childhood illness, Anton and I said good-bye, and it was only after he left—the gathering point was on Mytnaya Street for some reason and he had forbidden me to go there, so Vasilisa went—that I realized what had happened.
Having cried the night through, you fell asleep, and I collapsed alongside you. It was very hot. Our apartment was directly under the roof, and in the summer it was intolerable there. So it was hot in reality, and I also dreamed that it was hot.
Whether it was on earth or not, the place was completely unrecognizable. The soil was reddish and dry, dusty, and filled with stones. Strange plants grew—resembling cactuses, but as huge as trees. The thorns on them were sharp and retractable, as if made of blue iron. The trees breathed through these thorns, and they would extend out and then fold back in, like a cat’s claws when it’s asleep. Up ahead, Anton Ivanovich wandered among the prickly trees, not looking back. He wore a military uniform, but the uniform was old-fashioned: tight-fitting leggings, a short jacket, and Anton Ivanovich himself thin and with the build of a young boy. If you two have anything in common, it’s body type. The narrowness in your hips, and that upward stretch of neck and chin. Yes, that’s it. It had never occurred to me before.
So, there he was, walking off, while I rushed after him, wondering why he wouldn’t stop and wait for me. Especially since those cactuses, though they stood in place like plants are supposed to, kept snagging me and scratching me with their claws, no matter how hard I tried to stay as far away from them as possible . . . The distance between us kept increasing, although I was walking fast and he was walking very slowly. But I couldn’t shout. I don’t know why; all I know is that it was impossible, forbidden. He kept moving farther and farther away, and at the last minute I saw him not on foot, but on horseback. He galloped quite skillfully among the trees until he finally disappeared entirely. At that point it was as if I was allowed to return, and the cactuses withdrew their steely claws and grew smaller and smaller, until they were the usual size, like the aloe and kalanchoe plants on windowsills, and the soil was no longer red, but ordinary, with grass that was ordinary but very soft and tender . . .