Moscow but Dreaming

Moscow but Dreaming Page 11

The boy stands next to you by the window, looking through the water-streaked glass at the sunshine and fluffy clouds outside, at the butter-yellow poplar leaves tossed across the yard by the rising wind. “What is it that you want?”

You are well familiar with the logic of dreams and fairy tales, of the importance of choosing your words wisely, of the fragility of the moment—waste your breath on a wrong question and you will never know anything. “How did you die?” you finally ask. “I cannot remember.” Other questions will just have to go unanswered.

He points to the puddle outside, wordlessly, and you remember the hands pressing his face into the water, and you standing there, watching, helpless, until there are no more bubbles. Afterward, you tell the grownups that you found him like that, and you don’t know who did it.

“Why didn’t you tell them?”

You’re an adult now, and the words come out awkwardly. “I was afraid of what they would do to me if I told. I’m sorry.”

He’s too much of a gentleman to rub it in your face that he had been defending you then, that he could’ve walked past and stayed alive.

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” he says instead. Dead in Chechnya. Dead in Osetia. Disappeared one night without a trace. Dead in a kayaking accident. You remember all his deaths and they crowd around the two of you, suffocating and clammy.

And then it’s just you again, standing on the sidewalk outside, watching the eddies of yellow leaves spiraling around the ankles of your brown boots with worn, lopsided heels. And then it is just you, walking to the bus stop, promising to yourself to never return here, to never look back at the fourth story window and all the dead faces of the boy pressed against the weeping glass.

ZOMBIE LENIN

1.

It all started when I was eight years old, on a school trip to the Mausoleum. My mom was there to chaperon my class, and it was nice, because she held me when I got nauseous on the bus. I remember the cotton tights all the girls wore, and how they bunched on our knees and slid down, so that we had to hike them up, as discreetly as eight-year-olds could. It was October, and my coat was too short; mom said it was fine even though its belt came disconcertingly close to my underarms, and the coat didn’t even cover my butt. I didn’t believe her; I frowned at the photographer as he aligned his camera, pinning my mom and me against the backdrop of the St. Basil’s Cathedral. “Smile,” mom whispered. We watched the change of guard in front of the Mausoleum.

Then we went inside. At that time, I was still vague on what it was that we were supposed to see. I followed in small mincing steps down the grim marble staircase along with the line of people as they descended and filed into a large hall and looked to their right. I looked too, to see a small yellowing man in a dark suit under a glass bell. His eyes were closed, and he was undeniably dead. The air of an inanimate object hung dense, like the smell of artificial flowers. When I shuffled past him, looking, looking, unable to turn away, his eyes snapped open and he sat up in a jerking motion of a marionette, shattering the glass bubble around him. I screamed.

2.

“A dead woman is the ultimate sex symbol,” someone behind me says.

His interlocutor laughs. “Right. To a necrophile maybe.” “No, no,” the first man says, heatedly. “Think of every old novel you’ve ever read. The heroine who’s too sexually liberated for her time usually dies. Ergo, a dead woman is dead because she was too sexually transgressive.”

“This is just dumb, Fedya,” says the second man. “What, Anna Karenina is a sex symbol?”

“Of course. That one’s trivial. But also every other woman who ever died.”

I stare at the surface of the plastic cafeteria table. It’s cheap and pockmarked with burns, their edges rough under my fingers. I drink my coffee and listen intently for the two men behind me to speak again.

“Undine,” the first one says. “Rusalki. All of them dead, all of them irresistible to men.”

I finish my coffee and stand up. I glance at the guy who spoke—he’s young, my age, with light clear eyes of a madman.

“Euridice,” I whisper as I pass.

3.

The lecturer is old, his beard dirty-yellow with age, his trembling fingers stained with nicotine. I sit all the way in the back, my eyes closed, listening, and occasionally drifting off to dream-sleep.

“Chthonic deities,” he says. “The motif of resurrection. Who can tell me what is the relationship between the two?” We remain wisely silent.

“The obstacle,” he says. “The obstacle to resurrection.

Ereshkigal, Hades, Hel. All of them hold the hero hostage and demand a ransom of some sort.”

His voice drones on, talking about the price one pays, and about Persephone being an exception as she’s not quite dead. But Euridice, oh she gets it big time. I wonder if Persephone or Euridice is a better sex symbol and if one should compare the two.

“Zombies,” the voice says, “are in violation. Their resurrection bears no price and has no meaning. The soul and the body separated are a terrible thing. It is punitive, not curative.” His yellow beard trembles, bald patch on his skull shines in a slick of parchment skin, one of his eyes fake and popping. He sits up and reaches for me.

I scream and jerk awake.

“Bad dream?” the lecturer says, without any particular mockery or displeasure. “It happens. When you dream your soul travels to the Underworld.”

“Chthonic deities,” I mumble. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s right,” he says. “Chthonic.”

4.

When I was eight, I had nightmares about that visit. I dreamt of the dead yellowing man chasing me up and down the stairs of our apartment building. I still have those dreams. I’m running past the squeezing couples and smokers exiled to the stairwell, and mincing steps are chasing after me. I skip over the steps, jumping over two at once, three at once, throwing myself into each stairwell as if it were a pool. Soon my feet are barely touching the steps as I rush downward in an endless spiral of chipped stairs. I’m flying in fear as the dead man is following. He’s much slower than me but he does not stop, so I cannot stop either.

“Zombies,” he calls after me into the echoey stairwell, “are the breach of covenant. If the chthonic deities do not get their bloodprice, there can be no true resurrection.”

I wake up with a start. My stomach hurts.

5.

I take the subway to the university. I usually read so I don’t have to meet people’s eyes. “Station Lenin Hills,” the announcer on the intercom says. “The doors are closing. Next station is the University.”

I look up and see the guy who spoke of dead women sitting across from me. His eyes, bleached with insanity, stare at me with the black pinpricks of the pupils. He pointedly ignores the old woman in a black kerchief standing too close to him, trying to guilt him into surrendering his seat. He doesn’t get up until I do, when the train pulls into the station. “The University,” the announcer says.

We exit together.

“I’m Fedya,” he says.

“I’m afraid of zombies,” I answer.

He doesn’t look away.

6.

The lecturer’s eyes water with age. He speaks directly to me when he asks, “Any other resurrection myths you know of?”

“Jesus?” someone from the first row says.

He nods. “And what was the price paid for his resurrection?” “There wasn’t one,” I say, startling myself. “He was a zombie.” This time everyone stares.

“Talk to me after class,” the lecturer says.

7.

The chase across all the stairwells in the world becomes a game. He catches up to me now. I’m too tired to be afraid enough to wake up. My stomach hurts.

“You cannot break the covenant with chthonic gods,” he tells me. “Some resurrection is the punishment.”

“Leave me alone,” I plead. “What have I ever done to you?”

His fake eye, icy-blue, steely-grey, slides down his ruined cheek. “You can’t save them,” he says. “They always look back. They always stay dead.”

“Like with Euridice.”

“Like with every dead woman.”

8.

Fedya sits on my bed, heavily although he’s not a large man but slender, birdlike.

“I could never drive a car,” I tell him.

He looks at the yellowing medical chart, dog-eared pages fanned on the bed covers. “Sluggish schizophrenia?” he says. “This is a bullshit diagnosis. You know it as well as I do. Delusions of reformism? You know that they invented it as a punitive thing.”

“It’s not bullshit,” I murmur. It’s not. Injections of sulfazine and the rubber room had to have a reason behind them.

“They kept you in the Serbsky hospital,” he observes. “Serbsky? I didn’t know you were a dissident.”

“Lenin is a zombie,” I tell him. “He talks to me.” All these years. All this medication.

He stares. “I can’t believe they let you into the university.” I shrug. “They don’t pay attention to that anymore.” “Maybe things are changing,” he says.