The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов

was that the most numerous population in a house were its doors. Behind the first door with a large handmade mailbox screwed up to it, there would open the hallway with the narrow door of the tiny storeroom to the right, and the partly glazed door to the parents’ room on the left, where instead of a window was the wide balcony door, also glazed in its upper part, viewing the Courtyard.

Straight ahead from the hallway started the long corridor to the kitchen, past two blind doors on the right, the first, to the bathroom, followed by the toilet door, while in the left wall immediately before the kitchen, there was just one, also blind, door to the children’s room that had two windows, one of which faced the Courtyard and the other presented the view of murky windows in the plastered butt wall of the next, corner, house in the Block. The only window in the kitchen was looking at the same wall in the adjacent corner building, and to the right from the kitchen door, up under the ceiling, the matte glassed square of the quite small toilet window was also filled with the same murky darkness unless the lamp there was on. Neither bathroom nor the storeroom closeted behind its white door in the hallway had any windows at all but, in the ceiling of each of them, there hung an electric bulb—just click the black nose jutting from the round switch by the needed door, and step inside without angst because, as it turned out, all the doors in a house opened inside the rooms they serve…

Entering the toilet, first of anything else I spat on the wall to the left from the throne and only then sat down to go potty and watch the slow progress of spittle crawling down the green coat of paint, very vertically, leaving a moist trail in its wake. If the glob of the snailing saliva lacked sufficient reserves to reach the baseboard, I would assist it by an additional spit in the track, just above the stuck locomotive. At times the trip took from three to four spits and some other times the initial one was enough.

The parents were lost in perplexity as regards the spittle condensing under the toilet wall until the day when Dad entered immediately after me, and at the strict interrogation that followed I admitted doing that yet failed to offer any explanation why. Since then, fearful of punishment, I blotted the traces of the wrong-doing with the pieces of cut-up newspapers from the cloth bag on the opposite wall but the thrill was gone.

(…my son Ahshaut at the age of five sometimes peed past the john, on the toilet wall. More than once I carefully explained him that it was not the right way of taking a leak, and those who missed the target should wipe up after themselves.

One day he balked and refused to wipe the puddle. Then I grabbed at his ear, led him to the bathroom, and ordered to pick up the floor cloth, then brought him back to the toilet where, in a rage-choked voice, ordered to collect all the urine from the floor with that cloth. He obeyed.

Of course, in more developed states my parental rights would be grossly jeopardized after the child abuse of so violent a nature, still and all, I consider myself right at that particular development because no biological species can ever survive in their own waste… I would savvy, were the kid just spitting on the wall, however, in the house that I built the toilet walls were simply plastered and whitewashed, no spittle would crawl down such a surface. Later, the money for ceramic wall tiles got scraped up too, yet by that time the children were already adults…)

You feel yourself kinda Almighty when reconstructing the world of a half-century ago, adjusting the details to your liking with no one to rub your nose in it even if you muck up.

However, you can fool anyone but yourself, and I am ready to admit that now, from the distance in fifty years, not everything is falling in just nicely. For instance, I am far from certain that the pigeon enclosure in the attic had anything to do with Captain Savkin. The mentioned structure could as easily belong to Stepan Zimin, the father of Lyda and Yura… Or maybe there were two enclosures?

Frankly, at the moment I am not sure about the presence of pigeons in one or the other enclosure (but were there two of them?) on the day when I ventured to climb up the iron ladder towards something unknown, indistinguishable in the murky square hole of the hatchway above my head. And it is pretty possible that I simply remembered the remark overheard in my parents’ chat, that Stepan’s pigeons also fell victim to his unrestrained booze binges.

On the whole, just one thing stands beyond the shadow of a doubt – the tremulous ecstasy on the doorsill to revelation when, leaving behind my sister’s dismal divination of the pending manslaughter of me by the fatherly hand and, next to her, the silent stare of my brother watching closely each my movement from the landing down there, which diminished at each ladder rung as I climbed into the brave new world that any moment now would unfurl before me beneath the grayish underbelly of the slate roof… A few days later Natasha came running into our room to proudly herald that Sasha had just climbed up to the attic too.

Taking into account all of that, it is quite probable that the pigeons were gone from the attic enclosure, but in the Courtyard, there were hosts of them…

The Courtyard’s layout presented a systematized masterpiece of pure unalloyed geometricity. Inside the big rectangular formed by the 6 two-storied buildings, the ellipse of the road was inscribed and accentuated by the knee-deep drenches along its both sides, bridged by albeit short, yet mighty overpasses minutely opposite