A.
MOLOTKOV'S
LITERARY PROJECTS
A Photocopy of My Soul
At the Same Time
The rain has stopped, and now the rare water drops falling off the edge of the roof take a while to get ready for their fall. At this very moment, the raindrop I am observing is only beginning to expand with the unexpected pregnancy of heavy molecules trying to make their way down.
At the same time, you notice a fetus making its way out of its comfortable prison. Some time passes, and the doctor announces:
“It’s a girl!”
The baby is properly and professionally handled through the first two days, then through the first 18 years. Her name is Zungvilda. What did she amount to? You are trying to guess, but guessing will not work! You are forced to observe her.
She is walking home from a dancing lesson. You saw the tiny drops of sweat forming on her forehead as she was trying to bend her body in perfect harmony with the teacher’s intention. She has been noticing, for quite a while now, that some of the other students have a much easier time with it. She is forced to conclude she may never be a great dancer.
Now the question is: should she continue dancing?
Instead of going home, she walks into a café and orders a cappuccino. When it arrives, she absent-mindedly moves it just a few inches aside, as if something more important were to be handled first. Something more important is her life. Is she to be a great person, a genius? Or is she to become a normal woman? Is there anything in between?
Zungvilda silently cries. You can see the tears running down her cheeks.
What does she decide?
You are not quite sure. You hear the phone. You know you should pick it up. It may be Zungvilda, it may be me.
But it is neither. A wrong number.
By the time you return to watching Zungvilda, she is ten years older.
What decision did she make?
The raindrop hesitates. It has finally realized it will have to jump, but it still clings to a hope that the act itself of jumping might be delayed.
Zungvilda leaves the dancing studio. Now she is the teacher. Those more talented students have gone away to their more talented careers, and she has stayed right here. She is happy. Does one learn to be happy no matter what?
One of her students is now facing the same dilemma she faced sometime back. Life pulls one more duplicate card from its skinny deck of situations. The young girl is not taking the dilemma with the same philosophical detachment Zungvilda found when it was her turn. Or does it only seem so now, after all the fires that were burning passionately then have been extinguished by time? Perhaps Zungvilda too was deeply emotional about her future, when it still warranted the label of future?
More importantly, how can she help the young girl emerge on the other side of the dilemma, whichever side that may be? The teacher she went to as a student did not help very much. She insisted that one must keep trying no matter what. She refused to admit the reality of living one lifetime in one body and therefore having to pick the pursuits that pay off.
I have to blink: my eyes refuse to forgo lubrication any longer. I fear that when my blink is complete the raindrop may have already fallen off the edge of the roof … no, not yet. It is still there, perched as precariously as before, slightly more bottom-heavy, noticeably resigned to its impending fate.
Zungvilda has learned: there are more dimensions to one’s life than those around us would like to allow. How can we calculate a summarized achievement of one’s life? Who scores more points, who scores less? The longer she lives, the more ambiguous these questions become.
When she gets home, her husband is already back from work. They smile and hug and kiss, and Zungvilda realizes that in a way, it is necessary to leave for the day in order to be happy to see each other. Life has an interesting way of balancing things out. Both short-term and long-term. She feels the urge to ask a question, to receive an answer …
The telephone rings again. You assume it’s the same erroneous person, neither Zungvilda nor myself. You ignore it. Zungvilda hangs up. She was trying to reach you, to see what can be done, how everyone can be helped. You did not pick up the phone, and she realized she should not call back.
Why did she come to this conclusion?
Suddenly you feel tired, slightly hungry, unexpectedly perturbed. After observing all those other people, why does watching Zungvilda set you to such a strange mood? You need a break! You walk to the kitchen and turn the teapot on. You have an ample supply of your favorite cookies. This should render you fully prepared for what you are about to see.
You have a cup of tea as Zungvilda grows old.
When you are done, I blink once again. The raindrop is still there! However, the notion of “jumping sometime” has definitely transformed into the notion of “jumping soon”. Something is about to happen.
The telephone rings again. It’s been a while since you were disturbed by the unfortunate wrong number caller. You answer.
“What should I do?” Zungvilda asks. “I’m an old woman, and I still don't know what was right and what was wrong. Do you ever get to know?”
She called you again! We didn't think she would. Why did she change her mind?
“It depends on who you are,” you respond.
“This is not very helpful,” Zungvilda says.
“Yes it is,” you insist.
I will have to ask you about this sometime.
Zungvilda hangs up. You get ready to observe her again, but another phone call interrupts your intention. You think it might may be Zungvilda, calling back. But this time it is not Zungvilda.
“The raindrop is about to drop,” I say.
“Is it?” you ask.
Do I hear a shaking, a trace of sadness in your voice? Or is it my own sadness projected outwards? We keep silent for a while as time whistles by our ears.
We hang up.
When you return to your observation, Zungvilda is lying in her bed, breathing with noticeable difficulty, the hiss of a desperate effort revealing the brevity of her future.
The raindrop breaks off the edge of the roof – it’s falling, it’s falling down!
Zungvilda thinks about her life. It is ironic that this long adventure, this vast container of memories, is about to be extinguished. And she doesn't even feel sad! Has she lived a good life? What is a good life? Don't most of us live a good life no matter what, inasmuch as a life can be good where and when we find ourselves?
Is she happy? She is not supposed to be happy: she is dying! But somehow, she does feel happy. Her mind is clear, even though she can sense that her body is beginning to let go. If she really wanted to, she could force it to linger on. She has no such desire.
She did not become a great dancer, but she does not regret it at all. Plenty of great dancers out there. It would have made no difference. And in fact, some delightful things in her life would have never occurred! No matter what, when we go we are lost from reality, whether it takes a month or a millennium to forget us.
You feel tears swelling up in your eyes as you observe Zungvilda’s grandchildren. They were just led into the room to say goodbye to grandma. Do they understand what is happening?
I am also crying.
Why are we reacting this way?
“Grandma, can we play?” a little boy asks.
“Grandma is very ill,” someone explains.
“Grandma, when will you be better?” the little boy says.
Zungvilda dies as the raindrop hits the ground.