Dimitri Borisovich

Dmitry Borisovich was really unlucky in love. Even when he was a trombonist in the orchestra of the General Staff of the Red Army in USSR, and even more so now after he became a New York homeless with almost no friends, except perhaps Konstantin Sergeyevich, also homeless, who was once a military scientist in Moscow. Dmitry Borisovich could not make new friends because of his shyness and poor English. Not to mention his current, so to speak, profession. Apart from the current cold weather, difficulties with hygiene, and, again, his bad luck with his personal life, Dmitry Borisovich led a rather tolerable existence. He could even afford a mobile phone, which he usually used only to talk with Konstantin Sergeyevich. Their conversations were rare - after all, a beggar should look lonely, because people tend to be looking for any reason not to aid others, reckoning that since you are sitting here together with somebody else, you both should be able to help each other. Especially in such weather, when it is too cold to remove gloves and dig into the wallet to get some change.

Morning sun was bright, and at the same time it was snowing, a very fine snow, and many tiny white dots were slowly descending around. Most people were in a hurry, hiding their noses from the cold wind in their scarfs, but they looked cheerful. Dmitry Borisovich was dressed in the thickest clothes he could get, a jacket, two woolen hats, two sweaters, construction boots and two pairs of thick socks. Everything, of course, was old, but it was usable.

Even when Dmitry Borisovich was a trombonist in the Red Army, his naivety and stubborn idealism prevented him from affairs with women. He turned fifty-seven today, and yet until recently, women seemed to him like angel-like creatures. And then he suddenly understood a lot about them at once, but his new comprehension remained purely theoretical, since in his age and with his occupation it was too late to change anything.

“I used to think” Dmitry Borisovich told himself, sitting on the 46th covered with snow and watching the passers-by, “they are real angels.” Could I have thought of grabbing such an angel, let’s say, by her ass? How then will this heavenly creature look at you? I believed that in such situation only two scenarios were possible. Option one – since you’re surrendered yourself to such a low, and it is, of course, a low desire, the insulted angel will slap you and will despise you forever. Or, there is a chance for the second option, for some incredible luck that this unearthly creature will suddenly fall in love with you, come down to you, forgive you your instincts and will allow ... to treasure and touch her beauty.

On this, Dmitry Borisovich’ thoughts were interrupted by the call from Konstantin Sergeyevich.

“Happy Birthday to you! Fifty-seven years! Hope you’ve grown up finally”, - said Konstantin Sergeyevich.

Dmitry Borisovich was moved.

“You remember? “He said joyfully. “Thanks!”

“I do,” Konstantin Sergeyevich confirmed. – “Let’s meet tonight for some pizza”.

“Thank you,” Dmitry Borisovich said again, “but as you already know, I probably won’t be able to come today.”

“Stop evoking trouble” - said Konstantin Sergeyevich angrily, “or you will get yourself one!”

Dmitry Borisovich had a fancy - he believed that he would live to be exactly fifty-seven years, no more. Why exactly fifty-seven, he did not know exactly, but over the years his conviction grew. True, he had previously thought that fifty-five would be enough, but he eventually settled on fifty-seven and during the last years he did not change his mind.

He viewed human life as a small melody - in his own, for example, there was an unpretentious introduction, then the longest, protracted and, frankly, tragicomic part in the middle, then a few years of a quiet reflection – pretty calm, as it turned out, years, and now it's time for the grand finale, some sort of Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa at the end, in a very precise time and place, and that's all, folks, we appreciate your attention, many thanks to the audience.

Konstantin Sergeyevich did not approve of such thoughts, and Dmitry Borisovich to avoid arguing mostly kept his theory to himself. So now, to change topic, he asked: “How many times have you been married?”

“As I have already reported to you before, twice,” said Konstantin Sergeyevich, “By the way, only the second wife ditched me, and I ditched the first one myself.”

“Why?” asked Dmitry Borisovich.

“To devote my time to science,” said Konstantin Sergeyevich.

Dmitry Borisovich knew that Konstantin Sergeyevich devoted himself to science, even discovered something very secret and very dark, and then a kind of infernal commotion began in his life, throwing him into New York, broken like a remnant of a ship after some shipwreck.

“Oh, well,” grumbled Konstantin Sergeyevich. “Unless you dead, we meet tonight.”

“Agreed,” said Dmitry Borisovich.

He disliked arguing, even less so with Konstantin Sergeyevich - who turned out to be right in everything.

“Let him be right in anything but this.” He thought. “Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa. Well, perhaps not a real grand finale, but still a fine finishing touch, a few wonderful ending tones at the end of a pretty meaningless life, and somehow contrary to it. Contrary to life’s seeming meaninglessness. A little stubborn miracle at the end”. Dmitry Borisovich smiled.

A passing by woman leaned over and put a small chocolate bar in his box. For some reason, mostly women were giving him money today. Dmitry Borisovich unfolded the foil carefully, and the foil suddenly rang, even thundered, like timpani from earlier times. Brown chocolate flesh smelled of warmth, of someone’s home and someone’s love, and Dmitry Borisovich’s thoughts returned to the former theme.

“How wrong I was,” he thought, “a thousand, a million times wrong.” Woman is an earthly creature, but, without doubt, with elements of heaven in her soul.

In some ways, she is simple, she wants to be taken to places, to be invited somewhere, to be looked after. She wants to be loved, otherwise she feels lost and vulnerable.

“Coming back to grabbing her ass,” thought Dmitry Borisovich, “the anger does not necessarily overwhelm her in such moment but rather an agitation and reflection: why? what did he mean? Was he is hinting that it is time to take our relationship to more serious level? What if he thinks that I am one of those he can grab whenever he pleases? (She may get angry here), and so on. Dozens of such thoughts manage to flash in her head and this is extremely sweet and delicate...

Konstantin Sergeyevich called again. Clearly, he was worried.

“Listen, don’t do anything to yourself,” he said. “Just because of your silly prediction and your stubbornness.”

“No way!” Dmitry Borisovich was offended, “You know that I'm almost a religious man”.

Konstantin Sergeyevich sighed.

“I saw both believers and unbelievers in such places that you never dreamed of,” he said, and Dmitry Borisovich realized that he was again thinking about his adventures.

Konstantin Sergeyevich even now had no doubt that FSB is looking for him. Dmitry Borisovich thought that life had cruelly broken something in his friend’s strong, rational mind.

“I solemnly promise you and swear,” Dmitry Borisovich said as firmly as he could, “I'm not going to do anything to myself. On the contrary, I'm genuinely curious. Suppose I am mistaken, and my sense of harmony deceives me. Although, after all, I'm a former musician, don’t forget that. Suppose, not today, as I had long thought. But why not today? And, if not today - when? Today is the time. The final notes. It should turn out beautifully.

“Oh, stop it” growled Konstantin Sergeyevich, “Think about pizza”.

He invited Dmitry Borisovich to a cheap, but decent place. One could buy two slices of pizza and a can of coke for only three bucks there. Pizza could be sprinkled with Italian herbs, dried garlic and black pepper. It was a good place, but they put something in the dough, and, unless everything was thoroughly washed down with soda, one would certainly have heartburn.

“Tell me,” said Dmitry Borisovich, “why did you leave your first wife?”

“She was jealous, silly thing” said Konstantin Sergeyevich, “thought I was cheating on her.”

“Were you?” asked Dmitry Borisovich.

“Just a tiny bit,” Konstantin Sergeyevich chuckled.” I was too busy for all that”. It seemed to Dmitry Borisovich that this sounded cynical.

“Did you love her?” he asked sternly.

“Love-grove,” Konstantin Sergeyevich joked. “Let’s go back to work. If we’ll keep talking all the time, who is going to give us money to buy pizza? We’re meeting tonight, remember?”

“Yep,” said Dmitry Borisovich, feeling a little sad.

Today, he reacted too delicately, as if he himself had turned into a fine violin string.

It was almost noon. There were more people on the street and their expressions changed. Many walked in search of lunch.

Dmitry Borisovich took a bagel out of his jacket pocket and got ready to eat. Of course, this was not a real lunch – it is not enough just to have a bagel when it is that cold. In this weather one should have something else, for example, a cup of hot, steaming coffee.

He suddenly remembered how, thirty years ago, in a theatrical buffet, he stood with a cup of coffee in his hands, and an extraordinary beauty, probably an actress, was walking by him. She smiled at him then. Now he can read this smile of her like an open book and understand everything. He knew for certain that in those short seconds when their lives crossed, she really liked him.

Now he knew that she smiled at him with an open, vibrating smile, which she had been rehearsing in front of the mirror for the last two weeks just for such occasions. She immediately saw that he is shy, that his shirt is wrinkled, she even managed to notice that there was an unusual amount of milk poured in his coffee, and she noticed it with pleasure - because she also loved coffee with a lot of milk, and then she thought – “he likes me, and my new smile with corners of my lips, and he doesn’t even know yet what dimples I have”.

All that seemed to Dmitry Borisovich touching and beautiful.

Winged and very tall creature - size of several floors appeared, on the roof of the McGill Press building. It stood as if dressed in the sun, which was shining beside the roof. Of course, no one except Dmitry Borisovich himself could see it.

“Hello,” it said to Dmitry Borisovich

No one except Dmitry Borisovich heard it. Of course.

“Hello,” said Dmitry Borisovich.

A miracle, his own miracle was finally happening.

Liquid sunlight flowed around the figure, turning it into a dark silhouette, and it was definitely a female silhouette.

“She is beautiful,” muttered Dmitry Borisovich contentedly.

A moment later, she was beside him. Not so huge, just tall. She took Dmitry Borisovich’ hand.

“If you only knew how tiring my life was,” he said.

“I know,” she said, and smiled, “that it is not that tiring”.

“She is right”, thought Dmitry Borisovich.

She sat next to him, and he laid his head on her lap. A comb appeared in her hands, and she began to comb his hair.

“Yes, I gradually came to admire all this,” he said, “But still, why so much pain, so much disease, those endless struggles ...”

“Shush.” she said.

He fell silent and was falling asleep, but suddenly he started up.

“Wait ... can I call him?”

“Of course,” she said, continuing to comb his hair.

He dialed a number.

“Listen,” he said sleepily to Konstantin Sergeyevich, “Did she love you?”

“Who?” - asked Konstantin Sergeyevich.

“Your first”.

“Yes,” said Konstantin Sergeyevich.

“So why ...” Dmitry Borisovich began and yawned. “You're sound really strange today,” Konstantin Sergeyevich said coldly. “You are not freezing there, by the way? Go to a warm place”.

“Of course not, you know very well how warm my jacket is,” said Dmitry Borisovich.

“Well, well,” said Konstantin Sergeyevich.

“Bye,” said Dmitry Borisovich. “Thank you”.

“Don’t mention it,” Konstantin Sergeyevich muttered.

“Amazing,” said Dmitry Borisovich, looking into her eyes. “They loved each other ... It would be wonderful if from the very beginning people knew how well everything is arranged.”

She smiled.

“Tell me how” She asked.

“You know that yourself,” said Dmitry Borisovich.

“I do,” she said, “but still tell me.”

“Now I’m thinking about how masculine and feminine roles are different.” said Dmitry Borisovich “Here is man’s soul - so strong, almost rude, he knows everything, but something he ceases to see in himself, and this place is higher than him - there he is vulnerable, like a five-year-old boy - the female soul begins there.”

He straightened his jacket.

“Aren't you cold?” - he asked.

She only laughed softly.

“So,” he continued, “a female soul reigns in those heights. It was said many times that she lives by her feelings, so it sounds too obvious but, in fact, she crafts and creates those feelings and rules them like a queen. She calls them, commands them, allows them to be, and obeys them - when she wants. Nevertheless, her kingdom is lower than heaven, so it ends somewhere, too, and there again lie her indecision, insecurity, even fear. There, even higher than her, masculine wisdom rules. In those parts, wisdom shines like gold. “Go on,” she said.

“Next comes wisdom,” he said sleepily, “Sun. Gold. But someday even such wisdom understands that that it is only a steppingstone to something much greater. Wisdom understands that its own meaning is not in itself, and that love still lives further and higher, wisdom even sees love, admires it, but does not dare to become it. The color is changes to blue and it is love...”

“Continue,” she said.

“And it is again feminine,” he said, “There is such tenderness, such meekness, such purity ...”. “And what goes next?” She asked.

“That far I can’t see,” he said, “Perhaps it is gold there again. Or rather not, there is probably a red color. And there is music.” “Do you want to see what happens next?”, she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I'll show you,” she said.

The telephone rang again. Dmitry Borisovich's could not open his eyes. He barely pulled out the phone and handed it to her. “Yes,” she said, “Sorry, Konstantin Sergeyevich, he cannot speak now. And... don’t worry about him.

“Who are you?” Konstantin Sergeyevich asked angrily.

“He warned you before.”

“What? - Konstantin Sergeyevich said excitedly. “Are you really taking him? Where to?”

“Do not worry about him, Konstantin Sergeyevich” she said.

“But you must understand why I'm asking,” Konstantin Sergeyevich insisted.

“I understand,” she said, “Everything will be fine with him now.”

“Thanks,” said Konstantin Sergeyevich.

“Exactly. Thanks.” she repeated.

“I have to admit, I became quite attached to him,” muttered Konstantin Sergeyevich.

A snowplow was moving slowly down the white street spraying everything on the sidewalk with warm glittering pearls.