Sergey Streltsov.

Poetic Fantasy.

 

††††††††††††††††††† EARTH has not anything to show more fair:

††† ††††††††††††††† Dull would he be of soul who could pass byЕ

†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† William Wordsworth.

†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† Composed upon Westminster bridge, Sept. 3, 1802.

 

 

1

 

May in London is constant celebration of colors, sights and fragrances. Flowers are dashing to supreme, and the generosity of this dash alleviates human grief and burden of conscience. УLondon is London,Ф you would be saying. Or УMay is MayФ. Or the both.

Vika Istmina was on lecture tour with her father, old professor of English literature from Moscow State University. He was reading course on Elizabethan Playwrights somewhere in the City, and she had all her times for leisure and pleasure. Awkward little streets around their hotel, cozy restaurants, churches with always pronounced style of ages of unearthly glory, and finally- Oh!- LondonТs people, these apostles of order as that of minds as that of dresses and hats.†††

Common sense reigned over London throughout of his history. In common feeling of Londoners it always was their pride, their miracle, their fate to be the right sort in the world of wrong.

This night Vika spent in company of six young poets and four poetesses. Small apartment in Marylebone district was swept by this mob of thinkers and rethinkers till Martini had gone dry, and tea was on verge to run out. Mystics of every color they were arguing about poetic intuition as an only way to true poetry. Quarrel was almost inevitable, but nonetheless hadnТt place. At 5 AM guests bade fare well and parted to their dens. Vika was last to take her hat and umbrella. Hostess, Old Cornelia or just Corny, said when kissed her cheek УLucky night! Girls didnТt smash boys. And boys werenТt infernal.Ф СGod knows how they managed!Т Vika exclaimed in her turn and shortly added СItТs all because weТre not in Russia. There after such things people just unleash new civil war to stop the argument.Т

When already in open air Vika decided not to take taxi and walk to her hotel in Lambeth on foot. Slight drizzle adorned walls and streets around her in fresh approach of decoration vogue.

СGod has the purpose,Т Vika thought to herself. СWhatТs the purpose of mine? Just death or eternity? Love or mishap? Future children or children of Future?Т She smiled. It was funny.

And this philosophic mood pursued her till she found herself on Westminster Bridge. There world suddenly became reasonable and real. Thames ran below in gunmetal waves. Drizzle stopped when least expected. So Vika paused, leaning on the rail, in unity with London, world, purpose of Divinity and Divinity itself.

She heard the voice from behind.

УGood morning, young lady.Ф

She turned back and saw old gipsy woman in freaky garment.

СGood morning,Т Vika replied.

УSightseeing and all this rot?Ф Gipsy asked her.

СQuite.Т Vika answered in the same humorous vein.

УI live in London,Ф old gipsy said.

СIТm from Moscow, Russia.Т Vika was easy with her facts.

УRussia? ItТs far from here,Ф gipsy felt thoughtful for the moment.

СNever the less, IТm from there,Т Vika was almost engulfed by simple friendliness of woman.

УI have Russian book,Т gipsy put her hand in pocket of her fancy jacket and produced thin paperback edition. УItТs yours,Ф gipsy gave her a book.

СThank you,Т Vika mumbled, stunned by old womanТs eyes, taking the book.

УI think youТll die from love,Ф old woman added coldly, and saying her Bye started off.

Vika look at the book and then turned to woman. There was no woman on the bridge. Book was СGone MadТ by Dima Novikov.

 

2

 

Dima woke in his suite of СRiasküsteТ hotel somewhere in Baltic shore of Germany. Alarm clock of his cellular phone was gone mad with high-pitched tango.

СHere we are,Т Dima whispered, rising from his waterbed. It was another spring midday somewhere out in Europe. He was 25 years old Russian writer with happily already not-so-little name in his profession. It werenТt his books, nor translations that brought him his money, it was family, legal company of his parents in New York, restaurant of his aunt Katya in Moscow, and his uncle who was bishop in Siberia.

СLetТs look whatТs here,Т Dima said to himself and opened his notebook to check for new e-mails. There was one of them that make him laugh- some girl unknown to him, some Vika Istmina invited him to monthly meeting of some group of poets down in Moscow. She found him through his web-site and admitted that heТs a talent.

СMamma mia,Т he chuckled, and made it downstairs for breakfast.

 

3

 

After flight in his BMW through Eastern Europe Dima entered into his flat in Moscow. There were few missed calls on his answering machine. Last of them was from his uncle, Siberian bishop, it was short Ц УYou, stupid! Marry yourself to anyone while itТs not too late.Ф

 

4

 

PirOGI is famous Moscow club, with own bookstore and own publishing house, on Nikolskaya Street in three minutes of walk from Red Square with LeninТs mausoleum. In this club you can, drinking your wine or beer, read last book of almost any not-so-famous contemporary Russian poet or listen to his reading of his verses in rhymes and metre or without them. Young waitresses in ordinary sweaters and jeans will there smile to you if youТll tip them modestly or just will slip good word about their service.

Five poets presided by Vika Istmina were sitting around table with cigarettes and glasses of Coca-Cola in hands. Cigarettes were expensive for occasion. It was Marlboro, or even Dunhill. In private life these poets smoked cheap native Russian sorts like Yava or LD. It was funny people, they sat nervously with touch of conspiracy as though they were about to set up revolution. With thoughtful looks and self-assured poses they were confident about everything. Sheets of paper out of HP jet printer or written in decisive hand made rounds about the table. In half an hour Dima felt exhausted and almost said excuse and left but obligation in eyes of Vika was straight. He was lucky, he was published- he must sit. Thank goodness, after ten cigarettes per the each poet, some young man appeared and took Vika out.

УItТs her groom- tennis player.Ф

СYes?Т

УHeТs about to win Wimbledon sometime.Ф

СYes?Т

УNever mind. HeТs one of prominent Moscow illiterati.Ф

 

5

 

This evening, lone in his flat, Dime wrote verse for Vika. She said she loves his poetry on web-site in English even as more as in Russian. СIt makes you sound like something global,Т she said.

Verse was acrostic and acrostic was full Christian name of Vika, namely Victoria.

It was running as follows:

 

Vicarious sin of poets is to bore

In rhyme and language- to be sure.

Come words of wisdom and of truth

To beat about without the use.

Off keep the books without their mark!

Rule of the poetТs УLo! and Hark!Ф

In life and death it has in swing

A song to sing, a thought to think.

 

Dima checked what he wrote and sent it to her e-mail.

 

6

 

Next evening they met in hall of hotel Izmailovo Delta. For Vika lived with parents in Izmailovo district. She was nervous.

СWhat do you want?Т

УIt seems that I love you,Ф Dima answered as simply as he thought possible.

СItТs really bad.Т

УWhy?Ф

СI already have man of my life.Т

УYou can change the man.Ф

СHow?Т

УJust marry me.Ф

СYouТre mocking at me?Т

УIf honestly- no.Ф

СYouТre so foolish with your poetry in my name.Т

УSay yes or no.Ф

СCertainly- no.Т

УThank you.Ф

СGood bye.Т She rose and walked out.

 

7

 

This evening after meeting with Vika, Dima drove to aunt Katya restaurant on Sadovoye Koltso. They met in her office on second floor.

СShe kicked me off,Т he explained situation to her.

УDecent girl. What had you expected?Ф

СWhat to do with decent girls around?Т

УJust love them.Ф

СTo be just kicked.Т

УWhy not?Ф

СItТs life?Т

УYouТre real!Ф

Aunt turned on TV on the wall. It was news. And first of them was about Russian tennis player crashed in car accident to death. His face was familiar to Dima.

 

8

 

Healthy girl ever before, after accident Vika ceased to eat and to sleep, so she was shortly in hospital. In two weeks she was worn out terribly. Dima came to visit her.

УHow are you?Ф He said plainly.

СAngry with fate like a devil!Т

УNothing more?Ф

СWhat more can feel woman after that?Т

УAlacrity to new life.Ф

СThereТs no new life for me.Т

УSo?Ф

СIТm dying, Dima.Т

УWhat I can do?Ф

СJust hold my hand!Т

УVika!Ф

СGood bye,Т she said, and closing her eyes she passed to better world.

 

9

 

Next week Dima was back in Europe with no plans back in Russia.†

†