Sergey Streltsov.
Suzy for the
Russian Christmas.
Dedicated to Miss Susanne Rae, Scotland, and Lady
Susan Glyn, France.
Suzy was borne an orphan. Her
father left her mother when he learned that she was pregnant. And her mother died
soon after labors of birth-giving. After that Suzy was put to one orphanages of
New Jersey where she happily survived Winkel’s
disease. Till three years old she was ill and ugly child and no one wanted to
adopt her, but when in fourth year of her life she became suddenly healthy and
beautiful she started to protest against any proposed adoption saying that to
be adopted for her means to betray her father and mother about whom she knew
nothing save names. She never knew despondency because since five years old,
when she learned letters she started to write poetry.
All misfortunes of her life
never disturbed her, because she felt herself the poetess. And she was reading
her poems in churches and libraries, when there happened the days of young
poets. Her most adored poet was Biblical King David, and higher than him she
esteemed only Our Lord Jesus Christ counting His prayer beginning with words
“Our Father” most beautiful poem in whole history of human race.
When she was twelve she
decided to try to publish her poetry. And she started to send through Internet
her poems to different magazines. Only one edition that published her that year
was Times Literary Supplement. Usually this magazine published only mature
poets, and she got on its pages because she didn’t mention her age. She had not
understood her success and decided that she was better to write the prose. And
to learn what kind of prose to write better she began to read well-known
writers and soon became absorbed in books. When she was fourteen in the book of
Henry James “The Portrait of a Lady” she had read that the author
enthusiastically spoke of some Russian writer by the name of Ivan Tourgeneff. And she found in library of her orphanage book
of this Russian that was titled “Fathers and sons”. This book astonished her by
that evident fact that Americans and British don’t write in this style. She
could not explain the difference and began to search other books by this
author. And she soon found two more – namely “Roudin”
and “Nobleman’s nest”. They were some sadly unsad,
strange and teased her curiosity. And she decided that she to learn Russian
language. In school she was studying French and Spanish and knew them badly,
but she hoped that she will learn Russian well.
She found Russian family that
needed babysitter and bought manual with CDs and started to study Russian. She
learnt Cyrillic alphabet in two weeks, but there her troubles only began. As
soon as she tried to read she understood how difficult these all to pronounce.
Difficult was everything starting with very simple vowels and ending with
stresses in proper places. But these all didn’t dismay her and she went on. And
after half a year of regular conversations with Russians and studies in free
time she started to speak in this language. She began to read Russian books to
children and it was even harder than textbooks. So she got acquainted with
Russian geniuses like Pushkin, Lermontov and Agnia Barto. So in sixteen she had read all Tourgeneff
in Russian, downloading his books from Russian websites. There were not limits
to her joy. And with this time yet one thing had coincided – American magazines
started to publish her poems and short stories. That brought no money but
happiness to see her words printed overcame all.
When she finished high school
and worked her first year as librarian in female prison for monthly pittance
that allowed her to write on, she was acknowledged as poet of year on www.poetry.com, and there was huge prize. And
Suzy decided that this time she to visit Russia to see Russian Christmas which
befalls on 7th of January according to ancient ecclesiastic Julian
calendar that was saved by Russian Orthodox Church, that was for ages only
Church in Russia, even when most of the other Churches after Catholics turned
to new Gregorian calendar. She wrote with soft-tip pens of different colors in
her diary the next:
flight
to the sky
is
whatever
am I
dash
to the rot
is
whatever
I’m not
Poem was right about inner self
of hers. She drank cup of tea celebrating her new poetic feat and after that
she started on her way to airport. In the bus she opened book that was fare
well gift of Russians with whose children she was babysitter. In this book she
found old portrait of some old man, she knew that such thing Russians call
icons and venerate them. She smiled to this old man and said “If you are saint
then present to me an adventure.” The name of old man was Saint Nickolay, she knew that in USA and other world this man is
better known under his Scandinavian variant of name which is Santa Claus. But
she never understood how usual man can be saint, and what it means.
When she landed in Moscow
Sheremetievo-2 airport she hailed taxi and asked to go to Red Square, all
business with her hotel and lunch she wanted to settle after that.
On a Red Square the first
thing she found was church, and she was bit astonished because she knew only
about mausoleum of Lenin. She entered this church named after Kazanskaya icon of Saint Mary, The Mother of God, leaving
her valise at the entrance.
Inside she soon found icon of
this saint old man she had seen in book and instantly recognized him.
“Where is my adventure?” She
asked him merrily, and it seemed that he smiled and even winked to her in response
but she was not sure.
When she exited the church she
saw that her valise disappeared with money, credit cards and all documents save
her passport which she stored in back pocket of her jeans. She sat on the
church stair began to sob.
She didn’t know what to do.
Across the pavement at the
wall of Historical Museum were sitting two men. One of them was dressed and had
make up of Lenin and another of Marx.
When seeing that she was
wailing, Lenin rose from the bench and come to her.
“Chto sluchilos?” He asked her in
Russian.
“My things are stolen,” she
answered through tears.
“Can you speak Russian?” He
said.
“Da, da!” She whispered and
all their further talks were in Russian.
“And what is left to you after
robbery, have you though anything?” Lenin asked.
“Only my passport.”
“Do you have where to live?”
“No.”
“Then come along with me I
will show you the way.”
“I’m American,” she said.
“I understand it,” he smiled.
And soon after he cleared make up and changed to normal clothes they went to Metro,
which is the name of Moscow subway.
When they exited the Metro,
Suzy understood that they were in some suburban district. They boarded bus, and
soon they got in place with similar houses.
“This is Novogireevo,”
Lenin said.
“That is not the Moscow-city?”
Suzy asked.
“No, it’s still Moscow,” he
consoled her. And they came to entrance of one of these houses. House was cheap, there were graffiti, bottles and gaspers on the
stair.
“Here you will live as long as
it will be necessary,” Lenin said, and opened with his keys door to one of
apartments.
They entered in little and
poor but accurate hall-room.
“I live here with my son,”
Lenin said and added taking off his shoes. “He is disabled.” Then he shouted “Nikolay, we have the guest for Christmas.”
“Father, I thought that you
will be later,” someone said from the nearest room.
“Nikolay,
be polite and do meet our guest,” Lenin said. And then young good-looking man
appeared in wheel-chair in worn-out fatigues.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
“Good afternoon. My name is
Suzy,” she said and gave him her hand for handshake.
“I’m Nikolay,
you may call me just Kolya,” he said, and lightly
shook her palm but she felt that his hand was strong by tenderness with which
he seized hers.
“Since now I will be on the
sofa in the kitchen, and she will live in my room,” Lenin said and went to wash
hands.
At the dinner when it became
obvious that she had not a soul in whole world save Lenin and Kolya, Russians said that while things were getting settled
she would live in their apartment and help to Kolya
in housework.
“We all are the poor and the
poor must help to each other,” Lenin said and introduced himself. “I’m Nikolay, and the son of Nikolay,
and the father of Nikolay. There is no woman now in
our family because my wife died last year from cancer.”
“I understand,” Suzy said.
“I must be the clown for
tourists to have something for living. I’m physicist by profession,” Nikolay senior said.
“You worked for defense, this
warhead stuff?” Suzy asked thoughtfully.
“Yes,” he said.
“As for me, I’m writing
poetry,” Suzy smiled.
“That’s my son who is artist
in our family,” Nikolay senior said. “You have seen
canvases in his room.”
“They are very good,” Suzy
said.
“What’s use of it? I’m
disabled and painter, this way I will never get married,” Nikolay
junior said.
“No. You’ll get married. I
will care about you,” Suzy blushed.
“Don’t look at his disability
to walk, it was made by bullet that had crushed his spine in Chechnya,” Nikolay senior said.
“You’re soldier?” Suzy asked.
“Yes, he’s our hero, and he is
nobleman. We even have some sort of estate. Part of house of our ancestors was
granted to us by local authorities on former lands of our family,” Nikolay senior said.
“It’s like in Tourgeneff’s novels. It’s nobleman’s
nest” Suzy beamed.
“Almost so,” Nikolay senior said and shook his head laughing.
“I dreamt about it for several
years,” Suzy nearly sobbed.
“Then we are your people,” Nikolay senior said and left kitchen to give to young ones
to be by themselves.
Written in Russian Christmas
2009.