by Boris Glikman
drink: a cup of Russian tea from a samovar
Alexander was in his early
thirties at the time of our conversation, more an acquaintance than a friend,
and a distant relative. Our remote consanguinity produced a certain awkwardness
in our relations. I was never quite certain whether I could be open with him, as
one usually is with kinsmen. Our previous meetings were too fleeting, too
fragmentary. A christening here, a funeral there. Certainly not the right
occasions to strike a friendship. Only one salient impression remains in my mind
from our prior meetings. It was a wedding. I chanced to direct my gaze at the
opposite table, and at that moment a certain uneasiness, or perhaps rather a
vague anxiety, crossed Alexander's face, like a shadow, and was gone in an
instant. Such a mien stood out like a dark rock amongst the sea of bland,
drunken faces.
The Fates, whose ways are
unknown to the common man, noticed our separate paths. And so it came to be that
on the last weekend of September an invitation was extended for me to attend a
gathering at the country estate of my maternal grand-aunt. It was unclear to me
of what relation she was to Alexander. Nonetheless he too received an
invitation. I gladly accepted, happy to leave the metropolis where I had spent
the last ten years working for a local insurance company.
As I remember, we had a
long, happy day of outdoor activities. We were carefree and acted almost like
children in our innocent happiness. The fresh country air was a welcome change
and we savoured it like a delicacy. Our dogs took eagerly to the great open
spaces of which they had no prior inkling, having been brought up in the crowded
city.
It was nearing the
eleventh hour. The wonderful day was coming to an end. Our companions had long
retired to bed, sleeping the sleep of the saints. Such a sleep only comes when
one knows that all that possibly could have been done in a day has been done.
Too often sleep is an interruption, an annoyance that prevents us from engaging
in our favourite activities. And so we retire to sleep in frustration and have
dreams for consolation. The sleep of the saints is without dreams, for dreams
are for those who do not live their lives to the fullest. I too longed for the
saints' sleep, but Alexander was in the study with me. A dying fire, the only
illumination in the room, greedily devoured its few remaining offerings. Now and
then his face was lit up by the last flicker of a fading ember. Deep thought was
etched into every line of his face, ageing him indefinably.
It occurred to me that I
had waited long for this moment, to be close to Alexander, to glimpse into his
unfathomable soul. I believe it was the combination of the lateness of the hour,
our seclusion and the wonderfulness of the day that had passed that allowed him
to open up to me, as never before. He began to speak, his voice detached and
hoarse, his speech directed more at fire than at me. But I listened,
avariciously catching every word that passed from his lips, my yearning for bed
gone.
"Every word is a bloodless
being, its life-force sucked out a long, long time ago. An insurmountable mount
exists between the sublimeness of the feelings that filled my inner being as I
gazed into the infinitude of the heavens tonight and the utter mediocrity of the
words that we use to describe our precious inner possessions. These thoughts,
these sensations are the very essence of my identity and to equate them with
some trite, impotent words is to deny the very uniqueness of my experience. Yet
tonight I feel an inexplicable desire to communicate.
Throughout my life a
certain question has held a pincers-like grip on my mind, refusing to vacate its
dwellings, until it has been demolished by the indubitable answer, a proof. To
quench that insatiable doubt became of paramount significance and overshadowed
all other interests a normal, balanced young man would possess. I often wondered
if I was the only one affected by this damned malaise. A thought terrorised me:
was this question, this doubt, a valid concern or was it just some aberrant
preoccupation due to the wanderings of a spoilt mind, the product of an
undisciplined and self-absorbed character? If this question could be given a
crude physical form, then it would roughly translate into something like: why am
I here on this Earth? Who is responsible for my existence? My parents, that is
obvious, are directly responsible. But I wanted to search out the fundamental
raison d'etre. I believe I have finally found it. History holds the ultimate
responsibility. My chronic doubts were soothed by irrefutable facts of the
past.
So often people scorn
history, but history is people acting in unison, people being more than just
independent units. The whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts. The
depth and ferocity of pent-up frustrations, resentments, aggression and idealism
that is liberated by the great historical events is unparalleled in any other
human endeavour. People become prey to rabble-rousers, willing to sacrifice all
that is precious to them for some Great Cause.
My being is directly and
intimately caused by one such cataclysmic event. My genesis was a catastrophe;
war was the seed from which my existence germinated. A chain of cause-and-effect
links connects my life to that of my ancestors in those momentous times. Somehow
I feel that era to be an integral part of my very being."
Alexander shifted slightly
in his chair, as if trying to get a better view of the events in his mind.
"The turning point in the
life of my forebears was the Revolution. The Revolution facilitated the union of
the maternal and paternal branches of my family tree. It would not be inaccurate
to say that the maternal twig was grafted onto the paternal tree trunk; only the
Revolution could make this kind of fusion possible.
My father’s family was
always a seemingly incongruous mixture of lofty idealism and urbane
sophistication. If one word could characterise it, it would be "intelligentsia".
Before the Revolution they threw themselves into a wide range of intellectual
enterprises and philanthropic activities. When the Revolution made its fiery
entry, those forebears unhesitatingly accepted its demanding principles.
Throughout the land at that time, intellectuals who previously fought only with
words and ideas were asked to defend the aims of the Revolution with arms. My
paternal side did so outstandingly, volunteering for the local revolutionary
brigade. I believe some of them were machine-gunners on an armoured train.
While these momentous
historical events were taking place, the maternal side of my family was busy
looking after their old decrepit grocery store in a sleepy, provincial town.
They came from a long line of small traders and had a decidedly narrow outlook
on life and its possibilities. They welcomed the Revolution for pragmatic
reasons. It was their hope the new regime would help them solve the problem the
old regime was never able to solve. For years the family had been trying to
obtain the vacant shop next door, as they wanted to expand their business. Year
after year the case went in and out of court. The family had to endure the
legendary inefficiency and ineptitude of a bureaucracy in its waning years.
Those were the nadir years of the monarchy. I will not bore you at this hour
with the petty case details."
The last ember died away,
giving up the vain fight against the primordial, all-consuming blackness. I did
not stir for the fear of interrupting Alexander's story. He continued, his inner
truth providing the illumination that was lacking without.
"One fine August day, as
summer was bidding its adieu, the Great War arrived, unheralded and unwelcome.
It brought with it suffering on an unprecedented scale. No longer was there time
to deal with matters not vital to the security and well-being of the country.
The family's hopes of settling the case collapsed.
With the Revolution came
the heartfelt belief that all the wrongs would be righted and true justice would
prevail. It must be said that the grocer's family was not interested in the new
social order or in fighting for the principles of the Revolution. They were the
quintessential opportunists and looked excitedly to the day when the new rulers
would cut the Gordian knot and enable them to obtain the vacant store. Little
did they know that the new regime had its own ideas on the concept of private
ownership; ideas which, unheard of at the time, were justified by the abstruse
field of philosophy. The family, of course, was unable to obtain the shop next
door. The real predicament that befell the hapless family happened soon after
the takeover of the town by the insurgents. Their own store was confiscated by
the revolutionaries and became the national property of the Great Socialist
Collective.
One of my ancestors on
father's side was a rising star in the revolutionary battalion, which was
stationed for a time in the shopkeeper family's town. He cut a striking figure:
fiery black eyes, a great moustache curled according to the fashion of the day,
and the splendid insignia and uniform befitting his high rank. The duty of
justifying the actions of the revolutionaries to the local populace fell on his
shoulders. It was no easy task under any circumstances. The heads of the
families of the town were asked to attend a meeting at the local public hall. To
say the atmosphere was charged would be a great understatement. Amongst the
audience was the store owner, still hoping that somehow, in some way, the flow
of the events could be reversed. Always a man of action and never lost for
words, the enterprising grocer managed to persuade the revolutionary to come to
his home with promises of delicacies and a comforting drink. Having endured the
privations of a soldier's life, the revolutionary was an easy target for the
shopkeeper's enticements.
The store owner had a
young daughter, barely out of adolescence, shy and always quick to blush, and
possessing a certain homespun charm. An unlikely match they were! He, a
revolutionary commissar, imbued with the fresh principles of Justice, Equality
and Freedom. She, a mousy daughter of a provincial shopkeeper. He needed the
comfort of a family that was missing from his hectic life; she wanted to break
out from the claustrophobic, stifling atmosphere of her home. They fulfilled
each other's needs to perfection. Their fates became intertwined during those
heady days, months and years of the post-revolutionary society. As events rolled
inexorably towards their climax, a child was born—a child of the
Revolution."
Alexander fell silent for
what seemed an unbearable duration. I was not sure which would cause the greater
offence, my staying or my leaving, and I let my mind wander over the finer
points of etiquette. My restless ruminations were cut short by his words, spoken
slowly and decisively, without the shadow of the inner torment that darkened his
earlier speech.
"When the winds of fate
blow, we are merely leaves, picked up, carried by the gust and arbitrarily
rearranged. But I have said enough for tonight. It is time we retire to
beds."
Upon waking the following
morning, the memory of the late night conversation immediately came to my mind.
After attending to my morning toilet, I almost ran out of the room, so eager was
I to see Alexander again. But, alas, he was nowhere to be found. The hostess was
in the dining room. I inquired of his whereabouts only to be informed he left
early without leaving any message or even saying adieu. The groundsman, who saw
him leave, said Alexander looked rather distressed and seemed to be in much
hurry to get out of the estate.
I have not seen Alexander
since that night. His closest relatives have given me only vague answers to my
persistent inquiries as to where I could locate him. Even if he does not want to
see me again, his words will be with me forever.
About the author
BORIS GLIKMAN is a writer, poet and
philosopher from Melbourne, Australia. The biggest influences on his writing are
dreams, Kafka, Dali and Borges. His stories, poems and non-fiction articles
have been published in various online and print publications, as well as being
featured on national radio and other radio programs.
