Polina Dashkova - Madness Treads Lightly

“Veniamin, are you going to dinner?” Galya Malysheva, the instructor from the next department, asked as she glanced into his office. She was young but quite stout, with a bad wheeze.

He startled, as if caught red-handed.

“Huh? Dinner? No, I’ll go later.”

“Always working. You’re our businesslike one.” Galya grinned. “Watch out, you’ll get so skinny no one will marry you.” Laughing at her own joke, she closed his office door and Venya listened as her heavy steps receded down the hallway.

I really should go have dinner, he thought, and he tried to remember the last time he ate. Yesterday morning probably. He could barely force a bite down at the time. He knew that in the next few days, if he did force himself to swallow any food, it would take colossal effort. But he had to eat something, otherwise he’d pass out from hunger. And insomnia.

The fits had been getting more frequent. They used to come once a year and last no more than a couple of days. Now they happened every three months and lasted nearly a week. He knew it was only going to get worse.

First, a dull, hopeless sorrow would come over him. He tried to fight it, coming up with all kinds of things to do and ways to entertain himself—he read, he went to the movies. It was all useless. Sorrow grew into despair, and an acute self-pity came to the throat of the obedient little boy no one loved.

Previously, he had blocked his despair with a few vivid pictures from the past. He knew the root of his illness was there, in his dark, icy adolescence. So was his medicine.

Fifteen-year-old Venya never told anyone about what he’d seen at home on his parents’ bed. But after that blizzardy February day, he started looking differently at his parents and at himself. Now he knew for sure that everyone was lying.

He’d never had much to do with his father before, and he was used to viewing him merely as a gratuitous and pointless attachment to his strong, powerful, and respected mother. Now this justification of her maternal cruelty dissipated.

He’d often heard his father say, “Mama knows best. Your mama loves you very much and does everything for your good.” Venya himself would repeat it like a spell: “This is for my good, so I’ll grow up strong.”

Never once did his mother pity her son, even when he was sick or when he scraped his elbows or knees. “Pity belittles a man!” Never once in her life did she kiss him or pat his head. She wanted her son, the grandson of the legendary Red commander, to grow up strong, without any sloppy endearments. Now Venya knew, though, that she simply didn’t love him.

He realized that the only reason his mother slapped him, arranged weeklong boycotts, and said such mean things in her calm, icy voice was because she liked being in charge, she liked humiliating and torturing someone who was weak and defenseless.

Now, though, he knew an important adult secret that concerned his mother, not as a Party leader or the perfect Communist but as an ordinary woman who was neither very young nor very attractive. No Party committee or public opinion could help. Here she was defenseless.

He could hurt her whenever he chose. That finding out about her husband and young neighbor would hurt her, Venya had no doubt.

But he said nothing. He carried this shameful adult secret inside himself with care and a pounding heart. He observed with particular vindictive satisfaction each time his sweet little neighbor respectfully greeted his esteemed mama, and as his mama, out of Party habit, shook the soft little hand of her pudgy rival, not even suspecting she was a rival.

The secret tried to come out, but he realized it was a single-use weapon. Tell it, and it’s not a secret anymore. But he was dying to tell, if not his mother, then one of the three most closely bound to the secret. He was dying for the fun of someone else’s fear, a grown-up’s fear.

One day, he couldn’t help himself. Meeting his neighbor on the staircase he said softly and distinctly, straight to her face, “I know everything. I saw you and my father.”

“What do you know, Venya?” The neighbor raised her narrow eyebrows.

“I saw you in the bed when you were…” He wanted to say the well-known obscenity but couldn’t bring himself to.

Her gentle little face fell a little, but it wasn’t the effect Venya had been expecting. Sure, she was frightened, but not very.

“I’ll tell my mother everything,” he added.

“Don’t, Venya,” the girl pleaded quietly. “That won’t make it easier for anyone.”

In her round brown eyes he was suddenly amazed to discover pity. She was looking at him with sympathy. This was so unexpected that Venya lost it. She didn’t fear him, she pitied him.

“You know what?” the girl offered. “Let’s you and me talk this all over calmly. I’ll try to explain it to you. It’s hard, but I’ll try.”

“Fine. Try.”

“Only not here, on the stairs,” she said, suddenly realizing. “If you want, we can go for a little walk, as far as the park. Look what nice weather.”

The weather really was marvelous, a warm May twilight.

“You see, Venya,” she said while they were walking toward the park, “your father is a very good person. So is your mother. But she’s too strong, too harsh for him. Every man wants to be strong, so you shouldn’t judge him. You’re smart, Venya. Life is full of surprises. If you’re afraid I’m going to wreck your family, that’s not my intention. I just love your father very much.”

She spoke and Venya listened in silence. He couldn’t figure out what was going on inside himself now. His head was spinning from her sweet perfume. A small blue vein was pulsing on Larochka’s milky white neck.

“If you tell your mother, she won’t forgive him. Or me. She just doesn’t know how to forgive, that’s why being with her is so hard for your father. But you have to learn how to forgive, Venya. There’s no living without it. I understand, at your age it’s very hard.”

There wasn’t a soul around. Larochka was so carried away, she wasn’t looking where she was going. Thick roots of old trees poked up out of the ground. The girl tripped and went sprawling on the grass. Her checked wool skirt hiked up, exposing the edge of her nylon stockings, her pink garters, and her soft, creamy white skin.

Venya collapsed on her with all his whole strong, greedy fifteen-year-old flesh. He started doing to her what his classmates had talked about in such juicy detail, what he’d seen his father do to her that blizzardy February day on his parents’ bed.

Larochka cried out, but he managed to cover her mouth and nose with his hand. She kicked and writhed under him and started to choke. Not letting her breathe, let alone cry out, he managed to turn her over onto her back and hold her trembling, clenched thighs down with his knee.

She resisted as hard as she could, but Venya was large, a head taller than his pudgy little victim. Not for nothing did he get top grades in gym; not for nothing was he the school gymnastics champion. He could do fifty chin-ups in a row and had already passed his army physical.

He was actually surprised at how easily and quickly he managed it all. After he got up and buttoned his fly, he glanced at the sprawled, practically trampled body on the grass. In the thickening twilight he could see the red traces of his fingers on her gentle little round face. For a fraction of a second he thought that she might have died. But right then, as if in response, he heard her weak, pathetic moan.

“You’d better not tell anyone,” Venya said calmly. “That won’t make it easier for anyone. You have to learn how to forgive, Larochka. There’s no living without it.”

He turned on his heel and strode off quickly for home.