Igor Eliseev - One-Two

Next day we didn’t go to work – for the first time. Instead, we started the day by searching for our mother, checking the addresses in the order they were listed in the telephone directory, from top to bottom. We headed off to the first Charity’s address with mixed feelings. I was scared about what would happen if we found her because I had nothing to tell her, but you, on the other hand, were overwhelmed with impatience. I knew how desperately eager you were to see her but you should have understood: you and I were not ordinary children and we couldn’t predict how our mother would react; the books didn’t say anything about this. We spent two long, senseless hours in the entrance hall of one apartment building, that’s how long it took you to force me to walk upstairs. The first half of the morning had already passed, and our would-be mother could have left for work long ago, walked by accidentally and not even recognized us.

At last I gained courage and we rang the doorbell. In the silence we heard an electric canary singing, the door opened, and a tall and extremely skinny young man of about our age, with long hair, almost feminine features and a thin aquiline nose appeared before us. Nobody said a word; he studied us attentively – we had left our blanket at home – and we looked at him vacantly. However, our appearance was not particularly surprising to him; on the contrary, it evoked genuine interest.

“Can I help you?” he asked in an absolutely harmless voice.

“Excuse me, does Ms. Charity live here?” you asked, in a faltering voice.

The young man measured us with another glance of limitless curiosity and then called into the depths of the apartment:

“Mom, mummy, you’ve got a visitor.”

She has a son! It turns out that if this woman is our mother, then he must be our brother. It was scary to think about, but a flash of hope emerged. Soon, a rather stout woman with a puffy face and a brush-haircut appeared on the staircase. Despite her gloomy looks, a strange and incomprehensible warmth enveloped us when she appeared, and at that very moment I thought how great it would be if she turned out to be our mother.

She peered into our faces for a long while, but couldn’t stop worrying.

“Can I help you?” She repeated her son’s question.

Didn’t recognize or didn’t want to? Her eyes spoke for her: neither sudden fright, nor pleasure, nor happiness were reflected in them, only bewilderment. This is not her! No doubt about it. At that very moment, we wished to disappear, vanish into thin air, or even better, become invisible, quietly creep into the room after her and live there for a while, carelessly pretending we were staying at home with our family. But instead we had to whisper, “Sorry, there must be some mistake…” and immediately go downstairs. Once again we stood in the entrance hall for a long time, experiencing a new feeling, sudden like rain, wanting to hide in some hole and never leave. We seemed to become even more miserable than before.

Our next “mother” was a very old, weak-sighted woman near ninety. She tried to see if she recognized who we were but couldn’t see us properly. However, we saw her quite well. After the traditional question, “Can I help you?” and receiving no answer, she re-entered the darkness of the corridor, probably wanting to fetch her glasses or to ask for help, but when she or they returned there was already no sign of us.

We had a lengthy dispute about whether we should check the remaining five addresses or forget everything and go back to our regular life. We didn’t think that our mother could have a family or that we could have a brother or a sister. Are they going to accept us as we are? But you persistently stood your ground. “I want to look this bitch in the face; I have a right to be somebody’s child!” you shouted, experiencing an unexpected change of heart and not even admitting the possibility of being unsuccessful in our search. But success was questionable. Would we get lucky and find her in that big city with only a list of names as our guide and helpmate? Eventually, your hatred – that had emerged like sharp teeth – and my growing curiosity made us get on with our “mission”.

The third “mother” died a few years ago; at least that’s what we were told through a closed door.

The next two were very young women, a bit older than us, and so everything was much easier. We just turned around and left, and they, shrugging their shoulders, dispassionately closed their doors on us and immediately forgot about our existence.

The door of the sixth apartment had an improper word inscribed on it in chalk. First, we rang the doorbell but there was no sound of ringing; a little while later we knocked timidly. After a minute, we heard footsteps, then the door opened wide, letting out kitchen smells onto a bare staircase, and we saw a sleepy woman’s face. Perhaps in the past she had been pretty, but now, under her dressing gown, we could imagine her bloated body and, indeed, saw its outlines. Her hair was gathered into a messy knot and her face revealed excessive suspicion and discontent.

“What do you want?” she asked very rudely and mistrustfully.

“Sorry, it must be a mistake,” you mumbled contritely.

We will never recognize our real mother! We rushed away and were already going downstairs not even daring to look back when we heard a loud “wait”. Jumping down steps, the woman hurried after us. The expression on her face had drastically changed. Annoyance was replaced by excitement; her manner became more serious and almost ingratiating. Probably, not knowing the best way to start, she rumpled and crumpled her fingers, cracking their joints for a while before opening with:

“So, you are my…?” her face reddened, but her voice was unnaturally calm, almost indifferent.

“My… who?” you reacted severely.

“My… my… daughters,” she said in a trembling voice and tears welled up in her eyes. She was just like the Bollywood actresses on old posters we used to see every so often.

“Yes, we are,” I heard your strangled voice; however, your lips were squeezed tightly together, and your answer sounded a little unnatural, as if you spoke through a keyhole, but the woman for some reason peered into my face insinuatingly. I grew cold. I had to answer; that “yes” was mine!

“Come into my place,” she said with a shade of solemnity, and not waiting for our reply, she went forward.

We obediently followed her into the depths of an endless corridor which looked like a very narrow tunnel. I believe that you cried. As for our mother, we didn’t surprise her or frighten her; she was self-possessed and calm, as if she had been preparing for this moment all her life. I must admit, I expected something more from that first meeting… and while we were walking, I kept my eyes down, trying not to think a lot, and not to fall, but once we had entered a spacious, clean, almost sterile room, the scene of our family reunion began.

“My girls, I am so glad that you are alive, so happy I found you,” our mother started lamenting. In her voice, grief mixed with overwhelming joy and appeasement. “How long has your journey been?”

I wanted to jump up and say: “Twenty years, even more!” but I contained myself. You were speechless with excitement, and mother continued speaking to both of us:

“You must be scared of me.”

We shook our heads immediately.

“Maybe you think I am a madwoman? Just look how many mentally unstable people are around us these days and then you will understand who is normal. A woman living next door to my bathroom always pries into other people’s affairs and obviously mine, pins her ear to my wall, and wants to oust me and take my room. Why did you say hello to her?” She addressed me with the look of a person tired of injustice.