Igor Eliseev - One-Two

That night I had a dream of us dancing together in the circus arena. There were only two spectators: the pug supervisor and the armless tsar. They shouted something special and tried to applaud, but couldn’t. One of them had no arms and the other was dead. And while we were spinning around in the spotlights, I saw an unspeakable envy on their faces. The whole world made a low bow to us because we were beautiful and unique.

What do I remember about summer? The smell of hot, freshly-laid asphalt, lonely passersby exhausted with heat, dashing sparrows in puddles, and a new supervisor – haughty, practical, convinced of his importance. Beggars nicknamed him Compass Legs without deliberating, which suited him pretty well. With his very long legs, always astride, his hands behind his back, narrow, sloping shoulders and oblong head, he really resembled a huge compass. His first philosophical remark and the following typical question puzzled us all:

“One always leads another, as if the devil himself has tied a rope around the pair of you. How did you get used to it?”

He had a somber but lively expression on his face while speaking; a compassionate voice completed the whole look.

Well, actually we didn’t get used to it; we were born that way. Leading each other is the norm for us.

“Neither of us decides which foot to step on, where to go, when to stop – it just comes without prior arrangement,” I explained, choosing my words carefully.

“Only our brains work independently,” you added scornfully.

Compass Legs put his legs apart, as thin as matches, even more widely apart, and bewilderment, natural in every unfamiliar situation, revealed itself on his lanky face. It was the way a three-armed person might appear surprised witnessing how someone can do everything perfectly well with just two arms.

“We are always inseparable. We walk together and we sleep together, and it is impossible for one of us to sit at a table while the other is lying on a bed,” I tried to joke.

“Yes, I can’t remember that happening,” you quipped again. “Though I wish I could.”

“And, of course, you pee together, don’t you?” Quite contented with his sagacity, he waved his hands and laughed.

I just shrugged my shoulders: laughter is much better than disgust. And Compass Legs, having sussed a special spirit, started rattling off like a machine gun, shooting questions:

“How fast can you run? Have you ever ridden a bicycle? Have you ever shared one man? Do you feel your body as a whole?”

“And does he feel his pathetic legs separately from his body?” I had this question on the tip of my tongue but didn’t dare to ask. We tried to answer him in detail with a certain amount of imagination and humor. And he was rejoicing and laughing like a little boy who has been gifted with an unusual toy for his birthday. “I can only hope that, while playing, he won’t tear off our limbs to see what’s inside,” I thought in dismay. Anyway, he behaved quite friendly and welcomed us, but I still kept waiting for the catch. Here, underground, nobody believes in nice, kind-hearted people, same as above ground!

I still remember the day we dropped into a nearby store. It used to be a grocery store, but now it sold everything but groceries, and with the money we had earned by unlawful begging, we bought a little dream – a china statuette of a ballerina. We saw it for the first time in winter, and every time we passed by, we envied the fragile, dancing swan – her beautiful body frozen in a graceful pose, her expressive arms resembling the wings of a rising bird, and her nice-shaped legs. True perfection! Ever after, the china doll lit up my spirit and captured my soul: yes, yes, it was not a usual figurine anymore but a symbol of unattainability. The very first thought when I took her in my hands was to take a proper swing and smash her on the tiled floor in order to eliminate the source of intolerable pain and destructive sentiments – the difference. We are different. But despite the initial impulse of self-preservation, I passionately pressed the ballerina to my chest, so tightly that not even a thousand malicious supervisors would have been able to tear it out of my hands, white from the strain. I imagined that the doll and I were one harmonious whole and that all my lameness flowed into her faultless, dancing body.

She is still spinning around, then breaking down, falling, coiling in agony, and transforms herself into clumsy, unfree, imperfect me. As for you, somehow you didn’t even touch her!

Having set the ballerina down in front of other things, I felt so tired as if I hadn’t slept all night long. The following day, spent in the tunnel, feeling restless and antsy, made it seem as if the desired purchase and my own identity were merged. I didn’t like it. In the evening I felt even worse, and you had to drag both of us… into nowhere. We found out that our nest didn’t exist anymore – the house was totally destroyed. Instead we saw heaps of bricks, twisted beams and a crane with a huge weight on a chain towering nearby in stately eminence. Our household for years suddenly collapsed, as always, aided by people.

“It’s good that we spent our last bit of money on this damned doll,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Lose faster to find sooner.”

We still had the main valuables we had always possessed: our faith and hope, plus a fairly shabby drawing by Lizzie and an old blanket on our shoulders. Everything else was unimportant; our past seemed flat, as if made of cardboard, like hastily nailed together background scenery. Isn’t it odd how the kindest and purest things that are of paramount importance lose their former attractiveness over time and start looking superficial, ordinary, and even alien? Having played their role, all unimportant and unnecessary things eventually die off, remaining in the past forever, while futures, our own included, lie beyond old, demolished houses.

We spent the night at Ickie’s place. His apartment was filled with such a viscous and sticky smell that, once we stepped over the threshold, we felt like all the filth was steadily sucking us into its putrescent bog. Caustic, sour stench hung everywhere like a dense veil. It appeared we could touch it and define its color; the bathtub became green and was covered with slime, as if it was sick with a cold; the floor had gotten soaked through and rotted, making parquet boards plaintively creak with “save our souls” requests; the lighting was dim and faint as if hope had extinguished there and then. And the owner matched his icky apartment quite well.

Rolling clumsily, he took us to one of three rooms, folded out a couch and prepared bed linen; and while he messed around making us a bed, sweat streamed down his dirty face, dripping on to a scuzzy sheet. Having finished, he tiredly sank into the only armchair in the room and gazed at us with half-closed eyes, smiling guiltily and quietly sniffing; a slice of apple peel stuck to his front teeth. Time seemed to forget itself in conflict with the problems of the human heart. Time snored.

“Would you like me to take photos of you?” Ickie broke the silence and started fiddling with his fingers as if playing an invisible flute. “I do this sometimes when I am in the right mood and have inspiration, for my friends only.”

“What the heck do you want it for?” you flashed. “Don’t you see us often enough?”

“It’s just a keepsake box,” he told us sheepishly. “I merely collect photos. Would you like to take a look?”

Not even waiting for our yes, Ickie reached under the couch and took out an old cake box lovingly tied up with a colored ribbon.

“Here you are, my precious. Come on, don’t be shy, I’m gonna show you to everybody,” he muttered, carefully handing it over to us. And while we untangled the ribbon with a vague presentiment of something raunchy and obscene, Ickie hopped, blushing and nearly bursting with delightful confusion.