Igor Eliseev - One-Two

“Help, please, good people. Don’t just walk on by, make a donation,” Ickie squealed, expressing all the grievances of the world and puffing out his shiny, sweaty cheeks. When we returned, he had already raised a fairly decent amount of cash. The only thing I could say about that was: whoever is a real nothing is capable of many things.

Making our way back to our spot in the half-dark, we nearly ran into a “newcomer”. It took me some time to actually recognize her, because the woman standing in front of us was a totally different person. Fear and desperation had bent her back completely, against her will, as if somebody dispatched Sprinter – yes, yes, that was really her – to another planet and replaced her with a pathetic, miserable woman looking exactly like her mom, whom we have never seen. In addition, now she was called Teeter-Totter, probably because of her rolling gait. The reunion reminded her of foster-home days which she wanted to forget. Recognizing us immediately, although there was a crowd of people around, she became completely abashed, shrank into herself, and grew dim, contorted with a mixture of horror and shame. We continued looking at each other for some time, not knowing what to say. A painful and unwanted meeting with the past. I couldn’t understand how she had ended up here. Later, Compass Legs gave us a brief summary of her life, actually not even a summary, just a few words. “She got kicked out of technical school, and then banished from her roost; now she lives with some drunkard; besides, she’s lazy and slow, not eager to work.” And that was it! No names, no dates, no fate. And, what’s most important: she is just an ordinary beggar, just like all of us. This thought was both new and honey-sweet to my heart, which filled with malicious joy. I hate to admit it, but boy was I pleased! Why?

While I was pondering whether I should bend my knees in submission or spit at her as a greeting, Ickie stealthily slid behind us and diffused the situation. He told us a strange story of how he had been surprisingly hurt in the best of his feelings when a terminally ill woman he had fallen in love with had started recovering all of a sudden , with such a touching expression and so comically waving his hands that involuntarily he made everybody laugh. For the first time in our life I saw Sprinter laughing.

“You’re such an attractive woman, a perfect model to be drawn,” Ickie cackled spiritedly. “But I can only offer you a photo of yourself. It’s not a painting, of course, but it’s still a keepsake weapon which I plan on using for the delight of your soul.”

After our refusal he still had some idea of how he might replenish his collection with new images.

Having thought for a moment, Sprinter, or Teeter-Totter, screwed her face into a smile and replied:

“Well, I don’t mind delighting my soul. This I am willing to do.”

As a goodbye, Ickie at first kissed her on the cheek, and then shook her hand twice, probably just to clinch the deal, to seal the bargain. Then he stood for a while, shyly and ingratiatingly looking her in the face and, after making an apology, left – and later…

What happened later? One evening, after a working day, Ickie invited us to a backstreet boozer, as dirty as his apartment. He was a little bit jittery, staring at us nervously, hesitating and not knowing where to start as if a girl he had been dating for a long time took her friend with her when he decided to confess his feelings. After five minutes of waiting you couldn’t stand it anymore:

“So, what happened? Spit it out!”

“I’m getting married,” Ickie blurted out, and you shuddered with surprise.

He was so desperate to look impassive, as if the talk was about an old friend, but his hands showed his condition, fidgeting, shivering, and from time to time letting out a mute “shout”.

“You’re a lying jerk! Whoever’s gonna take an interest in you?” you spat out with eyes flashing with hatred.

He didn’t answer, just clasped his hands around him tightly, trying to join them behind his back, and started coughing discontentedly.

“If she was humpbacked or didn’t have a foot or an eye, then you shouldn’t hesitate to marry her. But she is, to my unspeakable horror, merely lame. What’s so special about limping? Not your style, Ickie!” you said very rudely.

I didn’t realize at that moment you were talking about an old acquaintance of ours. From the first day, she did her best to try and please Ickie. She shook the dust out of his house and cleaned the dirt off his clothes, cared and helped him, even cured his ailments. Yeah, Sprinter chose a truly non-losing strategy, searching for survival outside the tunnel, not inside.

“Don’t be offended, but it’s the first time someone needs me after my mom,” he said, sobbing silly with happiness. “I know we’re meant for each other.”

Was that love or just abstemiousness, driven to an extremity?

It was totally unexpected. At first I didn’t like him at all, but after a while I got used to Ickie and didn’t want to lose him. He’s been there for us all this time, having actually become the third twin in our pack. Besides that, along with him, the vodka would also disappear. Before leaving, Ickie delivered so many needless, faceless clichés that if anything noteworthy was ever glimpsed there, it would remain unnoticed.

“I’ll come tomorrow,” he assured us, and his face contorted with a forced smile.

But, of course, he didn’t come the next day, or any day after that. He didn’t come in a week, in a month. It didn’t matter whether he avoided us by a whim of circumstance or willfully forgot about our existence; whatever happened, we were left alone again. However, before going away, Ickie seemed to have deliberately endowed us with bitter thoughts on love and all of its little white lies – his last gift implicating the promises of illusive happiness and its feasibility.

At some point I started noticing that you were no longer alone in the woods – Compass Legs showed a keen interest in you. From time to time he treated you with a cigarette, pinched you or made a corny joke.

“What a soothing voice he has!” you exclaimed dreamily as we went outside. “I wish I was alone… Anyway, Compass Legs is not Ickie,” you smiled sadly. “It’s a pity, but he won’t be bringing us vodka.”

Afterwards, I often thought about your words. For the first time in our life I was a heavy burden for you, or was it just the first time you let it out? I saw Compass Legs in a totally different light: a wry smirk instead of a smile, piggy eyes resembling buttons; raunchy, stupid, speaking awkwardly and always irrelevantly. But hardly had I started “unmasking” him when you pounced upon me with insults or covered your ears, shaking your head. How seldom can even the closest people understand each other.

“Am I worthy of being loved?” you asked, suddenly anxious, alluding to Compass Legs.

Deprived of everything that constitutes a woman and in general a human essence – family, motherhood, men’s attention, interesting and rewarding work – you were compelled to stand in the stinking tunnel for days, extorting the sympathy of passers-by, mixed with disgust. No wonder that yearning for love had arisen in your mind as a manifestation of natural human impulses and desires. Infinitely humiliated, you asserted your dignity through love.

Did I become your enemy then by telling you the truth? The question that must not be answered, but I found the answer! The very moment you asked this question my heart started thumping, poisoned with jealousy, and my stubborn silence spoke more than any words.

“Why am I asking you? What can you possibly know about how I feel?” You grew furious, and, unfortunately, you were right. I didn’t know anything then and I don’t know anything now! There is no museum which stores a standard of true love against which to compare your own perceptions.