Igor Eliseev - One-Two

“And what are your books about?” you interrupted him inappropriately.

“What they are not about, that is the question,” the writer answered calmly and simply, and then suddenly added: “They don’t narrate about delusions – that people with unusual or forbidding looks should be treated as if they were not human beings; that life finds its sense only in the midst of great suffering and tribulation; that it is difficult to smile to people who hate or despise you; that people’s desires are primitive and life is complicated; that writing a book is equal to lounging; that being human is rather easy but seems to be quite superfluous to the average person. Perhaps my books are about worthwhile things that don’t seem to exist but are encountered every day .”

His speech was straightforward and decisive as if he took his last chance to speak out before his death. And while he shared his thoughts, I couldn’t stop wondering why he took an interest in two conjoined girls rejected by everybody else and mostly unnoticed even in the most crowded places? However, that moment convinced me that our life – mine and yours – consists of trivial events and ludicrous losses; and if some writer decided to write a book about us, he would be absolutely puzzled as to where to begin and especially how to continue. Why did he come? The answer always hovered nearby, but I didn’t dare grasp it.

“Why did you stop writing?” I inquired instead.

“I don’t want to,” he smiled gently. “I changed my mind.”

“But there must be a reason.”

“There is always a reason. I’ve been asked not to write, so I don’t write.”

“Just like that!” you couldn’t help but wonder. “You stopped just because you were asked?”

“If someone, for whatever reason, doesn’t want me to be a writer, well, probably I shouldn’t write. I always try to respect what I’m requested to do,” he answered calmly and confidently. “The main thing is to do no harm to others.”

“He’s such a nice guy!” Yura put in a word. “He is a yes-man. By the way, I asked him to come here with me, and, as you can see, he said yes and came.”

“Life is very simple,” the writer went on, explaining such wonderful and formerly inexplicable things. “The more you help someone, the more you get in return. I advise you to try, and then you’ll see yourselves as you are and the world as it…”

“Nobody has ever helped us!” we exclaimed unanimously. “So why should we help anyone?”

“Are you sure about that? Maybe you just spare yourself the effort to notice?”

And at that moment my eyes met Yura’s. Sure, I had been convincing myself that I was unworthy for so long that I ceased to recognize other people’s help. Furthermore, because life had robbed us of luck and justice so casually, the number of our perpetual debtors owing us happiness had been growing every day.

“Yes, that’s just how it goes,” following our gaze, the writer continued, “no miracle; you change your point of view in the blink of an eye.”

Still, I was reluctant to give up and tried to find some argument, just for spite’s sake. For so many years we had been cultivating resentment towards the whole world that throwing it away now seemed not only impossible but fatal. We could only exchange it for something valid and reliable.

“It is hard to be fond of those who hate you,” I expressed our common opinion.

“Are you sure they hate you?”

“You should’ve seen their faces!” you blurted out.

“Their faces are a reflection of yours. Try smiling in a mirror and it will smile in return. But someone has to be the first, so why don’t you be the first?”

He said it with such a sincere smile that we involuntarily started smiling back.

“I dare say, my fellow, you are right; it really works,” Yura said and started pulling funny faces, making us laugh until we cried.

Yeah, he was right, perfectly right. I always thought that people hate us for our dissimilarity, while in fact – only now I start to realize – they don’t really care about us; everything we do in life is by our own and of our own free will and choice. We played les misérables hoping to squeeze out of people as much pity and money as possible, or, on the contrary, pretended to be like everybody else, hiding our differences behind our blanket, while all the while life had so much more to offer us. All our life had been filled with lies, deceit, play, dodging, trying to justify all our wrongdoings by believing in a regrettable necessity. Without meaning it, we chose isolation and somewhere halfway to this day, we killed the real us, leaving the entire world in a state of shock and fear. In other words, it appears that allowing grief and indignation to control our life, we merged with the crowd, as we have always dreamt it to be… but despite this, we are dissatisfied.

What is so special about an extraordinary person? An extraordinary person helps humans to understand that every person is extraordinary. Well, the writer made our entire life change, turning everything back to front but mysteriously allotting it its normal places. He came not because he wanted something from us – one can’t get something from nothing – and not because Yury had asked him, but because we needed someone to lean on – a person with an amazing gift, that of turning every disadvantage into an advantage. From the very beginning, all our conversations resembled battles where he was the “subject of testing” (or the subject to test), of firmness, of certain convictions. He didn’t try to disprove anything for any purpose, but somehow, everything turned out to be disproved in the end.

“We want to be like everybody else,” I started, as usual.

“What do you need it for?”

He answered my question with a new question. Well, it did not actually bewilder me.

“In order not to stand out from others,” I explained patiently.

He didn’t even stir an eyelid.

“The fact of standing out and distinguishing yourself means that the person is unique.”

I must honestly admit that he infuriated me and so I always kept on arguing. But the more I contemplated my sufferings, the more I suffered, and still didn’t stop contemplating. Our conversations with him went something like this:

“What can be worse than being castaways? No one needs us.”

“But you have each other; not everyone can boast of this privilege.”

“We can never be each of us separately,” you hissed with poorly hidden malice.

“On the other hand,” the corners of his lips curled slightly upward, “you never know loneliness.”

“We don’t want to stand in the tunnel and seek charity; it is humiliating,” we said unanimously.

“Everybody asks for something: help, friendship or blessing. Why not beg if someone is ready to donate to the needy? After all, the pleasure of giving is so much greater than receiving,” he concluded. “The earlier you understand it, the sooner you will find happiness and make the world happy.”

That evening, when he left, turning his back on us, I kept on seeing his smile for a long time afterwards – the smile of a child on an old man’s lips.

Do you know what I’m thinking about? Is everything you perceive true, what you witness, the truth for everyone else? What if memories are just figments of one’s imagination? You are still silent, aren’t you?

I was awakened by a deafening silence, so profound that it seemed to have its own essence. A strange feeling dominated me, its strangeness familiar: a deep loneliness, and simultaneously the necessity to feel such loneliness. What am I so worried about? It is a beautiful, snowy winter day; a little New Year tree adorns one of the attic corners. Today is the last day of the year which is coming to an end, things are looking up. For the first time in our life we will have a real holiday, just like everybody else. Yura is coming soon to help us decorate our first New Year tree. I am so happy that I wouldn’t even be afraid to die. I have only read it in books, but now I know how it really feels.