View Flat HTML
View Metadata
Search Post
The school had been built not long ago, and the newspapers had written about its opening. Its windows were wide, its desks were not yet covered with cuts and scrapes, in the hallways there were potted ficus plants, and there was a gym on the first floor, a rare thing in those days.
+ Show First Post
“Was that really a secret? Sorry.” He turned back to Iskra. “It turns out that I am acquainted with your mom. We happened to bump into each other at the city committee and discovered that we had met back during the civil war, we had been in the same division. She was an amazingly brave lady. A real Joan of Arc.”
“A commissar,” Iskra corrected him, quietly but firmly. She had nothing against Joan of Arc, but a commissar was still better.
“A commissar,” Lyuberetskiy agreed. “As for poetry in particular and art in general, the kind that is most to my liking is that in which question marks prevail over exclamation marks. An exclamation mark is an imperative arrow that gives direction, and a question mark is a hook that pulls answers out of your head. Art should awaken thoughts, not lull them to sleep.”
“Zinochka is absolutely right,” said Leonid Sergeevich. “Art should reach the thought through feelings. It should disturb a person, make them suffer with the sorrows of others, love and hate. And a disturbed person is inquisitive and curious; a state of peace and self-satisfaction births a laziness of the soul. That is why Yesenin and Blok are so dear to me, if we are talking about modern poets.”
“What about Mayakovsky?” Iskra asked quietly. “Mayakovsky was and remains the best and most talented poet of our Soviet epoch.”
“Why not?” said Vika’s father. “I knew him well when I was at school in Moscow. I must admit, he and I would argue desperately, and not just about poetry. That was a time of arguments, girls. We were not content with absolute truths, we sought and argued. Argued nights through, to the point of stupor.”
“But can you really argue with…” Iskra wanted to say “with a genius” but held back.
“You not only can, you must. Truth should not be turned into dogma, it must be constantly tested for durability and advisability. Lenin taught us that, girls. And he would always be very angry when he found out that someone sought to pour the living truth into a cast-iron absolute.”
The elderly housekeeper peered in at the door.
“The car is here, Leonid Sergeevich.”
“Thank you, Polya.” Leonid Sergeevich stood up and pushed his chair in. “All the best to you, girls. Drink tea, chat, listen to music, read good poetry. And, please, do not forget Vika and I.”
Iskra would long remember the chance meeting and the unexpected conversation. But then, listening to the elderly (she thought) man with young eyes, she did not agree with much of what he said, tried to challenge much of it, intended to contemplate much of it, because she was a thorough sort of person that liked to get to the roots of things. So she walked home, sorting out in her head what she had heard, with Zinochka chirping alongside.
“I told you that Vika was a wonderful girl, I told you, I told you! God, we lost eight years because of you. What dishes! No, did you see what dishes they have? Like in a museum! Potemkin probably drank out of cups like those.”
“Truth,” suddenly said Iskra slowly, as if discerning a sound from far off. “Why should you argue with it, if it is – the truth?”
“‘In the character of Pechorin, Lermontov portrayed the typical features of the superfluous man,’” Zina mimicked Valentina Andronovna very closely and laughed. “Just try to argue with that truth, Valendra will just fail you.”
“Maybe that’s not the truth?” Iskra continued to ponder. “Who declares that the truth is indeed the truth? Well, who? Who?”
“Adults,” said Zinochka. “And adults get it from their bosses… and this is my left, so let me kiss you.”
Iskra silently offered her cheek, tugged once at her friend’s dark blonde lock, and they parted. Zina ran along, purposefully clicking her heels, and Iskra walked, though quickly, decorously and quietly, and diligently continued to think.
Iskra’s mom was home, and, as usual, with a cigarette: after that terrible night when Iskra accidentally spied on her, Iskra’s mom started to smoke. To smoke a lot, scattering empty and half-full packs of “Deli”.
“Where were you?”