DIKOROSIA
# WHERE ARE YOU?

I thought I might never come back to this place. Never come to Russia ever again. But there I was crossing the border on some rental bus. I don't even remember going through passport control because I was asleep the whole time with my face leaned against the window. At the border checkpoint I opened my eyes just a little to pass my papers to somebody and then drifted back to sleep. The bus ride was over in a flash. The driver dropped me off at the corner of Varshavskoe Highway and Balaklavsky Avenue. 

 

Summer dust of a stifling Moscow morning immediately stuck to my skin. Sharp and dry it slips into my eyes and nose, leaves traces of black speckles on my skin, and gets into my lungs. Soon the heat and smog will trigger my asthma and make me gasp for air. Varshavskoe Highway roars as the traffic forms despite the early hour. It's only 7 am. I should get away from the highway before passing cars start pulling softened asphalt with their wheels and drag it behind.

 

I dial my parents' landline number from memory on my old push-button phone. My dad answers it after the third ring

 

"Hi, dad! It's me! I came home!"

 

"Hi," he murmurs and clears his throat to repeat the greeting once again, "Hi!"

 

"I'm at Balaklavka* and already on my way to Chertanovskaya metro station. Let's meet there? How much time do you need to get there?"

 

"Got you," he answers, and it’s a little out of place, "I'm on my way, meet you in 20 minutes. 30 minutes max."

 

"Great! I'll be waiting for you at the tram stop. Sounds good?

 

"Deal!" he says and hangs up.

 

He still hates talking on the phone. Maybe hates it even more now. He didn't ask me what I look like, what I'm wearing. How will he be able to recognize me? I know I will definitely recognize him.

 

My small backpack and I are making our way to the metro station. In my mind I list the places where I can buy a suitcase to pack the things I want to take from my parents' house. Nah, I don't need a suitcase. Buying a bunch of boxes seems like a better idea. I'll pack them and send them to my house. There are no guarantees that they will find their way to my house, but it's easier than dragging the luggage with me. Yeah, I'll use international delivery, that way I won't have to buy a suitcase. 

 

The neighborhood rises from the morning haze like a set from old movies, but it still looks familiar and I'm able to recognize some of the places. Here's the high school famous for their math program I failed to get into. A girl once lent me a book, it was Orwell's novel 1984. Here's the building she used to work at. That place is a hotel or maybe an office building even though it looks like a tower. Behind me are 8 lanes of Varshavskoe Highway. The first Moscow electronics warehouse store was opened right across it. No store shelves, only electronic catalogue displays. Your order arrives on a conveyor belt. In 2008, I bought a memory card for my camera there. The store was called Sunrise. Its sun set pretty quickly. The store was closed in a year. But the memory card I bought there still works. 

 

And here's the Chertanovskaya underground crossing. The first exit leads to tram tracks, the next one to the buses I can take to get to my parents' house, and after that a tunnel of stalls and kiosks that stretches up to the very entrance to the metro station. If you take the left exit, you'll get to an experimental housing project that is Severnoye Nichertanovo**. I used to love riding my bike around this neighborhood as a child. 

 

People are rushing to the metro station and diving into the slamming entrance doors. I, however, am in no hurry to get anywhere today. I don't have any places to be. I don't even live in this city anymore. Today I'm a mere tourist. I can stroll around and window-shop all day long. I remember Sobyanin*** tried to clear all the underground crossings from kiosks, but here they are still standing, no damage done. Knitwear, Books and Magazines, Pastries and Drinks, Stationeries, Cosmetics. Here I am staring at the stalls and imagining what I would buy–doing exactly what I used to do when I was a kid. Ugh, I would kill for a meat stuffed puff pastry right now! I don't have a dime in my pocket right now. Everything really is like when I was a kid.

 

I look at my watch but can't see what the numbers say. I just know that my dad isn't here yet. I'm thirsty. I pull a plastic bottle out of my backpack. It was with me the whole way from Reinickendorfer Straße to Chertanovskaya metro station. I take a sip. The water is awfully warm and tastes like plastic. It always happens when it's hot outside. 

 

I exit the underground crossing tunnel and head in the direction of the bus stop. This is the same path I used to take on my way from college: I waited for bus #189 to Dnepropetrovskaya Street but usually ended up taking a tram home even though the route from the tram stop to my house was longer. I did it because the bus I needed ran rarely.

 

I cross Chertanovskaya Street to get to the tram tracks and see a minibus arriving at the bus stop. The route card by the driver's windshield reads, "Simferopolsky Boulevard, Chongarskiy Boulevard, Kakhovskaya metro station, Sevastopolskaya metro station, Azovskaya Street, Chernomorskiy Boulevard." People have already gotten in, but the minibus isn't moving. The driver is waiting for more people to come. I stare at the faces of people in the minibus window. I remember the minibus windows being always dirty, even in summer. I can't recall ever seeing anything through them. But now I can see everything. 

 

Finally, the minibus starts with a sudden jerk that presses the passengers into the backs of their seats. I watch this happening, and it feels like a slow-motion scene in a disaster movie. I know that this particular movie always has a happy ending. Everyone survives and gets home safe and sound. I hear a long honk and a screech of the brakes. The minibus rocked on its springs and then stopped lunging its passengers forward. Some people hit the backs of the seats in front of them, others dropped their bags on the floor from their laps. I hear the drivers screaming at each other, then another screech of the wheels, and the car that hit the minibus was on its way, headlights intact, no dents, completely unscathed. Seconds later the minibus followed it.

 

In the distance I see a tram coming my way. I spotted it as soon as it crawled from around the corner where Chertanovskaya Street meets Sumskoy Drive. A round-faced yellow tram with a white roof is making its way downhill and now uphill again, slowly crawling towards the metro station. It stops. The tram has two cars and folding doors. My dad gets out of the second car. He has a bag in his hand. We hug awkwardly. Dad pulls away quickly as if he's in a rush to get somewhere. 

 

"Alright, let's go," he says and dives into the underground crossing entrance. 

 

He never has time for chatting or hugging, this one. He's always running somewhere. I follow him. I probably should share how my ride was, but my dad doesn't ask. I don't remember much of it anyway. 

 

We're making our way through a parking lot to what seems to be a big mall that replaced an old supermarket. I loved going there with my dad when I was a kid. We used to buy Korean carrot salad and beancurd sticks on the ground floor. He always let me eat it right from the bag. I am feeling hungry. I should suggest going somewhere to eat. I look around. Is there a cafe nearby? The scenery bends, twitches and changes like a hologram. Now all I can see is rich greenery and yellow dandelions scattered across the grass. The sunshine is blinding yet gentle. I feel as if I'm a child once again, and everybody treats me with kindness, even the sun. But it still makes me squint and lower my eyes. Old asphalt under my feet is speckled with bumps and cracks filled with sprouts of grass. There are lilac bushes on my right and a narrow path leading downhill. Wow, everything does look the same, exactly like it did in my childhood! And here's the supermarket. Some people are climbing the stairs just to disappear in its dark interior, others jump out of its doors and run down the stairs with the groceries all joyfull. I can see all the tiny square tiles on the front of the building. The windows of the ground floor are covered with faded posters for Coca-Cola, Fanta, and Iron Brew. I'm looking at the windows on the first floor. They seem very dark because the light outside is so bright. As I look closer I notice stocked shelves near the windows. I can even make out what they are stocked with: tetris toys, Transformers action figures. Seems like a toy aisle. Huh, I guess today is a Good Sight Day. Suddenly my whole body overflows with joy.

 

And then I immediately feel exhausted. The morning heat has completely worn me out. I'm starving, and there’s a long train ride to the countryside ahead. Thank god I have my dad with me. Just like when I was a kid, today I can rely on him knowing what station we should get off at to change to another metro line and just take a nap. The train is crowded and stuffy. It's incredibly uncomfortable to sit here and on top of that I have to hold the bags that threaten to burst at any second and scatter the groceries all over the floor. But here I am finally in our house, dying from exhaustion. I immediately get sent to bed even though the hour is not that late.

 

It's morning. I wake up in a place that doesn't look familiar. We didn't have this couch there before, did we? The kitchen looks different too. I remember it being on the terrace, not in the hall. My grandma is standing with her back to me and cooking breakfast. I don't want to distract her from her cooking so I leave the house and walk down the path to the backyard. Here I see a sawhorse with a long, thin stick on it. "Looks like an alder tree," I think to myself. "It's probably for the decking by the well." The old one has long rotted away. It's damp and swampy here. Without proper decking it's easy to get all bogged down in mud as soon as it starts raining. As my grandma has always said, "One scoop of a shovel and the water comes flooding from the ground". I've never seen this flooding groundwater anywhere, not even in the well. There's only dark murk glistening at the very bottom of it. I keep on walking past the garden to the well.

 

As far as I remember, my parents wanted to dig it further. Or maybe they wanted to do that to the other well? The one by the garden. I look inside it. There's a rusty pipe at the bottom of the well sticking out from the wall. An old rusty chair is leaning against it. The well has no water in it. The ground at the bottom is almost completely dry. As I look inside, a slobber of water drops from the pipe. As if someone just opened a valve and immediately closed it. Strange. Where is this water coming from? I look up from the well and stare at the distance. Right behind the fence there's a lake glistening in the sun. There used to be an alder grove and a stinky brook behind it that you could cross in one jump. In the spring the brook used to overflow and ducks swam in its waters manoeuvring through the trees. Now there's a lake. I can see its farther shore and our neighbor's fence. We're divided by the lake and its beautiful, smooth surface. So strange. Everything has changed so much while I was gone.

 

I go back to the garden where the herbs have already sprouted and the seedbeds are full of radish and carrot tops peeking from the ground. I see my dad squatting by the bush of dill, picking the sprigs for the salad. He's wearing cut-off jean shorts and a faded T-shirt. A "rustic look" as he would call it. My city clothes make me hot. I should follow my dad's example and change into my "rustic look". There should be a pair of old shorts and a stained T-shirt in some drawer inside the house. 

 

Dad starts whistling some tune that I recognize immediately. It's a song based on a poem by Andrei Voznesensky, my dad's favorite poet. The song is performed by Nikolai Gnatyuk who has a strong tenor voice. 

 

The drums were bad, the drummer was God

You were just like a ray of sunshine

Drum, drummer, drum.

Where did you go at such early hour

 

Without stopping his whistling he moved to another seedbed. I see him picking green onion sprigs. He has no trouble seeing each sprig without his glasses, just like the old times. Perhaps, it's because the sun is shining really bright today. Dad is so cheerful and peaceful today. I don't want to bring his mood down, but I have to ask him this.

 

"I've been waiting to ask you about Auntie Shura", I say. "How is she doing?"

 

I've been desperate to know since February, actually. Auntie Shura is an old friend of my parents. She's been living in Yalta all her life. For some reason, I didn't check up on her in 2014. Was she pro or against the annexation of Crimea? I just thought that if she and my parents were still talking, then she was pro-annexation just like they were. I didn't say anything then.

 

"Auntie Shura?" dad asks and then makes a long pause. "She's good. She's doing good. She's alright. She was planning on doing some home renovations with her son."

 

"Is she pro or against?" I ask, gathering all my strength for what might come next.

 

Dad continues picking the herbs. I see him move to the parsley bush next. He mumbles something and brings up some names I haven't heard before. I forget what they are immediately. “Larisa was pro and then she was against it, but Alena was against it at first, then she turned pro or, wait, maybe she didn't.” Who even are these women? Are they Auntie Shura's neighbors or maybe friends? They are not who I was asking about, I wanted to know Auntie Shura's opinion. But it's clear my dad doesn't want to talk about that. I quickly switchthe topic.

 

"Remind me again, how old are you?"

"Well, do the math," he says and heads to the old house with a bunch of herb sprigs in his hand. I hear him whistling another song. It's The Bird of Happiness by the same old Gnatuk.

 

I'm doing the math. Our new house is already built. But the old one is still here. It hasn't been demolished yet. It means that now it's somewhen between 1998 and 2002. So dad must be in his fifties. And I'm 35. We have less than 15 years between us. Someday I'll catch up with him.

 

I head back to the old house but can't find the entrance. It looks like they put the door somewhere else. I get into the main hall through the hut where my grandma is washing the dishes. Breakfast is ready. I remember grandma as a thin old lady in a faded, washed out robe, but today she's wearing a bright shirt, her back is wide and straight. She doesn't slouch. She used to tell me how tall and strong she was in her youth.

 

"Hi, granny," I say and lean to hug her from the back. I've never used the word "granny" before, but I felt a sudden urge to do it at the moment. I don't remember ever having the urge to hug her rough, meager frame either. But it's been 13 years since her funeral so I guess I’ve been missing her terribly.

 

Grandma says something sweet without turning away from her dishes. I don't want to bother her, so I leave without hugging her. I didn't even see her face. We're going to sit down for breakfast soon. I'll see her then. I need to call my parents down for breakfast. 

 

We should take a photo together. Where's my camera bag? I hope I didn't leave it somewhere on my way here. I head to the couch I was sleeping on. My bag is here on the nightstand. I pull my camera out and go to our new house passing the hut windows on my way. 

 

Everything around me is in full bloom. The white lilac bush has already gotten its flowers. The ordinary lilac bush will catch up with it in no time. The place it grows at is quite shady so its blooming always comes later than the other one's. But I can already see clusters of flowers here and there. Fresh raspberry shoots are covered by the fence boards. White phlox flowers in front of the raspberry bush are blooming as well. A round peony bud is so big that it's bent low to the ground by its own weight. Right by the hut windows grow blue and purple larkspurs. They are already taller than me. Bees are buzzing, and butterflies are fluttering around. It's very warm outside. The sun is already hanging high. I want to take a picture where the old hut's corner, the greenery and flowers as well as the sky are all in the frame. I want to capture the seedbeds in the foreground, a new house in the distance and an alder grove in the horizon. I need a wide-angle lens for that. I lost count of how many times I took the path from the old house to the new one. I've never noticed how beautiful the view is. I've never taken a single picture. 

 

I regret hardly ever visiting this place while I still lived in Moscow. It's so nice and quiet here. The air is fresh. No car noise, just birds singing. Coming here on weekends from Berlin would be pretty hard, wouldn't it? It would take flying to Russia, going through passport control, taking an aeroexpress train, then a train to Khoroshovo station, and finally a taxi to Prigozhevo village. Being here now is truly a blessing! How did I manage to get here? I myself have yet to figure it out. I think it's a miracle.

 

I'm standing by the lilac bush and watching my parents trying to get my bike on the top floor of the new house. The bike I keep on my balcony in Berlin. Mom is struggling. She and dad switch places. Now he's going to lift it from the bottom, and she's going to pull it from upstairs. I'm going to help them. I know my bike is not that heavy. I carry it up the stairs in Berlin in one hand.

 

I approach our new house, but suddenly my hands are full. One is holding a camera and the other a carton of juice. I should put the carton down on the bench before I go lend my parents a hand. But the bottom corner of the carton peeled off, and now it’s bent in another direction. I'm trying to put it down, but it keeps tilting and threatening to fall down and spill the juice all over the place. I bend the corner, but the carton still doesn't stand straight.  Stupid freaking juice! I keep trying to find the right position for it to stand straight, but it keeps falling again and again... And I wake up. 

 

I'm lying under a double winter comforter. It's so hot I can feel sweat running down my body. My hand that was fighting the juice carton just seconds ago is resting on my phone. Right, I turned off my alarm clock. It's 7 am already. I open my eyes and see a sliver of foggy Berlin morning and my bike on the balcony. It's Saturday. The courtyard is still quiet. I hear my dog sniffling and snorting on the rug by my bed. She must be dreaming too.

 

I haven't visited Russia in 6 years. I thought 2022 would be the year I finally do that. I would try to talk to my parents properly even though any understanding and affection has long been gone from our relationship. The reminders of them can only be found in my childhood memories. I wanted to visit our house in the countryside just to check if everything really changed as much as satellite images make it seem. But in February 2022 I realized I might never come back there. Transportation isn't the problem here. I was longing to visit the places I spent my childhood and teenage years at, but they no longer exist and remain only in my dreams.

 

I've been living in completely different settings of Berlin for the past 6 years, and I grew quite familiar with them. I have a lot of things on my agenda today: to have breakfast, to walk my dog, to create a poster for an anti-war rally in front of the Russian Embassy. My poster is gonna read "Decolonize Russia". The rally is at noon. The paint will need some time to dry. I get out of bed, give my dog a pet, and I am ready to start my day in the present, right here and right now.

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*     Balaklavka – a slang version of Balaklavsky Avenue

**   Severnoye Nichertanovo is a play on words. Ни черта [ni cherta] means "absolute nothing", "jack shit", "fuck all". The            phrase can be roughly translated as "the neighborhood of absolute nothing"

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*** Sergey Sobyanin is a Mayor of Moscow