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He doesn’t relent.
“Look at Vasya here. He's got the same salary as you, and he is overseeing this entire factory!”
“That’s his problem, not mine. And how would you know about our salaries?”
“If you don’t want to work, then get out! You’re useless in any case! Worthless painter.”
I jerk uncontrollably, and then lunge forward. My fist is tight, and white knuckles crush his red, veiny nose. He steps back, trips over the bucket of water, and collapses onto it. I feel the need to claw out his eyes, but suddenly remember that we are not alone here.
“Soon...”
He touches his nose, and seeing the blood, his mad eyes focus on me.
“You bitch, you’re done! Hear me?! Done!”
He gets up, fueled by the same anger, and moves toward me. Fear grabs me by the throat, and I take a step back. But before anything happens, the other men step in between us. Uncle Lyosha screams at him.
“Are you out of your mind?! Gonna hit a woman?”
“She hit me first!”
“Should've kept your cockhole shut,” the oldest of them all says, spitting on the floor.
Stepanych looks me in the eyes.
“This isn’t over.”
He storms out and into the offices. Uncle Lyosha turns around and looks at my hands. Concern is visible on his dirty face.
“He's going to the director. Wash your hands with cold water and keep your fist under the stream for as long as you can. Maybe there won’t be any bruises.”
I nod, but I know that the impact was good, and the consequences of my actions are now rushing toward me with each passing moment. So why, instead of fear, do I feel... relief? Did lashing out make me feel what I need, or is it because I just ensured that soon I will no longer have to work here?
I go to the restroom and start washing the blood off my hand, hoping that the cold water, which somehow burns my skin, will prevent a bruise from showing. Why have so many people in my life hated me? I know how to work, I always come on time. I never drink during working hours, I produce what is demanded of me. So why? Why does evil reign? Is it inaction? Was I supposed to hit him earlier? I look in the mirror. The sound of running water drowns any thoughts I have. It feels good. Suddenly I hear a voice calling out to me. It’s Uncle Lyosha.
“Nast'! You alright in there?”
“Peachy! Why?”
“The…director is asking for you.”
“The bravest are the snitches, huh?”
“Ah, to hell with that guy! Don’t worry, girl, we’re on your side. I already spoke with him, though the conversation was brief. Still, I think he’ll listen. But if anything goes south, we’re with ya!”
But does it really matter? And what can you do? These are but words. If you wanted to act, you would have already put them into action, as you did when it was your paycheck on the line. So, these are empty promises once again. The truth is that I’m alone. And I’m about to get fired because of some degenerate drunk who wanted me in his bed, and instead got his nose broken by my fist.
“WE ARE ALMOST FREE.” The harsh whisper passes through my mind, and I shake it away.
“Now is not the time,” I whisper. “Focus. The director can’t see this. Can’t fathom the idea that something is wrong with me. Because if he does, then…then I’ll get fired.”
“And what is wrong with that? The job you hate with people who will never stand up for you if there is risk to them.”
“Because I must eat. And if I don’t eat, I die.”
The voice is silent now. Apparently, there is some semblance of sense even in madness. I wash my face once again, making sure that it is clean, and then go upstairs, stepping on the old, rusty ladder to the head office.
Viktor Vasilievich – the director of the factory – is a bald man, dressed in a clean white shirt and new jeans imported from Western countries. He has never looked at me like a hungry dog at a piece of juicy meat, but rather with curiosity – a woman in a factory, one capable of doing a man’s job. Perhaps he even respects me, as much as a man of his position can respect anyone.
“Anastasia, good day. Please sit.”
“Good day, Viktor Vasilievich.”
He looks at me with his blue eyes. They seem cold, and perhaps there is darkness within him, but not toward me. He gently shakes his head.
“What were you thinking? The guy is a rat, and he is the nephew of the local officials. That is the only real reason why he is here.”
“I didn’t know that,” my response is calm and detached. “I thought he was your friend.”
He laughs, but not in amusement.
“No, I have better friends. You should have come to me and asked for help. I would have spoken to his uncle, and he would have backed off. But now that this situation is out, I can’t risk tangling with the law right now. I have too much going on as it is.”
“I understand.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to fire you. Well, not really. See, I have other places you could work. You could be an accountant, or maybe my assistant. And before you think anything, I’d remind you that I have a wife whom I love. I just don’t want to see you go out into nothing because of that dogshit.”
The proposition surprises me. Another job in these times of need, and after a scandal? Does he see something in me?
“You will work a full shift, and the hours might be longer, the pay will be the same, but you won’t have to feel the pain in your muscles or wash oil off your skin.”
“What he means is that The Masterpiece will never be finished. You’ll drown in his papers, fulfilling his dreams, while forsaking your own. THAT’S HIS OFFER.”
It is likely that I would abandon painting. And then what? My time wasted? My talent discarded? No. It won’t happen. I know why I came here. I’ve prepared for this, and I won’t beg or accept some scraps from the table.
The choice is made. I shake my head.
“I wouldn’t want to embarrass you again.”
He nods, then looks at me again. Something is in his eyes. Not desire. But something I do not like.
“Anastasia, do you perhaps need any help?”
“How do you mean?”
He shrugs.
“Anything, really. You’ve worked so hard and never asked me for anything. Most people do. And I want to help you.”
“Does that irritate you? That people don’t come and beg for scraps?”
Somehow the man in front of me does not seem offended. Instead, he narrows his eyes just a bit.
“That sack of shit also said that you were jumping before you struck. Can you tell me what that was about?”
“He's lying. Exaggerating. I hit him after he insulted me numerous times, and he started the entire thing!”
He slowly nods.
“Okay. I trust you more than I do him, be certain of that. It’s just that you are a human being, and I care for your well-being.”
I feel somewhat relaxed. Then my mind bursts with my recent words. I shouldn’t have said what I said. He is not my enemy. He is just a man who wants to do good by his family.
“About what I just said...”
He waves his hand and smiles.
“You’re upset, unnerved, I get it. And if I’ve learned anything, it is not to fight, nor to argue with a woman. You never admit you’re wrong, so what's the point?”
“There is none.”
“Exactly. Listen. You leave of your own desire, that way you’ll be able to find another job. And if you change your mind about accepting my help, my door is always open. I won’t fire you immediately. No one can make me do that. You keep coming, work, and if you need extra time to find a new place or speak with potential employers during work hours, I’ll of course allow it.”
“Thank you, Viktor Vasilievich.”
“It’s nothing. I just wish it hadn’t happened. You’re a good girl. Never drunk at work, always came on time, did exactly what you’re paid for and even more. Speaking of which…”
He reaches into a cabinet and puts an envelope on the table.
“It’s a bit early, but maybe you’ll need a new set of clothes for your interview.”
I nod, accept what is owed to me, and then go out. He says something to me, but I no longer hear him. What I do hear is laughter in my head. I don’t stop at my workplace. Uncle Lyosha nods solemnly but offers nothing more.
Walking on the rails, I wonder at the time I now have. Being unemployed wasn't something I yearned for. But it was better than enduring the constant looks of drunk pigs or injuring my hands on the faces of those who would insult me.
Chapter 3: Re-birthday
***
It is the day off. I stretch and cover myself in a blanket from head to toe, from side to side, as if I were a shawarma. Time passes, and in my mind’s eye, I start to see strange visions. Dreams have long eluded me, but seeing something is still a possibility. The images are few, though I dream of The Masterpiece. It is no longer a project, no longer a dream, but a reality. Cameras flash in my face. People seek to ask what inspired me, and I wonder if I should mention the love of my youth, who inspired me. If inspiration is the catalyst, then does that mean that he takes at least some of the credit for my work? Perhaps not. The work was mine throughout the years of struggle, and he was never there for me. My heart knows that he is out there amongst that big crowd of artists and journalists, looking right at me while being with another woman whom he loves, as he never loved me.
***
I wake with a strong headache, wondering if I should have ignored the visions and tried to sleep instead. The evening before was uneventful. I got home, stared at the wall while my eyelids fell from time to time, and without any thought, I fell onto the bed and into dreamless sleep. The headache begins to assault me even stronger. Thankfully, I have the pills that can help with that problem.
I remember the pills that I bought a day before and now need to take my morning portion. They are meant to quell my mind, and yet I wonder if I truly need them. Raising my head, I see the canvas and wonder how much longer it will take for me to finish The Masterpiece. How can I say “no” to the only true dream that I have had for most of my life? What will I be if I relinquish it?
“Nothing. You will be nothing. Just like the rest of those at that factory. You will be another miserable drunk, with no dreams or ambitions of your own. A broken, shattered person who will not be living, but slowly dying.”
I shake the Voice away. I want it to be silent now. All it does is sprinkle salt on my wounds, but at the same time, it is the driving force that pushes me toward finishing my work. In that moment, I feel the ache in my stomach. And I haven’t bought anything to eat. Great. Putting on my clothes, I walk out into the world yet again.
***
The cold is fierce, and so the street is empty. As I walk, trying to ignore the hunger, I see the first person, and a smile touches my face. It is Uncle Vasya. He stands by the children's swings, inspecting the scuffed metal and damaged wood from which they are made. A man in his sixties, he is one of the few decent people around here, the only person with whom I am willing to communicate. Spotting me, he smiles, and I walk up to him, extending my hand in greeting.
“Good morning, Uncle Vasya.”
“Hello-hello, dear,” he answers, shaking my hand. “Though it is not morning, but rather the end of the day. Were you asleep all day?”
“Yes. These last few days were rather…long.”
“I can only imagine.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Ah, the swings… I’m thinking about giving them a fresh coat.”
“Seems a bit late for that. The snow is already here. Too cold for that kind of work.”
“That’s true. I’m thinking in the spring. Just need to save up the money first, then buy the paint. Better to buy it in winter, otherwise the price goes up.”
“Don't their parents have money for it?”
The old man smiles again.
“They do. Though apparently not for this.”
“Fancy some tea?”
“Oh, that’s always a yes.”
“Just not at my place, if that’s okay? It’s a circus of freaks over there right now.”
“I understand. Only, my place isn’t exactly tidy…”
“Ooooh, well that’s it then. We’re not friends anymore, and I’m going to go tell all the neighbors about what a slob you are!”
The old man bursts out laughing.
“Point. Let's go then.”
Despite what he said, his one-room apartment is quite tidy and rather cozy. The old furniture, the ticking clock – they are like relics from another era, when life was not as cold and empty as it is now. The kettle boils, and as I pour the tea, Uncle Vasya brings out some sweet buns. I sit down at the table and begin to chew on them to sate the hunger, sipping at the hot tea to push it all down. But even in my state of hunger, I cannot help but feel and appreciate the tea’s aroma.
“So what’s with those swings?” I ask when my mouth is free of food.
“I want to oil them up, put on some new paint. Maybe it would be good to find some sand, you know, so that the kids could play.”
“Yeah. I merely don’t understand why it is you who is worrying about their well-being and not their parents.”
The old man shrugs.
“Maybe it is I who need the kids to be happy more than their parents do.”
“You mean the people that fear and discuss you behind your back?”
“The same. You think me a fool for doing that?”
“Not a fool. It is a good thing you are doing. But what is the point if you are hated and unappreciated?”
“The point is to give the children the childhood they deserve, and through example, show them that to be kind affects the lives of others. They will see me improving the things they love, and they will remember it. That memory will become the foundation of who exactly they will become.”
“So you take on the role of the caring parent, but without reaping the rewards. They will not care for you. They won’t help you.”
“This isn’t about gratitude, but about spreading kindness and selflessness through the minds of the young. This in itself is beneficial. And even more so, it calms me, soothing my mind and soul.”
I nod solemnly. There is no point in going further down that road. Uncle Vasya never talked about his early years, before prison. Though the “loving neighbors” did their best to spread rumors about him murdering two people – his wife and her lover – with an axe. Despite the act of killing and the reputation it brought him, when I met him, I saw a kind soul, filled with regret. Day by day, we began to simply greet each other on the street, and as time passed while others feared and ignored him, I became his friend and confidant, and he became the same to me.
“Did something happen?” he asks suspiciously.
“What do you mean?”
“You seem a bit grim.”
“Aren’t I always?”
“I mean more than usual. Did someone wrong you?”
What is the point in hiding something that is not much of a secret anyway?
“My boss – the scumbag. Not the director, I mean. The foreman.”
The old man chews on the bun, pushing it down with tea, thinking about what to say next.
“Did he… hurt you?”
I understand what he means, and for just a moment, I want to say yes, but almost immediately, I shake the thought away. How can I even think of lying to this man? He is my friend, and he does not deserve to be used and deceived. It is clear to me that emotions are clouding my judgment, that the anger seeks to break out and lash out at anyone close to me.
“Not in that sense. He's just…Well, to be short, he began to insult me, and I punched him in the nose. Managed to break it, actually. And then, as the brave man he is, he went to the director’s office and filed a complaint. And since he is a relative of a big-certain-someone-I-do-not-know-who, I must look for a new job.”
Uncle Vasya seems to consider this, staring at the table and taking a sip of the warm, strong tea. Then, as he sets the cup down, he looks at me again.
“What a bastard. Pushing up a girl then complaining like a little bitch. His sort does not last long, you know.”
“Let me guess. You’re going to tell me that God is going to punish him?”
“I wouldn’t presume to speak for the Lord. No. I’m speaking about the fact that people like him tend to find problems, and one day, they do not have the strength or the ability to defend themselves from the consequences of their actions.”
I am not sure that this is true, but decide not to argue with a man who seeks salvation and peace in the arms of God.
“Maybe. I just do not see it much.”
“Well, believe it. Eventually people like him tend to find trouble from which they can’t recover. Anyway, what did the director say to you? Did he fire you right away? Or did he try to defend you?”
“He couldn’t defend me. But he gave me some time to find a new job.”
“And did you?”
“I was fired just yesterday. Didn’t have much time, you know.”
“Right. Sorry. So, what's next?”
“I don’t know, Uncle Vasya. Truth be told, I’m very, very tired. And not just from work, but from life in general.”
He frowned.
“You should stop even thinking such things. The only good girl around, and you’re talking about dying. And over what? Some fools from a factory?”
“It’s not just them...”
“To hell with all of them! Are you trying to say a girl like you has no reason to walk the Earth? Come on, I’m not telling you to endure or to go find someone. But there's always a reason to live. I should know.”
I look at him as he speaks and think about how much I wish we were the same age. He is smart, handy, respectful, and empathetic. It doesn’t bother me that he killed his wife, because she had been promiscuous. Uncle Vasya is a good man, just with a crippled soul and a broken fate.
“I’m thinking of finishing the painting.”
“That one? What was its name? Remind me. Masterpiece…”
Uncle Vasya is the only one who knows about The Masterpiece. Moreover, he has seen the sketches and even asks about it, often enough to show interest without being annoying.
“The Masterpiece. Yes.”
“Well then, go for it! Or are those neighbors-freaks bothering you?”
“They're calmer during the day. So, no.”
The old man breaks off a piece of his bun, dunks it in the tea, quickly pulls it out, puts it in his mouth, then continues.
“Look, if anything, you know that my house is your house, right? If you need to paint in silence, I have the space here.”
“No, Uncle Vasya, thank you, of course, but I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not a burden to me. You’re the only friend I’ve got.”
***
I enter my apartment and hear the drunken pig of a neighbor wake up and start shouting at her family. It would not do me any good to talk to her. I tried that once. She is not a reasonable person. It is interesting that our lives are similar; we are both living in the same building, none of us is rich, but she's lazy, and the only things she loves are vodka and beating her children. Perhaps I should avenge myself by setting the proper services on her. But what would that accomplish? Would the children be better in an orphanage? No. And the children themselves – the two brothers – are already tainted. They killed a hedgehog for fun, beat up a homeless dog, and bullied some kids before those kids banded together and beat them, until the brothers never bothered them again. These people are evil. Irredeemable. They are a little spot of filth in the pool of sentient life. But to me, they are more: the ever-present distraction, an obstacle to be overcome. But they are not the only problem I have.
For the last ten years, I have tried desperately to learn how to paint. But I do not want to just paint for fun. Money is not my main motivator. I want to change the perception of the masses. To show them that art can be something more. Art – any art – should have meaning behind it. Modern art is becoming decadent, despite being at its peak. Great movies, music, paintings, and texts of all sorts are created for all to see, but the flood of quality begins to drain, while the quantity continues to grow. The world will need better art in the future – new creators who will inspire and entertain. The only downside of my ambition is perfectionism.
I fall back into the memory of the past. It is so vivid, so bright, I remember many details of that day and the starting point of it all…
***
I was at a children’s sports camp. It was a sunny day. The sky was blue, and the clouds were few. Thin yet tall trees surrounded me. The birds chirped, adding to the atmosphere of bliss. I walked on the concrete slabs past benches, toward the boy whom I liked at the time. In the times of youth, love came much easier. Especially when the young man was tall, had black hair, and eyes of a color that seemed both brown and green. He sat on a bench, his feet crossed in the lotus pose, a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. His eyes were closed, and his head was lifted toward the bright sun. Not wishing to intrude, I stopped and stood in perfect silence for a moment, waiting for him to open his eyes. The wind shook the branches and leaves on them, creating a soothing sound. Thankfully, I did not have to wait for long. He opened his eyes, put some words into his little notebook, then looked at me and smiled.
“Good morning, Nastyusha. I heard someone coming, but you waited. Thank you.”
“Sasha! Good morning to you too. Can I sit?”
“Of course, of course! I almost finished it.”
“Finished what exactly?”
“A poem.”
“I wondered what you were doing there. What is this poem about?”
He smiled gently.
“Love. What else?”
“Wow…Can I read it?”
The young man anxiously pulled the notebook toward himself, hiding the rhymes and notes from me.
“It’s…It’s not ready yet. I want it to be perfect. Catching.”
“You seem to take this seriously.”
“Of course I am. I want to be a poet.”
“Really? Seems a bit…ambitious.”
He smiled a cunning smile.
“You mean impossible?”
“Difficult.”
“Well, what isn’t difficult in this life? Besides, what is the point in living without even trying to do what you want? There must be something you want.”
“I always wanted to paint, but no one seems to believe in me. My parents sent me here because they wanted me to become a sportswoman. But that was not my wish.”
“Well, they may see that you are capable. However, if painting is what you really want, why should it matter what others think or want out of you? Is painting illegal? If you wish to paint you should do that. We have this gift of life, and we must treasure it, by doing something that is beautiful and good. Painting is certainly goes with that category, don’t you think? And what if your paintings were to catch the attention of many people in the world? Think on this.”
***
And I did. For many nights I lay awake, comprehending Sasha’s words. He went back home, and I never saw him again, but his words stuck with me, reinforcing my need to achieve my desires instead of working to please my parents who spat on my wants and dreams. My head is splitting from the pain. All this stress seems endless, and I wonder when the last time was, that I felt something good in my life. Something aside from this gloom, unhappiness and madness…