Vladimir (volosheninov) wrote in antecedents, @ 2010-08-09 16:40:00 |
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Vladimir Alekseyevich Volosheninov was a man of little consequence within the world he knew. He was a civil servant lacking any kind of renown, one secretary among many, who spent half his days filling out identical bland forms. But he preferred the forms to things such as having to redirect the occasional citizen who came up to his little desk, typically lost and needing directions to another department. He always startled when he noticed that a shadow had fallen over the light he was writing in, his manner the sort that prompted others to say, "I apologize for the interruption,". He wouldn't be able to get in a, "No, it's no trouble," because his tongue was still a bit frazzled, and they would have by then already moved on to asking whatever their impersonal question was. It wasn't that he didn't like people, that he would of been any happier shoved away in some dark corner in the very back of the office where no one would bother him. Now and then, he had days where he would wake up in such a positive mindset, he would think to himself that today was the day he would speak properly with all of his co-workers, be the one to hold the door open for them on the way in, the first to offer to take the department boss' coat and hat, to smile forthrightly at anyone who came by his desk needing help... but that was before he got out the door of his house and remembered himself properly, and he was more awkward than ever on those days. He would sink his head so close to the papers he was filling out that his nose would practically be touching them, in the subconscious hope no one would be able to see him over the counter.
The rest of his days were spent in even more defined solitude. Either he sat in his room, alone, subtract for Matrona's occasional appearances to tidy up, or he walked the streets by himself. Being alone wasn't so bad, but it wasn't so great, either. The longer things were like this, the more he grew sure he'd never be able to change it, to become like one of the men he passed on the street, off to meet a few of his friends for lunch. He once went out to a cafe himself, and happened to overhear one of those groups of men talking. He wasn't purposely eavesdropping--they were just talking loudly, that it was impossible not to overhear. One said something on a subject he was familiar with, regarding the recent bid for emancipation of the serfs. Not such a narrow topic that it would be rude (so he thought) to input his two cents. But the men just looked over at him, as if to say, Who is this fellow, has he no friends of his own that he has to go barging into other people's conversations? Of course, he immediately realized his mistake, and began to try to excuse himself for it, to justify he only thought whatever it was he said had needed to be said, that he had forgotten himself, and so on, and so forth. On the other hand, if he had just owned what he said and stuck to his guns, there was a good chance those he was addressing would of allowed him to join their table. He never did, though.
Eight years of an existence like that, since he had left the university, and one grew used to being an outsider. But eight years was a long time, and the fact of that really weighed on him sometimes. The fact that he can remember a time when he was happy, but not what happiness actually felt like.
That was, until he met Nastenka. What transpired in his heart upon meeting her was indescribable; emotions he hadn't felt, but had longed to, suddenly exploded within him. His heart ached with gladness as this pretty little girl made his acquaintance, and was not put off by him, but rather even invited him to see her once more! He was still a bit awkward in her presence, but he also found his eloquence with her, something he usually didn't have time to get around to with other people because they didn't give him the chance. After the day he met Nastenka, he completely forgot his feelings of loneliness, of dejection, of realizing his monotonous reality would never change. It was her image he fell asleep thinking of, and hers that he woke up with the memory of. She evoked an almost schoolboyish attitude in him; he hummed while getting ready for work, and even smiled at Matrona that morning, asking her how she'd slept that night, because he had slept so very well. She'd promptly assumed the man must of finally met a woman, for that was the only thing that could warrant such behavior, perhaps even one he had thoughts for marriage. Surely, the servant lady would laugh (that is, if she had any sense of humor) if she were told it was merely the gift of pure-hearted friendship that had him in such a mood.
No, on the first day he thought nothing of love. He'd promised her that. All that mattered to him was that he'd finally found someone to talk with, to share all the things going on inside his head with, whether or not she was someone who could ever become more to him. Anyway, the idea of that alone made him flush... he had no understanding of that sort of thing, no experience with it. He wouldn't of made any kind of good candidate for her.
On the second day, however, after he had really opened up to her, and she to him, he felt much closer to her. But that was also when he came to know that he truly couldn't be anything more to her-- she had already given her heart to someone else. That was fine, if only he could continue to see her, talk to her, look at her pretty face and commit it to memory, although he was already sure he would never in all his life forget that face. When he went to deliver the letter she wrote to this other man, he never had the thought that he could simply fail to deliver it, that if he really wanted to become something more to her (because the seed of that idea had been planted by then), he could of fought against what she was telling him to do. Just as he didn't think to stand his ground at the cafe, it didn't occur to him to do anything but comply with what she asked of him, regardless of how he felt. I'm doing this thing for her, which will make her happy. And so he was happy.
The third day, dreary and wet, was when he began to love her. The more she insisted that it was just so great he hadn't fallen for her, that he had no interest in her beyond friendship, the more he wanted to say It isn't true, that isn't all I feel! Three nights was such a short time for an individual to go from a stranger to one that someone could love in earnest; it's enough to make a person dizzy, so quick did the emotions transpire within him. By the time he left her that night, all that happiness he had experienced the previous two days was gone. Now he only felt despair, thinking that Nastenka would soon be back in the arms of her true love, and that he would once again be alone, and he couldn't help but doubt what she said, about their being friends forever, because wouldn't she grow tired of him, of his strange nature, as all his old friends had? But if it meant her happiness in exchange for his sorrow, he wouldn't hesitate for a second. Such a girl deserved to get what she wanted; he was nothing in comparison to her.
The fourth night came. The bench, where they always met and had spoken of meeting at again, was empty. He waited for an hour, though it felt more like a year, convincing himself she must of gotten tied up with some other engagement; an errand for her grandmother, something like that... For an entire hour, he managed to keep the thought from his head that he had finally come back to her, that she was with him now, that this meeting at the bench was now and would forever be the furthest thing from her mind... that he was nothing to her! Such thoughts all came later, crashing down on him, and he realized there was no other explanation.
He came again on the fifth night, though he was full of dread and almost did not go. She was not there, as he feared. The sixth night, and the seventh night, and the situation was the very same.
He had prepared himself for when this would happen, when she would leave him and things would go back to the way they were, before those fantastic three days where she had been part of his life. Yet, he hadn't imagined it this way, that she wouldn't even say goodbye to him...
Almost a week after their last meeting, he sat down again on the bench, for what would be the last time. He wouldn't come again -- the memory of her sitting in that now empty spot beside him was too fresh for him to want to keep revisiting it. He supposed it was sort of a bittersweet pain, though, since while he was here, he could still recall her sweet voice, see the profile of her face out of the corner of his eye, so it was almost like she was still there. He recalled how she had pressed his hands, and for a moment his cold fingers felt warm again.
It was better like this, that she had gone away, for he was sure he wouldn't of been able to refrain from telling her of his love for her, had he seen her once again. And that would only of hurt her. At least, she could remember him now (if she thought of him at all) as she wanted to, as someone who had been a brother to her when she needed one the most. She wouldn't have to think back on him with regret, with pity.
He sat there until the sun rose, a numbness having settled in his troubled heart. He had decided not to torture himself, thinking about what it was Nastenka and the man she loved must of been doing now, if they had passed the night much like him, watching the sun rise, but sitting beside one another, not just with phantoms. The last thing he thought about her was that he wished he had detained her one of those nights, so that they could of done this like that. Watched the sun rise together, the herald of the new day. Perhaps then he could of learned to love the daylight again as he loved the night, because he could associate her memory to it as well, and know that not everything he had once known was gone, harshly revealed in the broad light of day. But perhaps it was better this way, since she was gone too now, like everyone else. Better to let her be a dream that existed in the night.
He had no recollection of falling asleep, yet it did not surprise him that he had; his nights had been restless ones as of late, and his eyes had been bound to grow heavy with sleep. How was it he knew he had fallen asleep? Because when he opened his eyes, he was not sitting on that familiar bench, but on a tile floor in a room that took on a greenish hue with the light it was bathed in. Faintly, he overheard the sounds of something bubbling on a stove, pieces of silver clinking together, of footsteps in the distance, voices...
One of those voices was drawing closer. Quickly, he moved to hide behind the island in front of him, one of several counters that was used for chopping food. Was it unusual that his first instinct was to hide rather than to stay put and be met by whoever it was that coming? But, he had a sense he shouldn't be here... and that was furthered when he better overheard the voices that were now in the same room as him. They were speaking English. He knew a fair amount of the language from his time at the university, but one couldn't call him perfectly fluent either, so he only understood parts of what those nearby were saying.
How was he to explain why it was he was suddenly in this restaurant's kitchen (he had gathered that much)? While in the back of his mind he was relatively sure this was a dream, he also possessed that feeling many dreamers do, that what they're experiencing is absolutely real and will have real consequences. With no idea how to explain himself, he simply remained hidden until the voices faded out again, and after that, he quickly stood up and made a dash for the back door before anyone could notice him. Emerging outside, what looked to be an hour or so before sunset, he headed in one direction at random, so he could return to the streets and figure out where he was.
But going outside didn't help to answer that question anymore than remaining indoors had. Everything was strange and alien, like nothing he had ever seen before. Odd shaped carriages traversed the streets, and the buildings, which stretched towards the sky, higher than any of the ones in Petersburg, seemed to be looming over him, asking him, What are you doing in our city? You don't belong here.
In the midst of his confusion, he suddenly heard someone calling to him. He turned to face the source, but no one was there. What he'd heard hadn't been spoken in any definite voice, or words, yet... he was sure someone was beckoning him. He had never heard this person's voice before, yet it also seemed right to listen to-- it was like when his mother used to call, "Volodya! Come inside!" from the porch of the house he once lived in; he didn't stop and think about the request, he just naturally came to it, a reaction ingrained in him since before he could remember. It's undefinable nature also possessed that hazy quality of a dream (one will awake from it and say "I had to do this" or "then I went here", and if asked why by the listener, they won't be able to correctly answer-- they just did) and so he didn't hesitate to follow where he sensed it was coming from. What else was he do in such a situation...? He was as out of place here as he was in Petersburg; perhaps it was his alienation from the city that had been his home for eight years which also contributed to the lack of panic he felt. One who had grown very attached to where they were living at the time would be stunned to discover they had been so roughly uprooted, but what did it matter to him, where he was? Especially, now, after...
He walked a long while, until night fell. People passed him by, many giving him a second glance for one reason or another, but he didn't pay much attention to them. Occasionally he would look in one of the windows of the places he passed, where clothes he had never seen before were displayed, or objects he didn't recognize at all. It never occurred to him to stop someone and ask: "Where am I?" He felt he would know as soon as he reached his mysterious destination... wherever that was. He wasn't fully sure that he could interact with those passing him by, even if he wanted to. To some degree, that came from the sense he was a viewing a dream rather than taking part in reality, but that was also how he felt even on the streets of Petersburg in the day. The dreamer was at odds with reality, but within a dream, which should of been his own domain, he was still constricted by the rules imposed by reality. Oh, if only he could see one familiar face, if only there was such a person he could call familiar...
It was then his eyes caught a flash of familiar dark hair passing him by. Immediately he turned to face the source, but by then it was gone...or was it?! He realized the image he had seen was in one of the windows of one of those bizarre vehicles traveling down the street, one of the long, rectangular ones. The closest thing he could recall to it were the steam powered carriages one saw in the biggest cities that carried several people at once. It moved much faster than those, however, and he was forced to break into an all out run in order to catch up to it. It was getting away from him now! But yes, just at the right angle, he caught another glimpse of the back of that head; she was surely aboard that vehicle. For a moment, as he chased after it, he forgot all logical reasoning: Why was she here? Why was he running after her, when she had left him on her own accord? What was the point in this? No, all that mattered to him was that he catch one more proper glimpse at her face...he felt as though his very life depended on it! He didn't even stop to apologize when he knocked into someone walking down the street, who said something like, "Watch where you're going! That bus runs every 10 minutes, you know!" It turned a corner, he turned a corner...
His heart was throbbing in his chest from both exhaustion and trepidation when the vehicle finally came to a stop along the side of the street. He'd stopped a little ways from it. One would think after such a pursuit he'd want to throw himself on board, find the one he was looking for, to gain some satisfaction for his chase. But once he had come to a stop, those prior questions did start to enter his mind, and once again it was as though this strange dream was reality. What would I say to her...? She made it clear she doesn't want to see me again. So, he simply stood where he was, watching the people clear out of the vehicle; it was too dark at this point to clearly make out any faces, but he couldn't mistake hers for anyone else's. His breath caught in his chest.
As she began taking the steps down from the vehicle and onto the sidewalk, she tripped, and he took a step forward at the same second, even though he was too far to have caught her before she fell... but another man suddenly caught her arm then, steadying her. He couldn't overhear what they said to one another, but what torment wracked his soul at that moment! What was he thinking, still believing he had any place beside her? The glimpse he had caught of her face, that was enough for him, that was more than he deserved. It was then she started to raise her head again, to look at what was around her -- and he quickly left the sidewalk, stepping into one of the spaces between buildings so he could leave down a different street, with the hope she hadn't seen him.