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Smoking on the Wind

Lana — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 07:37:19 +0000

Josh was pissed. The project’s due date was looming. It was a mere two weeks ahead, but changes kept coming, specs changing, computers stalling, and the supervisor getting madder day by day.

The heavy silence hang in the air, and the whole floor seemed deserted, although there were at least 50 people working, hidden inside their cubicle’s walls. It was 10:20 am.
He got up and went to the elevator. Thin, industrial carpet muffled his steps. He didn’t have any clear ideas why he was going downstairs. Whatever it was, maybe to sort out his thoughts, but he went.
Outside, autumn clearly manifested itself by throwing wet drops in the form of a fine mist, and sent gusts of cold wind in the short, circular motions. Although it was Friday morning, his mood was not concentrating on the weekend’s activities.
Josh’s wife, Chloe, who was at home with their 6 months old baby, Hilary, called 30 minutes ago, sounding hysterical, because baby refused to eat, was hot to the touch, and crying. Chloe wanted Josh to come home and drive them to the emergency room, so she wouldn’t feel alone.

Josh stood for a few seconds at the revolving door of the building, and then noticed a cluster of people, pressing themselves to the wall, at the right from the entrance. They shivered and tried hiding their faces by turning their backs to the wet drizzle and wind, all the while trying to smoke.
Josh didn’t smoke. Well, when he was younger, he went through the periods of exploring various venues to the bad for the psyche and health addictions, found none, and happily forgot about the experience and short-lasted joys. Now, 33 years old, he was a man, who made his choices and lived his life happily and quietly.

The waft of a cigarette’s smoke drifted toward him and awakened something vague in his memory.
The security guy came out of the building and asked smokers to move farther away from the entrance. Now the smokers were angry and dangerously talkative. “What a society! Instead of providing a smoking room, they send a person to the rain, cold and wind, so somebody get sick, and subsequently his co-workers will catch it, too. This will result in a lower productivity and morale.” There were also other similarly voiced, but expressed in much angrier tone and peppered with expletives, objections.

Josh walked over to Robin, their office secretary. She was middle aged, thin and drained looking woman, who looked miserable, but managed to have a defiant fire in her eyes. “Robin, may I ask you for the cigarette?” said Josh. Robin’s eyebrows moved up in a surprised motion, but Josh’s posture and absent-minded tone somewhat affected and successfully shut up her stream of questions. She quickly controlled herself, fished out a cigarette from the pack she held in her hand, and quietly gave it to him.

Josh walked away from the group, closer to the road. He stood under the painfully naked young tree, at the edge of the sidewalk, watching cars confidently trading wet road and rolling by with an angry woosh. He turned his head right, toward the intersection, where loud beeps stubbed the thick air with an angry sounds of a bottled impatience. He slightly squinted to see the reason for the commotion.
He didn’t see a little green car briskly, at the sharp angle, changing three lines, skidding in a puddle of water, and plunging to an exact spot, where Josh stood.

Josh never heard Chloe’s message, that the baby is having her first tooth coming out, what doctor said about her condition, and that a project due date is being moved another two months ahead.
He never found out, that a drunk driver, whose alcohol blood level was three times over the legal limit, was in a hurry to meet his buddy to celebrate the happy date they shared: 18th birthday.

The burial ceremony was short, appropriately sad, and attended just by a half of dozen people. Afterward, everybody quietly went to manage their own affairs and lives, which didn’t include Josh, anymore.
Two more things happened in the world: first, Robin abruptly quit 15 years old habit of smoking. To answer the question of “Why?”, she shrugged, and said to no one in particular: “Smoking – kills”.

Second thing was, that in the city’s downtown, hurried office workers continued going in and out of the building, tired of an ugly weather, and nobody really noticed an irony of the change of the scenery: the new billboard across from the building. In a rainbow display of the colors, for all to see, lightly dampened by a gray wetness, floated an image of a tipped, crystal bottle of a new brand of vodka; with no visible slogan, but projecting an inviting promise to taste something fireworkingly exiting.

Just a subtle, sublime reminder of what makes one’s life complete…

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Snow Queen Melting

Lana — Tue, 06 Nov 2007 07:55:59 +0000

Two years ago, in September, I was visiting my friends in New York. One evening, they were invited to someone’s home for a birthday party and talked me into going with them. Ten or twelve people attended the party. The sumptuous dinner was served with an abundance of wine, then a dessert. Between courses people danced and talked. The house was big, beautiful and tastefully decorated.

At one point I walked into a library, where a couple of guests were seating. I actually noticed these people from the beginning. They seemed somehow different from everybody else. They were quiet and sad. They nodded their heads, but did not smile. When everybody laughed, they’d smile. They did not really participate in the fun. They just were there. Now, they were sitting next to each other on the couch in the library, and each of them read a book, or so it seemed.

Something was really amiss there, but I was already in the room, so I walked to the coffee table in the middle of the room, and commented: “What a great collection of books”, for the room was really impressive with massive book cases lining the walls and stuffed with, what seemed to be, thousands of books. They both looked at me and I felt so out of place, that before I could stop myself, I said: ”I am really sorry, am I interrupting something here? Something’s happened”?

They looked at each other and the husband, as I assumed correctly, said: “No, just as usual”. And then added: “Do we really looked so out of place, that you, a new person here, can tell?”

What happened next could only be explained as a temporary insanity, caused by a certain something; the alcohol consumed earlier, or a particularly melodic and sad song heard from the living room, or a the coziness of a dimly lit room, but he sad in a very monotonous voice: “We are like this for four years now. We are at the end of the rope. I just can’t take it anymore. Pretending being happy, attending parties, burying the feelings. We stopped talking to each other, we do what is supposedly is expected of us. We go to work, we come back. We…” He stopped, and dropped his head into his hands. She, a slight woman in her thirties, with huge, dark, sad eyes, looked at me and with querying voice said: “ I am sorry. I don’t know why he said all this to you. We usually don’t talk about it much. And you, of all people, just a passing guest here…” Her voice trailed off and she looked down in her book.

At that moment I just could not leave the room; I felt intruding and stupid at the same time, very out of place, but said:” Do you want to talk about it?” And immediately started feeling even worse, because it sounded even more cliché and wrong. To my surprise, he looked up at me and said: “I don’t know why, but I really do. I need to talk. I feel like a shaken bottle of champagne, maybe. If not opened, I might blow up with thousands of sharp shards flying in all directions killing me, thankfully, but injuring others, too…” His voice was quiet, but strong, very deep and strained, at the same time.

He continued: “ You see, we have a son, Alexander, he is 4 years old, but he…” At that he faltered, but continued: “He does not talk. He is quiet; he behaves like any other child of his age, that’s what doctors say; well, occasionally strange, but mostly OK… He seems to understand everything we ask of him, he responds…sometimes, but he is not what we’d hoped for him to be… He is in some kind of a shell, and we can’t get through to him.

We are both engineers, and we’ve got to work so we can afford all the bills, you see…My mother stays with him all day, and she is the gentlest, kindest woman you can find. She loves him so much, and he responds, in a way…He often refuses to communicate, but we know he is not deaf. It just takes its tall, I guess. We are like enveloped in this strange, cotton-like blanket. It muffles the feelings and the desires… It’s just…so stuffy…”

He stopped and then with trembling voice continued: “We’ve been to every doctor, fortune teller and shaman there is, but nobody can say anything, really. They say, that’s how he is happy and comfortable; leave it as it is, let him be… Of course, we love him, he is such a sweet boy, we want to play with him, laugh with him…Well, I am sorry, I don’t know why I am telling you all this, maybe because we secretly hope to find someone with a magic cure, and don’t know where to look anymore…”

He fell quiet. His wife sat with her shoulders dropped, eyes downcast, and did not even try to wipe the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. I could not bring myself to say anything. I don’t know much about medicine and, about psychological disorders I know even less. But I knew I had to say something, otherwise the outburst would leave them at the edge of some gaping hole, where they stood, asking me for help, waiting, and I could not just turn around and leave. So, I said: “You know, Albert Einstein said his first words at the age of two, and started talking at six”.

They’ve slowly turned their heads toward each other, exchanged a quick glance, and something sparkled there for a second, I thought. “No, we did not know that” she said. All of a sudden, I felt so empowered, that I said: ”Why don’t you wait a little longer. For some reason he is frozen inside, but he’ll melt. Be gentle. Hope, but don’t expect miracles, yet. Instead, work on it some more; maybe get a music teacher for him. Yes, really, get him something interesting to do. Teach him to play piano, or cello, or whatever he might choose”. I knew I was blabbering, but could not think of a good way to get out of what I had started there, of the feeling of hope I seemed to have given to these people. So, I continued: “Better yet, bring him to a music store, let him decide. Take him to ballet, to an ice skating ring! Everything will be alright, it…will… sort out; it will be better, good. I really hope so…”

At that moment they seemed to start wavering in their belief in me, and this lucky chance meeting, and probably doubting my soberness, or my mind altogether. Something in the expression of their eyes seemed to have changed. And so I hurriedly said, that my flight to SF is very early next morning, and wished them all the best of luck, and said some other appropriate for the occasion words, and left.

I felt really bad for them and even worse about the situation, for which I was probably responsible, and which might have a disastrous ending. For a few weeks after that I thought of calling them and apologizing for everything and anything I had said, for being an impostor, but in the end, I did not do anything. And then the time became scarce: work, some kind of small, but urgent problems, friends, meetings, activities, Christmas shopping… And so, I let this episode of my life slide somewhere into the abyss of my consciousness and, finally, forgot about it. Well, no, for whatever reason I thought about it a few times with no prompting or anything related happening, but I pushed it out of my mind and tried to concentrate on the problems on hand. I decided I did not want to call and intrude in their life again.

It’s been two years since our heavy, uncomfortable conversation. And yesterday, when the phone rang and I saw the out of state unfamiliar number displayed, I almost did not pick up the receiver. Something from inside pushed me to answer the call. A very pleasant young voice on the other end asked to speak to me. “Speaking”, I said.

What I heard next is the reason for my column today. The women said: ”Hello, my name is Eve”, and after hearing silence on the phone, she paused, and added: ”We’ve met in New York, two years ago. Remember, at the Walden’s house, in the library”. My heart dropped so low, I could hear the thud. “This is it”, I thought, “she is calling to tell me, that in the future, I should keep my opinion to myself, never try to fool people in such serious matters as child’s health, not to interfere with my stupid suggestions, and that thanks to my prophesies, something went terribly wrong and even took a turn for the worse!” “Yes”, I said meekly, “I remember you”.

“Oh, you do, that’s great, because we really think of you so often”. Her voice sounded clear and happy, so I relaxed a bit. “You see”, she continued, “We’ve asked the Waldens’ for your telephone number, because we really have to thank you for everything you had said”.

At that moment I slowly let my breathing return to normal, because I noticed, that I was not breathing. But I still did not know what I should be saying, so I said: “Eve, it’s so nice to hear from you. How are you? How is your family, how is your son?”

And this is what she told me: “Well, that evening, after we met, we really talked with Peter, like we have not talked in a while; we were so elated, hopeful, and next morning we took Alexander to a music store. And you know, he walked straight to a piano, sat there, as if he did it many times before, slowly put his hands, actually spread his fingers on the keys, as if he knew what to do, looked at us with his huge eyes, and slowly, quietly sighed and smiled. Are you there?” she suddenly asked, because I was so quiet, she could not hear me.

“Yes”, I said, “I am here”. “Oh, I hope I did not interrupt anything there, I’ve been waiting to tell you all this!” “Please, continue” I said. And she did.

“We bought that piano, and the salesperson even recommended a teacher, who, luckily, happened to live just a few blocks from our home. Her name is Marina, she is Russian, and she is very good! It was a miracle from the minute she walked in. Alex went to her, and practically pulled her to the piano. He knew; he felt it right away how good a person she was. He is never so quick and open to accepting people, but with her he actually jumped, overcome by emotions! Marina started to come in twice a week, and she taught him so nicely, patiently, and Alex listened, and he practiced a lot, when she was not there. He seemed so much happier, but still, never uttered a word.

Nevertheless, something had changed in our life then. We felt him becoming less nervous, different. Then, a few months later, we took him to an ice skating ring, but he did not like it, sorry. And on Christmas we took him to see “Nutcracker”, and he sat quietly, he smiled, he liked it. Well, and that’s not all of it.

You see, we’ve always read Alex a story at bedtime, and a week ago, I was really tired, so I just tucked him in, and simply said “Good night, my darling, sleep tight”, turned off the light and started leaving the room, when I heard a sound, it was a child’s voice! It sounded rusty, and labored, and it said, “A story, please, read”.

I stopped in my tracks. I had to hold on to the wall; I felt the floor getting out from under my feet. I steadied myself, turned around and whispered “Which one?” “The Snow Queen”, he said. I sat at his bed and started reading. I could not hold my tears, they just flowed, but I read. Alex saw it and he talked again, he asked: “Why are you crying?” “What could I say?” I said: “I don’t know, darling, my heart is just melting, because I love you so much.”

He seemed to like my explanation and felt asleep really fast, and I went to bed, too. Only I felt trance-like. I even started doubting my sanity, what if it was my mind, playing tricks? Peter was already asleep and I had decided not to wake him up. Well, I tossed and turned all night, and in the morning I hesitantly told Peter what happened last night. He looked at me, he did not say a word, and went to Alex’s room.

He stayed there, until Alex woke up, and he said: “Good morning, son”, and I saw the muscles on his back tense. And then I saw Alex getting up, stretching his arms to Peter, and saying: “O’ning, daddy”. And Peter embraced Alex in his arms and all I could see his shoulders shaking from the sobs. And now, with each passing day, Alex’s speech is getting better. He talks to Marina – he asks her so many questions. And you know what else? Two days ago, on Sunday, I was preparing dinner in the kitchen, when I heard a strange, halting, unfamiliar melody, played on the piano.

I went to the living room and saw Alex playing, touching the keys, so they’d make this thin, tinkering, clear sound. Just like melting icicle hitting the pavement in the spring. I asked him, “What are you playing, honey?” And he said: “Snow Queen melting…”

That’s when I knew we have to call you, to thank you for giving us the gift of hope that evening, a glimpse of something, in which we had almost stopped believing, for giving us the strength to love and fight again”.

Well, my readers, I won’t bore you with the rest of that conversation’s details, and the amount of tears that flowed, because I might cry again…

I wish you all a very happy day, and love, and strength.

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Smoking on the Wind

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