Chronology of Foreign Short Stories in the 20th Century: Russian and Soviet Edition (Volumes 1 and 2)

Author: / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2002-03-01
Features: This elderly and polite gentleman turned his body toward Avie, hesitated for a moment, and then spoke: "What is your name, and what do you do for a living?"
"I? My name is Avie. A writer."
"Good profession," the stranger smiled approvingly. "Very interesting and respectable."
"So, what do you do?" Avie asked bluntly.
"I? Ah, a king."
"The king of this country?"
"Naturally. Otherwise, which country could it be?" Avie, not wanting to be outdone in grace, replied politely and kindly to the king: "It's also a good profession. Very interesting and respectable."
"Ah, don't say that," the king sighed. "My profession, if you say it's respected, it truly is respected; but if you say it's interesting, that's not right. This profession has no sense of fun at all. To be honest with you, young man, being a king of a country is far less sweet and pleasant than many imagine."
Hearing this, Avie was greatly surprised and couldn't help but clap his knees with both hands, shouting in astonishment: "This is truly astonishing! I've never met anyone who is satisfied with their fate."
"So, you are satisfied with your fate, then?" The king narrowed his eyes slightly at the writer, speaking in a mocking tone.
"Not entirely. Sometimes, a critic will tear into you so harshly that you almost want to cry."
Louis hoped that in response to such a beautiful song, many small loaves of bread, corner loaves, and flat cakes would fly out of the windows. But it wasn't like that. Instead, a loud noise erupted, bullets flying. A man who had shouted "Bread!" suddenly cried out "Ouch!" and fell down. At that moment, Dad and others began doing some strange things—they knocked over two benches, brought a small bucket from the neighboring yard, a broken table, and even a large chicken coop. They placed all this in the middle of the street and lay down on the ground.
Louis realized that the grown-ups were playing hide-and-seek. Later, they fired their guns, and others fired at them as well. Then, more people came. They also had guns, but they all smiled happily, their shiny hats glinting. Everyone called them the "Guards." These men grabbed Dad and took him down the Saint-Martin Avenue.
Louis thought that the cheerful guards would give Dad food, so he followed them, even though it was late. On the shaded walkways, some women were laughing, and under the chestnut trees, some dandies were drinking red wine. The smooth black shale of the sidewalk reflected thousands of people. Near the Saint-Martin Gate, among the carefree women, one sat in a café, calling out to the guards: "Why are you taking him so far? He can get his share here too."
Louis ran to the laughing woman and silently opened his mouth like a little crow. A guard raised his gun and fired again. Dad shouted and fell down, while the woman laughed.
Louis ran to Dad's side, grabbed his legs, and screamed. The legs were still twitching as if Dad were lying there, wanting to walk. At that moment, the woman said, "Kill the little brat too!" But a dandy who was drinking red wine behind a small table nearby disagreed: "Who will do the work in the future?"
Days passed by. I saved my experience. Golden, autumn leaves rustled. I painted the scene gold. Dry, golden wheat grains, through the gaps between my fingers, fell down.
Once, moonlight lit the room. I jumped out of bed and ran to the courtyard. A boy who loved to run and jump came toward me, his eyes sparkling, from the depths of the mirror.
From a nearby villa came the sound of the sun—threading silk into small, bright bundles. It must be the university student playing the violin.
I used a mirror to catch the moonlight. I spread a mirror on the floor and imagined myself standing by a pond. The golden, sparkling surface rippled, and I thought I could take a bath in the depths; I jumped into the mirror.
Crash! Then, my foot was bitten by something.
People heard the noise and ran over. They saw me beside a broken mirror. At that moment, the family discussed and decided to hire a teacher.
Uncles and aunts rushed to explain: "He's a perceptive child, seeking to satisfy his curiosity. It's better to feed his imagination with something tangible and reliable."
Only the old father was silently sad. He looked at me. And from his face, the wide silk ribbon of his pince-nez kept flowing.
He understood me. But she remained silent.
From then on, a tall, one-legged university student with long hair came to take care of me.
I had hoped he would bring his violin too, but my hope was dashed. He brought me some bright-eyed insects and dry grass, saying it was also a product of the sun.
Later, I learned that he became a medium.
Years passed. The night ended, but it was still early. The ground was covered with clusters of astonishing shapes, like haystacks. The distance between them was greater than during the day; they seemed to separate and move apart to rest better.
In the gaps between them, the cold-resistant grass quietly panted under the damp horse cloaks, snorting loudly.
Occasionally, one of the shapes would appear as a tree, a cloud, or a familiar object. But more often, they were nameless, indistinct piles.
They were slightly rotated in this half-conscious state, and they might not be able to say whether it had rained before or not, or if it was about to start again.
They were sometimes taken from the past to the future, and sometimes from the future back to the past, like the sand in an hourglass that is constantly turned over.
But far away, like a shirt torn from a fence by the wind at dawn and carried to who-knows-where, three figures were faintly visible on the other side of the field, while on the opposite side, the distant, roaring sea was a never-ending source of amusement.
These four things could only be taken from the past to the future and could never return.
Those in white ran from here to there, bent down and stood up, jumped into the trench and disappeared, then climbed up the embankment somewhere else.
Keeping a great distance between them, they responded to each other, waving their hands. Since the signals were often misunderstood, they immediately waved in another way, more urgently, more despairingly, to show: "We don't understand those gestures. They are canceled. Don't go back. Keep looking here."
These harmonious, frenzied figures created the impression that they had remembered playing Russian baseball at night, the ball had been lost, and now they were searching for it in the trench. If they found it, the game could resume.
There was no wind among the resting shapes, and the approaching dawn made it believable. A glance at these figures flying across the ground like a whirlwind made one think that the grass in the forest had been combed soft and fluffy by the wind, darkness, and unease, a comb with three broken teeth.
There is a law that, by following it, we will never encounter the things others do. This is a principle that writers have encountered more than once. Its certainty lies in the fact that when we still consider misfortune to be redeemable, our friends still recognize us. But once we fully realize its irredeemability, our friends no longer recognize us. And, as if to confirm the law, we too will become others—that is, those destined to burn, collapse, and degrade in courts or asylums.
In the morning, I descended the mountain and went into the city. Walking along the empty streets, I could see a girl combing her hair through a window. I glanced at her, and she smiled, then waved her hand happily. That was the meaning of descending the mountain into the city in the morning.
Walking to the coast, I bathed in the sea water for a long time. Watching the seagulls. The seagulls floated in the wind without clouds, like sails. They sang, responding to each other with women's sharp voices, glaring fiercely at you. They shook their heads and laughed. That was the meaning of leaving clothes on the shore and bathing in the sea at dawn.
Coming out of the sea, I found that neither my clothes nor my pants could be worn because a cat had nestled in them. A big brown cat, its eyes slightly closed. It looked as if it were dreaming. Perhaps, it really was dreaming.
Walking along the streets of the strange city in the morning, I listened again to the sound of my footsteps, following the windows and the noise of the streets as I walked.
What a young, lively sound it was.
Coming out of the icehouse, from the waterfall, from a place where the cry of an eagle could be heard, and descending the mountain into the city—its meaning was just that.
Entering the city, no one recognized me, but I might love everyone there.
Far away, on the riverbank, women walked briskly, singing songs. They sang, and from time to time, their empty buckets made a tinkling sound.
Perhaps, they were going to the fields, to work, to milk the cows in the herd.
In our valley, lotus buds bloomed, covering the river in the midday sun. A flute played slowly, as if filling its own song, because of youth, because of singing, or perhaps just because of the crisp, fresh gold of the lotus.
That gold drifted along the riverbank, gathered under the birch trees, and flashed toward the entire midday sky, dazzling its eyes.
Where are you, my lotus flower?
The midday sky swayed, its light blue head murmuring, wanting only to hear its own voice. But the sound was loud—above the puddles, following the current.
Then, it tensed, and its soft voice rustled through the trees: Where are you, my lotus flower?
The women, far away, stopped singing and laughed loudly. One of them imitated the sound loudly.
The midday sky gradually calmed down, put away the flute, but still whipped the empty spaces in the forest with a long whip, making a low, muffled sound like the of jewelry being struck.
Then, it drove the herd, responding to the shepherd, and fled far across the hills.