Поездка за ёлкой

Декабрь 2004 год, Ричмонд Хилл, район Большого Торонто.

Рождество и Новый Год на подходе, а у нас дом не украшен, ёлка не наряжена, подарки не куплены. И решили мы не наряжать искусственную ёлку, а поехать за живой на ёлочную ферму в 30 минутах езды от дома. Пусть будет все как в детстве. Живая ёлка, стеклянные ёлочные украшения, гирлянды и мандарины. 

Собиралась мы ехать всей семьей, да в последний момент Марка вызвали на работу. Вызвали, так вызвали. Не отменять же поездку. Стали собираться. Я надела элегантную голубую болоньевую куртку, стильные итальянские ботинки и к куртке взяла с собой голубые флисовые перчатки. Артур, ему тогда было 11 лет, помог трехлетнему Винсу одеться. И…

«И пошли они до городу Парижа. Бредут лесами тёмныма, идут степями широкима, лезут горами высокима... Ну, по пути в городах концерты давали, с большим успехом… Ну, вот так… до Парижу и… доправилися.»

И поехали мы до фермы. Леса были снежные, и степи были снежные, и дорога была с горками. По пути мы пели рождественские песни, с большим успехом и охали, когда машина спускалась с очередной горки. Ну, вот так… до фермы и… добрались. 

Заходим в фермерский офис и говорим, что за елкой приехали и попросили показать их ёлки. А они нам пилу выдали, горячий шоколад выдали и отправили к саням. Пока мы шли к саням, не совсем понимая к чему нам пила, Артур сообщил мне, что забыл свои перчатки дома. Я, как всякая добрая мать, сняла свои голубые флисовые перчатки и отдала их сыну. Подошли мы к саням, а там люди веселые, одетые по погоде. Я в своей элегантной голубой болоньевой куртке, в стильных итальянских ботинках, и уже без голубых флисовые перчаток, смотрелась на их фоне как голубая ворона. 

Сели мы в сани и поехали по снежным степям искать свою ёлку. Едем, пьём горячий шоколад, и опять же поем рождественские песни, но уже с запевалой. А перед нами едут другие сани, а в них веселые люди, одетые по погоде. Минут через 10 они стали выходить из своих саней и идти в небольшой лесок. А нас дальше повезли. Дети радуются катанию и горячему шоколаду, а мне вспомнилась сказка «Морозко». Руки без перчаток, пусть и голубых флисовых, леденеть стали. Вспомнились мне замерзающая под сосной Настенька и испытывающий ее холодом Морозко. «Тепло ли тебе, девица? Тепло ли, красная?» «Тепло, Морозушко! Тепло, батюшко!»

Вот и нас из саней высадили около небольшого леска. Наказали найти ёлку своей мечты и спилить её. Бродим мы по леску, ищем ёлку мечты. Мне снег западает в стильные итальянские ботинки. Артур бегает за Винсом между ёлками в моих голубых флисовых перчатках и жалуется, что тот без остановки ест снег с веток. 

Я ёлки всё выбираю. Хочется большую, пушистую. Да у такой ствол широкий, не спилить мне. Остановилась на ёлке средней высоты и пушистости. Пару раз дыхнула мощно на свои ладони, потёрла интенсивно друг о друга и давай пилить ствол. Пропилила половину ствола и поняла, что нужно ёлку придерживать, а то пилить не получается. Кричу детей, чтобы забрать у Артура свои голубые флисовые перчатки. А они уже снеговика лепят и голубые флисовые перчатки покрыты снегом. Поручила Артуру ёлку держать, а Винсу рядом стоять. Спилили мы ёлку быстро, но за это время Винс успел убежать. Послала я Артура за Винсем, а сама потащила ёлку к дороге. Иду, пою «Ой, мороз, мороз!» Щеки румяные, пальцы красные, ледяные, саней наших не видно. Стою, жду. Через пару минут и сани появились, и дети пришли. 

В песнями и шутками вернулись мы в фермерский офис. Там у нас забрали пилу и ёлку, и опять выдали горячий шоколад. Греемся, радуемся. В это время нашу ёлку запустили в какую-то бандуру, а оттуда она появилась уже вся обвязанная веревкой. Работники фермы погрузили нашу ёлку в багажник машины. Она само собой вся не поместилась. Работники фермы крышку багажника привязали так, чтобы она не открывалась на ходу и чтобы ёлку не мяла. 

Доехали мы до дому с ветерком и отмечали праздники с живой ёлкой, стеклянными ёлочными украшениями, гирляндами и мандаринами. 

Вопрос N9, первые джинсы, клуб в Дубай, кофе в Адлере, курица в «Театралке» и другое (by Luiza)

«Какое самое замечательное событие произошло в Вашей жизни?» Это был вопрос N9 из эксперимента американского психолога Артура Арона «36 вопросов, которые приводят к любви». Вернее, вопрос звучал так «За что в жизни Вы чувствуете наибольшую благодарность?»

В 1994 году Артур Арон предложил ранее незнакомым женщине и мужчине по очереди ответить друг другу на 36 вопросов. Эти вопросы должны были привести пару к откровенности и близости, и помочь им влюбится в друг друга. После ответов на 36 вопросов, а это час-два как минимум, женщина и мужчина должны были молча смотреть друг другу в глаза в течении 4 минут. Бинго! Спустя полгода психолог получил приглашение на свадьбу от этой пары. Кому интересно, здесь можно ознакомиться с полным списком вопросов.

Двадцать лет спустя этот эксперимент на себе и своем знакомом повторила Мэнди Лен Катрон (Mandy Len Catron), преподаватель Университета Британской Колумбии (Ванкувер, Канада), писатель и колумнистка The New York Times. В июле 2016 года я по случайной случайности брала у Мэнди пятидневный курс по написанию мемуара, так что об эксперименте я знаю их первых уст. Для Мэнди и ее знакомого эксперимент закончился тоже очень удачно. Сначала Мэнди влюбилась, взаимно. После, в 2015 году она написала о своем эксперименте статью "To Fall in Love with Anyone, Do This", опубликованную в газете The New York Times. И в 2018 году Мэнди написала интересную книгу "How to Fall in Love with Anyone: A Memoir in Essays".

Hо вернемся к вопросу N9.

Было тёплое ноябрьское утро 2016 года. Я и двое моих знакомых, сын и сестра моей близкой подруги, ленно загорали на дубайском пляже Кайт-Бич и неторопливо отвечали на первые 12 вопросов. По классике жанра, мой ответ должен был включать любовь мамы, встречу с мужем, свадьбу, рождение сыновей, встречи с родственниками,  приключения с друзьями и все в таком духе. Были ли это самые замечательные моменты в моей жизни? Конечно, были. Чувствую ли я наибольшую благодарность за них в моей жизни? Конечно, чувствую. Но… в моем несказанном вслух ответе чувствовалась какая-то неискренность. 

Я закрыла глаза и вспомнила свои первые джинсы в начале 80-х годов. Как они волшебно пахли… Джинса была настолько плотная, что после стирки они превращались в «котоновый панцирь». В «панцире» можно было только стоять или ходить. Присесть было нереально трудно даже на стул, не говоря уже о диване или кресле. Но как я была благодарна маме за эти джинсы! Они были одним из семи чудес света, в 80-е года чудес было семь.

Следующее, что я вспомнила, это как в начале 90-х годов я впервые попала в дубайский клуб Лодж. Клуб был доступен только для избранных людей и случайных посетителей, прошедших фейс контроль. Мое первое впечатление о клубе невозможно описать словами. Если все же в словах, то это будет примерно так: я уснула и проснулась в музыкально-мужском раю. Откуда эта волшебная музыка вокруг? Кто эти улыбающиеся боги вокруг? Как я была благодарна подруге Виктории за этот рай на земле!

Далее я вспомнила кофе по-турецки и хачапури по-аджарски в кафе с видом на Черное море и на мандариновые деревья в Адлере. И курицу с припущенным рисом и зеленым горошком в кафе «Театралка» (правильно, конечно, кафе «Театральное», но кто его так называл?) в Алма-Ате. И необыкновенную легкость бытия, когда ты лежишь на пляже и все, что ты слышишь это шум волн. Как я за все это благодарна! Но чувствую ли я наибольшую благодарность за все это в моей жизни? Чувствую, но она все же не наибольшая.

Я опять закрыла глаза и поняла, что самое замечательное событие, которое произошло в моей жизни и за что я испытываю наибольшую благодарность - это переезд в Канаду в конце 2000 года. Правда в далеком 2000 году этот переезд вовсе не казался чем-то захватывающим, значительным и постоянным.

Spring night

Why does love always comes back in the middle of the night? The dream of her first love comes every spring. It’s always vivid, real and uncomplicated like a warm ocean. The dream unlocks forgotten memories of a man who vanished from her mind a long time ago. She never tried to bury memories. They just faded.

She woke up to the warm light of the city outside of her window. Where is he? He was smiling at her a second ago. It took her some time to realize that he was in her dream.

They were seventeen and didn’t plan to fall in love. She first met him in 1985 by her university dorm. It was spring of her first year in the capital city. Two months ago, Mikhail Gorbachev became the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. They didn't know then that it was beginning of the end of the superpower. They never lived in a market economy. Abundance of goods was in the future. Back then there was little to buy at the state-run shops and department stores. You were supposed to be creative to own a pair of blue jeans or fancy shoes, and also to find a way to make extra money to buy the goods. He was the creative guy who would periodically become a middleman of the black market.

“Do you want to buy denim hats?” A young man walked towards her and her friend. He was well built, but not tall compared to another young man who walked behind him. “I would love to buy. Can you come to our dorm Friday?” her friend replied cheerfully.

By Friday evening her friend changed her mind and didn’t want to buy a hat. “Can you please tell the guy that I am not in the dorm? I am sure he will not come again.”

This time she got a closer look at the young man. His face was one of confidence with prominent cheekbones. His nose and chin were well-defined. His dark eyes were filled with kindness and radiated some intrigue. They quickly chatted about her friend and the hat business. She declined his offer to go for a car drive. It was late and she was not into him. But that evening some strange forces pulled them together.

Their on and off love was never dramatic or emotional. It was like a soft sunlight, warm, melodic and the colours of honey. Their first love was like a sunrise, short, sparkling and promising. Its beauty would stay with her forever, at least in her dreams. Their second and third loves were like a sunset, full of beautiful rays, but slowly falling into a twilight. Since then, she would feel some weird sadness during the sunset. Since then, she would long for something more during the sunset.

They loved being together, but they also loved being apart. He wanted more than she could offer. She knew that they were not enough for each other. He got mad at her only once when she compared him to a new guy in her life. She loved to love and be loved.

Their bond is always real in her dream. “Can we still be together in an alternative universe?” A carousel of thoughts stopped, and she got back to sleep.

Winter morning

“Madame L! Madame L!”

She opened her eyes to the gray windowless room. She didn’t move. For a moment she felt confused. Where was she? Then it all came back. She was in jail, women's jail in Sharjah. How many inmates were in her cell? Enough to get claustrophobic at night.

The cell was empty. She tried to keep her eyes open, but her eyelids were too heavy.

Where was Fatima, the cell boss from Uzbekistan and the fortune teller for all Russian-speaking inmates?

“Fatima, I wore red high heels in my dream. What does it mean?”

“That’s a good dream. You will meet a nice man very soon.”

“Fatima, I swam in the ocean in my dream. What does it mean?”

“That’s a very promising dream. You will throw a big celebration soon.”

Soon… Did the prostitutes lose track of time here? They didn’t. They needed hope. Fatima was their anchor.

“Madame L! Madame L!”

She didn’t move. Three hours ago she wanted to climb over the concrete walls of the jail yard. The walls were low and tempting. Would the guards shoot her? A thought of spending a night in the windowless cell with ten inmates was terrifying. She would suffocate. And what about her new job at a publishing company in Sharjah? Would they wait for her to get out of jail? Probably not. No one knew she was in jail.

Where was that lovely girl from Kyrgyzstan who introduced her to the Russian-speaking inmates and offered her a headscarf?

“Never sleep without a headscarf or you will get head lice.”

How long did she sleep on Fatima’s triple mattress? When would she get her own mattress?

“Madame L! Madame L!”

This time the voice was loud and insistent. She almost jumped to her feet.

“It’s me. It’s me. What’s up?”

“Khalas jail. Khalas jail.”

She could not believe the words she just heard. They stroke her like invisible bullets. Bullets of relief, bullets of hope, bullets of happy ending. In a split second “khalas” became her favourite word. No more jail. No more court hearing. No more 50 lashes and a month in jail, although she was ready to get 100 lashes to avoid any jail time.

Two policemen who had taken her here earlier that morning waited for her by the jail entrance. She wanted to hug them, but she was too shaken. She just smiled, thanked them and got into their car. Four hours ago she asked the policeman to save her from jail and they did. They became her heroes. Her humble heroes.

“Where are we going?”

“To the police station.”

Her heart sank, but she did not let her temporary anxiety turn into panic.

The Chief of Police, presentable and intimidating, was coming down from the second floor. Every step he took was in slow motion. She tried to stay calm. Her eyes met his. The Chief smiled. She smiled back.

“Habibti, can you promise me one thing? When you drink in Dubai, please stay in Dubai. Sharjah is not your city. Here are your car keys and driving license.”

She wanted to hug him too, but she was too shaken. She just smiled, thanked him and went outside. With her hands still shaking, she started the car. 

She was saved. Saved. Waves of joy washed over her. She drove to Dubai. She didn’t know how lucky she was. Nobody got out of jail in Sharjah in four hours. She did. 

Fall evening

“Ask, and it shall be given to you; seek, and ye shall find it; knock, and it shall be opened onto you.” This is definitely not what the priest just said. He probably said that everyone was a sinner and we all sinned to some degree in our lives. He probably also mentioned original sin. Why would Adam and Eve eat the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, which God had forbidden?

She was at Mass at Notre-Dame Basilica. It was in French. Messe en françai... She couldn’t understand a word, but she followed Mass. It incorporated so many different elements: procession of the priest and his attendants to the altar, Bible readings, prayers, hymns accompanied by the organ, symbols and gestures. How many times did she stand up and sit down?

Earlier, the tour lady told the story of James O'Donnell, an Irish American Anglican architect from New York City. He moved to Montreal to build the Basilica from 1823-1829. The architect was so moved by the outcome that he converted to Catholicism. Was that the real reason? He is the only person buried in the crypt of the Basilica.

She sat on the wooden bench and wondered how many had sat there before her. Why did she stay for Mass after the tour? She needed time to herself. The last six months were chaotic. They were filled with many events and many people. They were filled with people’s love, but also with their small and big dramas. She didn’t want to comfort people anymore. She wanted to move on in her life without justifying her decisions to others. She sat on the wooden bench savouring the moment of temporary peace.

In one week she would leave behind the togetherness. She would leave behind a place of strong bonds. She would leave behind a place of fond memories. She loved those she would be leaving behind. Together they used to float like shining stars, circles and spirals in their unique universe. She was ready to leave the familiar universe. She was ready to spread her wings and fly to another unknown universe.

The priest consecrated the bread. Did it really become the body of Christ? People sitting next to each other stood up and shook their hands. They looked genuinely happy. Soon everybody lined up to receive a piece of sacramental bread from the priest. Would she qualify to receive Communion? She was not of Catholic faith or any other faith, but she felt authentic grace for life at that moment. When she approached the priest, he said something in French, probably “the body of Christ”. She hold out her hands and received a round, thin piece of holy bread. She said “Amen” and ate it. Did she just eat the body of the Lord?

She left the basilica feeling renewed. She knew that in one week her life would become more perilous, but it would also become more and more interesting. She remembered her favourite passage from Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert: “Virginia Woolf wrote, ‘Across the broad continent of a woman's life falls the shadow of a sword.’ On one side of that sword, she said, there lies convention and tradition and order, where all is correct. But on the other side of that sword, if you're crazy enough to cross it and choose a life that does not follow convention, ‘all is confusion.’ Nothing follows a regular course. Her argument was that the crossing of the shadow of that sword may bring a more interesting existence to a woman, but you can bet it will be more perilous.” More interesting, but more perilous...

Summer afternoon

That lazy summer afternoon she felt drained. All she could do was to lie in her bed, dreaming of past and future. She heard a knock on the front door and then distant voices coming from the living room. She didn't move.

“Elliott and Eva are here to see you.”

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. She closed them immediately and smiled softly.

“Honey, please tell them that I died yesterday.”

“Not funny… I will tell them that you will be out in fifteen minutes.”

She knew that she had to see her visitors. They had come to support her and express their condolences.

Her brother had been dead for over a month. His unexpected death, no matter how shocking it was, felt straightforward to her. While at her brother’s funeral she found out that her father had died two weeks before her brother. She had not seen her father for twelve years, but his death felt straightforward to her as well.

She sobbed for long four hours when she had been told of her brother’s death. Unbearable anger and pain flowed out of her body with every sob. She cried until no more tears came. She felt deflated. And then she accepted her brother’s death. She was filled with emptiness, but felt no pain. Three days after her brother’s death she accepted her father’s death. She didn't sob. She just let him go, too.

Lying in the cozy bed, she hoped that Elliott and Eva would go away. She always loved this bed, but for the last four weeks it had been everything to her. It was “her” place where she could escape from her outside blurred world. Every single muscle and bone in her body enjoyed the softness of the mattress and pillows and silkiness of the sheets. Could today be just her and her dreams? No visitors, no talk about funerals, no comforting hugs…

She looked at the window. When would they get curtains? She remembered that she had not bought any items for their apartment, except for two small paintings of exotic birds and a wooden sculpture of a woman with disproportionately large legs. The sculpture reminded her of one her best friends. The paintings looked good next to a cage with their African grey parrot. Why she could not hear the parrot? He was usually very talkative when people were around.

She could hear her husband and Elliott. She hoped that her husband would enter the room and announce that the visitors would come some other day. Elliott… she knew him for ages. He was her friend. He was almost like a brother to her and still she slept with him two years ago. It just happened. They were in another city with no spouses around. It happened spontaneously and lasted only a few days. When they came back to their families, she moved on and completely forgot about their short affair. Somehow Elliott could not shake it off. Every time he was around her, he would whisper something tender and provoking into her ear. She liked and disliked it at the same time. She could not do it again.

“Darling, tea is ready. Elliott and Eva brought your favourite cake. Please join us in five minutes.” Her thoughts drifted back to her brother’s death and his funeral.

Life Observations - Observation #2: What do I miss about being Russian?

“When I'm in Canada, I feel this is what the world should be like."

Jane Fonda

 
In 1998, I chose Canada and in 1999 Canada chose me back. Our “arranged engagement” happened at the Embassy of Canada in Poland, Warsaw. My knowledge of Canada was very limited then: it’s vast and located north of the USA, it has a red maple on its flag and it has two official languages. The Canadians I met in Dubai were extremely nice, but a bit boring to my Russian standards. A year after my “engagement” to Canada, I left familiar Kazakhstan with no expectations towards unfamiliar Canada. When I landed in Toronto, I knew that it was love at first sight…
 
What do I love about Canada? And what do I miss about being Russian (I am Kazakh, but by Russian I mean all people who lived in the USSR or now live in post-Soviet countries)?
 
Love for Canada
1. I love our beautiful vast and untouched land. Canada is the second largest country in the world, Kazakhstan is the ninth. My ancestors were pastoral nomads (it sounds so romantic, doesn’t it?) so I have this unexplainable fondness for vastness in my blood. I can easily imagine how almost 500 years ago Jacques Cartier, the French explorer, was shocked by the vastness of Canada’s territory when he first arrived here. Travelling along the St. Lawrence River, Cartier asked two aboriginal hunters where he was. The answered “kanata” which is the Iroquois-Huron word for village. I guess we are all just one big lovely village.
2. I love Canadian kindness. Kindness is natural here. Trying to understand why Canadians are so kind is the same as trying to understand the mythical and elusive Russian soul. It just exists. This kindness is so kind that it let me be ignorant of my own unintentional ignorance. This kindness is so kind that it makes be a kind person too (I am kind from time to time). This kindness is so kind that I don't have an urge to break the rules anymore (I keep this urge under control). This kindness is so kind that it makes me a better person despite my little faults (I may not have any faults left after almost 17 years of total kindness).
3. I love Canadian inclusiveness. Diversity, inclusion and cohesion were vital to me (I exaggerate here because I love the word “vital”) during Soviet era. And they are vital to me (I exaggerate again) now. They make our “Kanata” unique, comfy and welcoming. 
 
Nostalgia for being Russian
1. I miss partying a la Russe: when you start an evening with ridiculously fun people who know how to party, immediately forget about political correctness and oversensitivity, joke inappropriately non-stop, have a wild time, break a few rules and feel extremely alive!
2. I miss drinking a la Russe: when you enjoy the passionate late-night debates with your drinking companions about weird stuff that makes total sense at night and no sense at all next morning, feel the depth of yours and others’ souls, express emotions in their purest form, feel endless poetical love towards strangers and humanity, make crazy plans and remember to fulfil them in the future, wake up with a severe hangover, but feel extremely alive!
3. I miss living with a la Russe intensity: when you have and feel everything in exaggerated form, observe tragic sensibility and shocking frankness, act spontaneously and unpredictably, be more flashy and less underdressed, experience fierce loyalty and endless resourcefulness, ignore small talks and routineness, long for the unknown and uncertain, indulge in philosophical and dreamy laziness, show optimism and fatalism at the same time, embrace a sudden change of plans and new opportunities... and feel extremely alive!
 
Sir Winston Churchill once defined Russia as "a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.” Do I still have the key to this riddle?!