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IGOR MAKAREVICH Selected parts from the diary of Nikolai Ivanovich Borisov 1927-1989 |
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The published fragments are the part of the manuscripts from N. I. Borisov’s archives found during the dismantling of the attic floor in the corridore of the former communal appartment, situated in the six-storey building at Hlebniy side-street. The archives were represented as contents of two suitcases.
A modest book-keeper of the moscow wood-processing factory had been keeping diary all his life; he was an amateur photographer, he had left alot of expressive sketchings. The Nikolai Ivanovich Borisov’s records represent a confession of a person, waging desperate struggle with his inner ailment, which depresses his consciousness sometimes. Sombre, interminable states alternate in him with the poetical description of the world. The publication became possible with the courteous consent and financial support of I. N. Borisov, the entrepreneur, the present owner of the appartment and namesake of the author of the records. 1947 12/06. 1947. All night I couldn’t close my eyes. My head seems to me a boiling kettle, which puffs on the stove, modulating. Thousand of bubbles swarm under the cranium with a light sputtering, and the steam creates such a pressure that my eyes seem to fall out of sockets. Only one thing gives me consolation - it is a bird cherry bough; it is cool, dark and wet in this scorching hell, stretching from the wide opened window. 18/06. 1947. Wanna nothing to do. I’ve gone to find out anything about the job; the same motherfucker in the personnel department had mumbled something incomprehensible. There are lots of shell-shock cases and drunks. I’ve found a carved arm of chair, cleared it of mud in the evening; it turned out to be red-wood. I couldn’t sleep at night again, I remembered all episodes of my life, house at Plotnikov side-street and uncle Jora. He owned a red-wood cane. It’s pre-revolutionary, he used to say, lovingly stroking it’s heavy, patterned knob, decorated with small figure of devil, clasping lenghty polished egg with two hands. As uncle used to say, there was a cake of lead set in the egg. «If there’s a need, you can cut down leaf of head,» - he dreamily eplained the earmarking of the skilfuly made knick-knack. I’ve never heard he used it, but the polished tip of the cane has been oftenly used for other purpose. Uncle Jora had often pressed me to come to his place; I loved to sit in a small dark room, situated in the end of the corridore. There was enough furniture to encircle a big appartment, because he was consolidated several times; that’s why a table with big-titted maidens made of bronze attached to its legs was placed on the writing-table, there were chairs placed on the wardrobe; in short, a person could move in that room only close by, with a great difficulty, but when I reached the big plush chair, I settled down in its dark-red depths with delight. Uncle comfortly landed opposite me and began his story. What a story-teller he was! Most of all I loved the story about the boy named Aladdin and the magic lamp. When the story came to the place, where the Magribinean banged the door leading to the cave, and the horror completely paralysed me, uncle stooped close to me and the pores of his big red nose were distinctly seen, he looked like the Magribinean, and I was deadly frightened, right in that moment I felt that the polished handle of the cane cautiously slided apart my legs and joined my perineum tightly. The horror, filling me, turned into the sweetest spasm; everything grew foggy before my eyes and I came down to the subterranian gardens where the magic lamp reposed among the precious jewels and gems. Gradually the Aladdin’s lamp and the heavy wooden knob mingled in my consciousness together; I often asked to fulfil my dreams, touching the glossy surface of the red-wood. Uncle gave me the stick for it willingly; it’s strange, but the dreams fulfiled. Even after ten years have gone, I still remember that stuffy august night very well, I remember every episode. The whole day I felt anxiety and in the evening I was so agitated that resolved to do such a thing which I considered to be extreme: moving noiselessly, I reached uncle’s room and stole the cane. I woke late at night because of the noise: someone was battering into the front door loudly. The light in the corridore turned on and heavy footsteps roared there; there were alot of people. I trembled with fear. Mother, dressed in long blouse, sneaked to the door and looked after the events through the key-hole; suddenly she recoiled, came to father discreetly and whispered: « They came after Georgi Dmitrievich». Rude loud voices and tread in the corridore didn’t stop. I felt myself if I was ran over with the mangle, the unknown force pushed me to the end of the crater where another life began. I fumbled for the uncle’s cane under the bed with the half-dead arm, pulled it in cautiously and gripped the heavy knob between my legs tightly; I was stroking the polished surface of wood with the other hand. The noise in the corridore gradually faded, I was walking through the shining underground garden, the path sprinkled with turquoise sand. 1948 02/04. 1948. Noshina is sticking me again. I had only turned the paraffin stove on, when she took out that stinky, huge tank with linen and turned the cooker on.»Let me warm up the food, please,» - I asked polietly. « Fuck you, premature mongrel,» - she let out a roar, with her fat, trembling hands akimbo. - «You’re an undeveloped motherfucker!» «Take a look,» - I said calmly, showing a wooden stump out of my pocket. 07/04. 1948. It’s april, but it’s extremely cold still; my hands freeze and I have to warm them up not less then half an hour in the bureau, to begin the work. The room is always dirty and full of tobacco smoke, I must complain the fire-inspector, but there will be no result, they are all in concert. In the evacuation, in Urgench I’ve dreamt about the return to Moskow. We have returned, and live in a hut, drunkards and god damned thieves are all around. But in Asia I could have a good sleep very few times: I can count them by fingers. We were accomodated in a house (house is only a name); the doors were always wide open, and there came everyone who wanted. Everyone lay on the floor on the felt litters, I can’t remember if there was felt in them. By night there always came alot of Asians; they sleep noisily - they breath heavily and loudly through the nose and roll through the sleep so bulky that I always found myself flattened against the wall or in the corner, between the muzhiks - how could I sleep? I choked with powerless rage. The nights there are cold enough and the main thing is that the dust coveres everything with a thick layer, like powder. There was something, like stacks on the roofs of the kibitkas, and I tried to bury myself in one of them at night, but found out that the stacks consisted of dusty thorns, that’s why I never tried to sleep out of the house again and slept inside, like in a collective grave. Hard, stinky hulks pressed upon me from every side and in the end the carved knob of uncle’s cane - my Aladdin’s lamp saved me. 15/04.1948. The days spent in the bureau seem to me like torture. It is a nuisance for nothing in my dull life. My head is always full of memories about the asian life: once rather short man came to our place, he was strange a little bit: he resembled a small fur-bearing animal - small lively eyes, golden fur covered all the face and looked like wool. And even there, where everyone, who came, was allowed to eat with the others, he was not. The food was given to him behind the threshold, in a bowl on the floor. And there he had shelter, without entering the main room, spending nights behind the threshold. After several days passed he began showing anxiety: he fell down, he pressed his ear to the ground tightly and listened for a long time. I’ve found out from the master’s son, that this small man was their distant relative. He worked, if it is possible to say so, as a shepherd on the pastures, where he lived almost all year round, equal to the cattle, having nothing for his work, except blows. And this time someone of his flock had ran away, and, being affraid of beatings of the elder brothers, he had fled. And, proving the boy’s story, there came two corpulent turkmens dressed in high sheep’s caps, with staid faces, riding donkeys. They dismounted leisurely, tasted the fare, stayed for a day or two, paying no attention to the reason of their visit. Then they calmly leaft, and took the poor fellow with them unexpectedly. I was in a bad state. I felt sympathy towards this half a man, half a beast. Few small, rolled like the sea pebble, pieces of wood were left near the house, on the ground, where he had slept. I picked them up solicitously and always had them with me. They brought me to a strange state of anxiety and calmed me through the dark horror of that life at the same time. 21/04.1948. Middle Asia... Nukus...Urgench...the beginning of the great Karaum desert... saline soils, dumps, flies, flying, like a cloud above every piece of food, water, colored like coffee with a portion of milk, dust, covering everything, like powder, and humiliation, humiliation, humiliation. During two torturing years me and my mother roamed through the alien domains, homeless and hungry. In the 44th we were caught up by the notification of father’s death and, summoning up our last stenght, with many difficulties we reached mother’s cousin in beggarly Murom, full of thieves, and, even it was very cold and hungry in the ancient russian town, there was no asian hatred and meanness. In all our hardships I always had a handful of wooden legs and the knob of uncle Jora’s cane with me. When we had to leave to evacuation, there was no chance for me to take the heavy, expensive cane with me; then I unscrewed the tip and found out that it served as a cork of silver capacity for nearly 200 gramms, which was fixed in the cane itself - that’s why it was so heavy. And the lead, which, as uncle used to say, was set into the knob, proved to be uncle’s fantasy. The cane itself I hid under the skirting-board in our room at Plotnikovsky side street before the departure in late autumn of 1941th. When we returned to Moscow, we understood that our communal appartment was occupied by the other people. The knob was the dearest thing to me and I tried never to give it up. But once it had almost perished. We lived in small heated railway vans, buried in the ground near the reserve railways. In august 1942 we all were sent to disconnect a part of the railway, after the accident. Being in a hurry I couldn’t take my treasure with me. The local hooligans set our dwellings on fire in our absence and when we returned, only the blackened skeletons remained; the place where we lived was near the station and people tried to extinguish the fire. In a complete despair I’ve rushed to the skeletons, trying to find my posessions. At last I’ve found the blackened bundle with my things. I’ve groped the thing I was looking for among the charred, wet pieces with trembling hands. In some places the wood had been burnt and charred, but in general the tip looked as it had to look like. I restored the carving as skilfully, as I could. Fibres and pattern of wood had told the instrument new lines. The egg lessened in volume and I had to cut out the charred part in the middle of it, so it became alike with the dick head. The great harm was made to the devil. I had to work alot, when I’ve reached the undamaged layer of wood, his traits had almost disappeared. My penknife was planig a kind of weevil all the time and in the end instead of the cunning devil I had a cheerful Pinoccio. At first I couldn’t understand, how could I successfully create such a difficult carving: I had no talents in that sphere. After some time I understood that it was uncle Jora, who ruled my hand, correcting his property. He was giving me advice, signs and making interesting offers from the underground world (he was shot in 39th, two years after the arrest). After a year I finished his plan, screwing a short, but heavy metal shank on the knob, turning the favourite item into a reliable weapon. dismounted leisurely, tasted the fare, stayed for a day or two, paying on the ground, where he had slept. I picked them up solicitously and always had them with me. They brought me to and calmed me through the dark horror of that life at the same time. 1949 03/01. 1949. I still can not bring myself together after that damned drinking bout, I’ve got headache, stinking mouth and I feel mself as if I had been smeared with vomit. I had t drink with these mongrels. I fucked that New Year. I hate people. And I’ve wasted alot of money on these shameless whores, never want to see them again. 20/01. 1949. Depression increases. I’ve entered the caution zone. The fear supresses me - there’s nothing to connect me with the present and with the past. Experience is the thing mostl needed in life. My knees buckle too often, nausea comes to the throat. Caution is like a desease. I could spend all the time locked behind the walls of home, without speaking to anyone, but it seems useless. I decided to strenghten my room, that’s why I pick up planks and bring them in discreetly at night. Fucking neighbours are watching, but they haven’t noticed anything yet. 14/02. 1949. Today in the evening in the metro and outside I’ve lost my breath for several times and felt weakness in legs and in all the muscules. I came down to the uncertainity. I felt as if I could spread my wings and fly high in the sky above the people’s heads, and only the fear to attract everyone’s attention had kept me from the flight. When I crawled into the barrack and was walking along the coridore each whore I met looked at me with a taunt or even tried to insult me. At home I fell on the bed dressed in coat and could not concentrate for a long time. Mommy was trying to console me. May be I shall commit a suicide? 18/02. 1949 Again, after a long period of time (three or four years) I felt strange visual phenomenous at work. I had a headache in the morning nd felt myself exhausted and weak. Above the table where I seat there is not enough light that’s why I have to strain my eyes all the time. I felt strange before the dinner brake; everything seemed different but I could not understand the difference. Everything became brighter and clearer: I looked at the diagram on the wall and saw it as if I was a fly and came close to it - I saw only the chart and I saw it as clear as if I looked through the magnyfying glass - I saw each mote as if I had it on my hand. I looked on the oak cover of the wardrobe and it was so interesting that I could think that I had a conversation with it, concerning a very interesting theme, «Are you a complete idiot?» - Nikiforov hailed me. 03/03. 1949. Noshina and Koliasha started a scandal; they cried that I was stealing the planks, that they should tell it to those who need to know it and mommy and me would be evicted. I cried too. They began breaking into our room from the coridore and at that right moment I felt that something flicked in my head, I remember only the Koliasha’s red snout drawing near to me, his gray greasy locks of hear approached me in a kind of mist and began falling through the floor down slowly. Dirty hem of Noshina’s chintz skirt floated before my eyes and her big leg with swollen violet veins, dressed in a torn slipper froze for a moment as if it was disconnected from the other world, after that I can not remember anything. I regained consciousness on my bed, night-light was twinkled dimly with it’s cosy green light. Mommy was sitting near me and was noiselessly fondling my head as in a far away childhood. 06/03. 1949. I’m at home with a medical certificate for the third day, what a bliss not to go to the fucking work, to lie here in a warm and cosy room. Mommy says that Noshina became quiet and polite, and Koliasha doesn’t go out of his room. I have choked him strongly that time, we were disjointed with great difficulty. «He’s an epileptic, he needs medical treatment,» - Noshina says, but her impudence had disappeared completely. Mommy says, that she was deadly frightened when I jumped to Koliasha, knocked him down and squezed his throat and he began wheezing and beating the floor with his legs; and he is a heavy man, his weight is about a hundred killogramms. 1950 20/09 1950. This morning, when I came out of the metro, and oblique shadows alternated with yellow sunstripes over the crowd of people rushing to work, I felt with particular clarity how great and wonderful was the world of trees, and how worthless and ephemeral the crowd. Enormous poplars stood, glistening with all the shades of gold in the cold morning air, and people down below, hunched over, pushed each other, rushed past, steeped in the stuffy underground air, as well as in their own small, nasty smells. 29/09 1950. How I love being downtown! They recently reopened the «Preserves» store near Nikitsky Gates, I always drink tomato juice there. The counters and windows are wonderful, high, surrounded by dark wood carvings. I admire the large panneau. The whole wall is taken up with the painting of a table in the open air, in the middle of which are baskets and punnets, filled with large, ripe berries, there are large vessels to the sides. In the center of the table a little girl is drinking cherry juice from a heavy faceted glass, she is smiling and her eyes are laughing. Behind her is an avenue of cypress and fruit trees. In the very back is Uncle Zhora, approaching, also laughing, and I wait for him to get to me, and then we will leave the store and go out onto the sundrenched street. And, just like before the war, we will walk up and down the lanes, we will go out to the boulevards and he, limping a bit, leaning on his beautiful cane, will tell me about the old buildings, the trees on the boulevards, how intelligent they are, how kind they are and how one must make friends with them. 02/10, 1950. I am depressed, so depressed, and have been for three days. I am barely able to make it though work, I drag home, and there in my refuge there is no escape from this constant depression which, like a toothache, is driving me out of my mind. At night I put my favorite boards around my head and that helps a little, but I do not sleep much at all. 04/10.1950. Today there was a production meeting in the director’s office, there were a lot of people, the office was a big one, and not very well lit. I can barely walk, but I don’t show a thing, because every bastard there is watching me. The heads of the sections droned on and on, idiotically, about their indicators, which made my head reek, when suddenly, as if through an electric shock from underground, a wave entered my body and I felt myself turn into a pile of rotting wood. With amazing clarity I could feel how my spine was covered with ugly burrs, how my brown limbs, spotted with tiny holes, were collapsing with a dull thud, taking with them the remains of my ribs, and my trunk was leaking out of the holes in my suit in the form of a yellowish-brown dust. I was seized with terror, I needed to scream and shout, as loud as I could, to stop this nightmare. In that twilight room, full of serious, gloomy people, something obscene was happening. I gritted my teeth and gathered the tatters of my will together. I forced myself to imagine something to counteract my vision - enormous green crowns of trees, every leaf whispering in a slight breeze - and I turned my thoughts to it with a prayer. I don’t remember my incoherent words, I don’t remember how long I prayed. But the horror faded, I was once again sitting among my colleagues in an official room painted in green. My neighbors thought I had dozed off and treated me with sympathy. «Don’t sleep Borisov - they’ll notice» said Epov, nudging me. 06/10.1950. I feel a bit better. But I can’t forget what happened to me in the director’s office. Something similar could happen again at any moment. It was clear that I was sick, that I could have died, and they would find out at the autopsy that I had died from an attack of liver, or, let}s say, cancer This is all on a human scale, but I live according to other rules ... What is happening inside, how can I understand it all? It is clear now - at any moment I could, for some reason, turn into a pile of rotten wood. That means that I am made entirely out of wood, but for others I am a man like anybody else. And the trees helped me again. That means it is bad that I know their laws. I made someone angry, I did the wrong thing. I need to study, to pray every day, not only when I am having a hard time. |