Twenty One Night's

The musty smell of the sheets were badly stinking my nostrils. This made me wake up from my half sleep. It was my last day in the Ulitsa streets. It was five in the morning. Unable to pay my four months' rent fees, my landlady finally decided to throw me out of my flat. It was too small to be even called as a flat. I didn't even own a many things other than a painted desk, two chairs and a sofa which I used as a bed. Even these little things clogged the entire room. I decided before everybody woke up, I would forgo the keys and leave the apartment.

One of my friends had found me a flat near the Griboyedov channel embankment street. Luckily it was cheaper than the one in Ulitsa. Collecting my belongings I reached the apartment by eight. The street was perfect for people like us. For people without professions. I didn't even count how many days it has been since I've eschewed myself from writing. Moreover all my interests in establishing myself as a writer has crumbled down. The land owner, who was beanpole like, stood on the doorway holding the keys to my flat. Catching my sight he opened the door. The damp room smelled mephitic but was five times bigger than the older one. It had only one room along with a tiny kitchen and a bathroom. For the next six hours I combed and culled the room. The room only had one window that overlooked the Church of the Savior on Blood. One could clearly hear the ringing of the bell which was gonged at every hour. While cleaning the only broken cupboard, I discovered a large carton inside it. I was finely sealed. Perhaps it belonged to the person who lived before me I thought. I decided to call upon the owner to inform him about it.

Having myself waited for thirty long minutes for him to come, I lost my patience and went out to buy myself some Chtchi*, white rolls and a cheap bottle of wine. 'It's winter and Russia do not s**t snow', this would be an invalid statement. Saint Peterburg was flooded by the blizzard of the snowy night. My unfriendly-boots made it difficult to walk over the whites. While shaking my legs on every feet of walk, I saw a woman in a red jacket. So beautiful. So winsome. Her blonde locks spoke the language of the wind. I wouldn't lie but I wasn't able to take my eyes off her. This penurious body has neither seen or bedded such a heavenly body since ages. At the same time I realised this penniless body only belonged in bars like the one in the other street. Where distinguishing between men and the greasy women seemed a tough job. Expunging these thoughts I walked back towards my flat to complete my motto. To feed my roaring stomach.

The last sip of the acrid wine made my eyes to look at something. The carton. Unable to control my anxiety I stood up and examined the box.
"IVANOVNA" The label on box spelled.
Maybe it was his surname I thought.
Everyone's got a darkside, right? So did I. And this notorious one asked me to open it. Hearing no Angel's voice coming from inside my head which would restrict me from doing this, I opened it.
"A woman seriously?" I muttered to myself on finding a lady's jacket and a skirt. The two pieces of clothes were hardly ever cleaned. I behaved like a kid, felt like playing the treasure hunt game. My eyes were enchanted on discovering a pair of lady's socks for my naked feet. My misanthropy didn't took any offence on wearing them. The purple yellow patterned socks had a few holes on them, but that worked for me. I also tracked down a ring, which barely would have cultivated any penny. It appeared to be copper.

This pirate's real treasure was found under a pile of pristine papers. A huge collection of classic books. I wandered how one could just leave these books to rot which I couldn't even imagine to afford. Dostoyevsky's Poor Folk, Humiliated and Insulted, The Brothers Karamazov. Vladimir Nabokov's Pnin. Ivan Bunin's Night of Denial. Alexander Pushkin's poem collection, Dubrovsky and The Captain's Daughter. And a horde of other Russian books. The woman taste in literature was better than mine. I smelled and smelled the books keeping my eyes closed, imagining lady Ivanovna reading them sitting at the window.

The bangs on the door ushered me back to the reality. The landowner I thought. Pangs of terror knocked at my soul. Like a thief I began to wind things up. Once I got everything settled inside the carton, I pushed it under the bed. Fixing my greasy hair and the matching greasy pants I went to the door to open it.

"You're Geometry?"
The drunken watchman was sent by the land owner. He had applied a strong local jasmine oil to camouflage his foul odour. The redness of his face didn't leave a chance to tell me he was American.
"Ehh you mean Dmitri. I'm Dmitri Petrovich."
"Really? What I'm supposed to do with that? You Russians have so confusing names." I barely understood his broken words.
"Did the land owner send you?"
"Yes another Russian. Yes the slenderman sent me. He said you have some complains to file. Jesus! I should work in a police station, man."
I rolled my eyes and replied, "Yes, ehh, I called him. I was having some problem. Some problem with the, ehh, with the bathroom."
"Bathroom?"
"Yes. The bathroom. Right. The tap leaks all the time. Thought he might do something about it..."
"Where do you think you live in Geometry? People living here face hundred of problems. Some do not even get water to flush their s**t. 'Thought he might do something'! Fix that by yourself! Get some sleep now."
The splenetic man turned back and went back to his den in his dangling feet. Perhaps I did the right thing. I clearly understood that handing them Lady Ivanovna's things would mean the same as feeding pigs Ptichye Moloko*.

I went back to further delve the box. This time I found something which actually changed me as a person. Lady Ivanovna's works. I found a notebook. It had hardcover and a pink elastic round it. The smell of the notebook itself told that it was expensive. I dared to open it. What I found was heteroclite. Chapters after chapters carved on the white sheets. Finding a woman with such a fine vocabulary was sporadic. Notes after notes packed in the carton I took out. To keep myself cosy and snug, I made myself some Zhokei's coffee.

Clearing the mountainous books from the chair, I sat back to read her stories. Each story of her could build up a masterpiece. The entire night two things didn't leave my company, the Zhokei and her stories. All her tales mentioned snow and her religion. Her stories made it clear she was Catholic. And how much she believed in the holiness of the Church of the Savior on Blood. But awfully all her stories finished with lame endings. The story lines crippled towards the endings even though they could have ended in a much better way to make it a successful book. So there I used my supine brain. I decided to reinstate my writing days to help her. Somewhere my anima told me that I'll meet her one day. Although I'd never met her, the part of me said she wanted help. And I made it sure that after I rejuvenate her stories, I'll find her.

Nights after nights, days after days I did the uphill battle with the stories. I began with the very beginning. Her elucidation about romanticism could kill flies in the mid air. I couldn't alter with those part of the stories. I didn't even remember when was the last time I worked for these myriad nights. Being born in a decrepit family, I never got many chances of attaining schools like Voronezh. I passed my secondary school from government school and with much difficulties passed my University because of our meager finance.
When I was twelve my father gifted me a book on my birthday. It had collection of many short stories. One of them was written by some anonymous writer. Where the narrator fell in love with a woman he'd never met. So did I felt. I started imagining lady Ivanovna everywhere. Even when I sat and worked on her stories, I began to see everything with her eyes. I couldn't wait any longer to meet her and surprise her with own works.

On the twenty first day, I finally completed epitomizing one of her stories. Never before I felt this blithe on completion of any of my works. I wanted to celebrated the moment. For lady Ivanovna. For us.
That evening Vyacheslav and I decided to spent time in the nearest bar. I moved out before the scheduled time. I went and visited the Church. I didn't know much about the sacredness and holiness of the place, but the architecture of the Church had no other match. Ivanovna was right. Was right was about the peace and vibe the place emitted. I spent an hour there before meeting Vyacheslav.

The stained glasses of the bar made the snow look dirt-marked. The snow was getting worse. It wouldn't stop.
"Vladimir looks different. You seem happy. What's up with you?"
I gave him a shy smile and continued,
"Have you ever fell in love Vyacheslav ?"
"Everyday my dear brother."
I rolled my eyes to his wicked smile.

"All I know about her is her surname. Ivanovna. And yes she's a writer like me. Actually, much better than me."

"Ivanovna? I knew a woman by that name. She was a writer too."
At that moment I felt that blood which passes through my aorta. Vyacheslav didn't wait for a reply and continued,
"There is a woman Marfa Ivanovna. Everyday she visted the publication house publish her books. But who cares about we people? We poor souls. The publication department needs fund to publish your books. Which she'd none. Then I heard she got married to a rich man."
"She got married... oh... so after that did she publish her book?"
"Her marriage life already was so messed up. How could one write or even think about anything. His husband had acquired a habit of drinking. He began to behave rudely to her. He constantly made sarcastic and insulting remarks at her. Which later got worse. He ended up beating her. But under his apparent rudeness and contempt the wretch concealed a passion for her."
"Then what? What happened next?"

"She found her chance and she left his home day and took shelter in some apartment."

"Wait, stop. How do you know so many things about her?" My mind lost it's track and started drifting.
"Vladimir, don't you know? Didn't you watch television? The woman killed herself. She jumped off the embankment. Nobody knows where she lived. Neither the state police gave importance. Who thinks about we ragged people? Do we even have any existence? Her body was found three days later her death"

Silence dominated over everything around us. I didn't dare to speak a word. I didn't dare to confirm if my lady Ivanovna was Vyacheslav story's Marfa Ivanovna. I returned back to the flat and spent the night sitting by the window. The Church's bell never felt so placid before. The pouring snow was getting worser. Vyacheslav words didn't leave my head. 'Who cares about us, we poor souls?'
The night grew darker and in that darkness I saw through the window, in that drizzling snow, lady Ivanovna returning back to her cosy flat with a new story on her mind.