Bench of antiquities – Anastassiya Kiriyenko translated by Anton Platonov

BENCH OF ANTIQUITIES

I’m not an Almaty native. At least, not judging “by the roots.” I was born when my father, a retired colonel, was doing his service in snowy Aktobe. That’s when my sister came into the world. We lived on the fifth floor of a very large concrete apartment. Our windows were covered with frost. In the openings of the windows’ cracked, dry wooden frames lied the bodies of dead flies, belly up. In the mornings, my mother would tear a frozen blanket from off the wall, light gas rings, and swaddle our frigid feet in prickly woolen socks. We survived for three years in these conditions. Then, in the spring, we moved to Alma-Ata.

Everything improved almost as soon as we arrived. We lived in a house at the center of town—a spacious apartment not far from a kindergarten, which I gained admission to almost immediately. The windows overlooked Prospect Mira. Was my childhood happy? Definitely. I wouldn’t have changed it for anything in the world. For me, Victory Parade wasn’t just a broadcast: it was a stool by the window, where I watched huge tanks pass by. I’m not a diver, but it was Alma-Ata that taught me how to fish with my bare hands, without the use of a tube or wetsuit. Once, I even plunged into a giant reservoir where pike, catfish, and asp swam. Each week, a car pulled up to our building to deliver fish to the grocer, whose shop took up the whole bottom floor of our building. I’d climb out of the second-floor window to collect the fresh catch. Maintaining my balance was hard. One time I almost slipped. I’m no cat, and therefore have only one life to lose.

My house is not a high-rise building. As a result, there wasn’t much to keep me busy on the roof. But I got to know its basement quite well. The pseudo occult group “Eastern District” had its headquarters there under my leadership. We didn’t get up to any major mischief. But we did build an altar once, which we lit on fire to celebrate the black mass. The ventilation blew our spells all over the house. This effectively smoked us out of the basement for good. My house today overlooks the same avenue, though its name has changed. I often visit my parent’s place. And while walking along the street, I look for, but cannot find, my “Bench of Antiquities.”

… Already I knew that a year consisted of twelve months and that this was December. Orange shaggy mittens dangled on a stretched elastic band from the sleeves of my coat. Mom tied the ears of a dark brown hat tightly under my chin, sewn from the same material as my beloved teddy bear. For a long time I had difficulty learning how to pronounce “club-footed.” The nickname “cuaputit” soon stuck to my hat and bear. Heavy and skewed from the cold, the boards of the front door creaked when we pushed it open. We caught snow flies in our mouths as we trudged to kindergarten with my mother in the cold. My son has been deprived of the same pleasure of long walks to daycare. His daddy is a driver, and when Dad’s not up to it, we whip out the stroller. But my mother and I had a long walk to Berezka. We left the courtyard and trekked uphill, past the airport ticket station (which was still in operation then) and on to Syzganov hospital, where we passed countless street-side benches. One of them was our favorite. An ordinary bench, the same as the rest, but which we considered “ours” nevertheless. Third in the row. The snow was sticky, and I made a snowball with orange hairs pressed inside. Mom smiled and made a bigger one. She set hers atop mine. She then pulled out a rustling caramel wrapper from her pocket, and we twisted it into a bowtie for the snowman. We let him wait for us on the bench till evening.

 

Our days at kindergarten were always the same. Whenever my father asked me what I’d done that day, I always answered in the same way: “Ate, slept, and played.” But on that day our routine changed. I was sleeping with the middle group “Fish,” with the slightly older children, peacefully under my blanket, when the door suddenly burst open. The teacher rushed into the room, pulled sweaters over our pajamas, and led everyone to the assembly hall. Children from other groups had already arrived. We were seated, handed half of an apple instead of our usual mid-morning snack, and told that we were waiting for a musician, who would be running us through the drills of an unscheduled New Year’s party rehearsal. While I was picking the seeds from the core of my apple, half asleep and struggling to remember the song’s rhyme, the director arrived in the hall, panting. She talked in incoherent bursts, fighting to recover her breath, handkerchief wet from her sweaty forehead. The children’s ears latched onto two phrases: “Unrest” and “Stay here until it’s safe.”

Now that I’m older, I’m happy for this event. Now, in mid-December, I get two extra days off. You might say I participated indirectly in these troubled times; it allowed me the opportunity to enjoy a sybarite lifestyle and run around with a cart in the supermarket, snatching whatever unpopular canned food I could get my hands on for the New Year’s table. Some parts of the day are still vivid: the endless rehearsal for the matinee, the hard-boiled eggs and cold pirozhki for dinner … it all took place right there, in kindergarten, where the forging of our talents continued unhindered. The pickup of the children after school—or rather, their release—began much later in the day. My father swept me up and placed me in the Argamak sled. The streets were quiet. I steered over the trampled hills as my father pulled the sled silently. On the icy fence of the garden, brown splashes trickled down into the snow, paling and spreading out into large stains. Someone had shattered a concrete flowerbed. On the chipped parts – on the snow-capped mountains that filled the flowerbed in the absence of flowers – there were streaks of purple. Gliding along the avenue, I sang my new New Year’s song to my father. It felt good. I was excited to see the snowman on our bench. I imagined my father straightening his silver bowtie when we got there. But by the time we arrived, there was no snowman waiting for us. Part of the bench had gone missing. In the lantern’s dim light a lone iron frame was visible, under which was a chunk of plank, empty bottles, and brown-yellow snow littered with dirty cigarette butts.

The bench was repaired by the spring.

I once had this friend, Stasik. Stasik was raised by his grandparents and played the violin. Stasik was simple-minded and scrawny. I always got him involved in my misadventures, which, as a rule, never did either of us any good. But we had no regrets. As Octobrists in preschool, our pranks rarely left the courtyard. Stasik grabbed his violin, climbed onto our bench, and clumsily strummed the etudes. I danced with his open case and collected small change from passersby. Stasik’s birthday was in July. We worked hard, and by his name day had earned enough to take a trip to the ice-cream parlor Little Red Riding Hood, which was in the vicinity of the Central Department Store. There was also a video salon, where we drank soda, ate plombières and watched foreign cartoons. Everything would have ended all right, with us going home and falling asleep, had “older” Bakha not appeared. He told us that passing time like this was ridiculous for kids of our age—he had fruit wine Kaisar, and said he could get us more, if we coughed up the money. Stasik hesitated, but I readily agreed. This was how we departed from the innocent harbor of childhood in exchange for ambrosia. I lured everyone to the bench. Bakha taught us how to drink without wincing and handed us a cigarette after each sip. Stasik was a poor student. He didn’t like the taste; it shamed him and made him feel afraid. He tortured himself with half a bottle, shoved the rest of the small change at Bakha, and ran home. But I liked it. It made me feel like Bakha’s equal. We sat on the bench, smoking, and uncorked a second bottle.

I was overenthusiastic to start, and soon felt something immanent in my throat. I vomited. Bakha wasn’t too happy about this. He called me a puppy, a babe-in-arms. He set off with the unfinished bottle and left me groaning on the bench. I probably lied like this for a long time, with cars and people passing me by indifferently. It was only when it got dark (in the summer, this happens late in the evening) that I felt a dry, wrinkled palm on my cheek. Stasik had called his grandfather. The old man muttered some curses, and, grunting as he summoned his strength, hauled me to my feet and helped me stagger back to Stasik’s. They rinsed out my stomach and brains and let me stay the night. After this incident, Stasik and I never drank together again.

 

But drinking buddies were in no short supply. I guided my new acquaintances from school and my friends from the nearby neighborhood to the bench. It was like the bench was enchanted: you could hide in parks and courtyards, but you’d somehow still end up caught by the punitive men in uniform. But here the policemen never touched us, not even in the middle of the day. Well, almost never. Until one day our own “cop” – Vlad Airplane – joined our ranks.

It was the end of the nineties. I was studying at the institute and spent my leisure hours (as many did then) going to rock concerts. The former bastions of culture were in a state of decline. Abandoned, there was simply no one who cared enough to steward them anymore. And the venues once referred to as palaces were now used as venues for drunken parties of various interest groups. Anyway – accompanied by the Pioneers, who I took along for sponsorship, we walked confidently up to my bench. I was their rock star and idol: their senior. My retinue unpacked in full. Soon, a battery of bottles big and small lined the bench. I selflessly shared stories of my exploits to those curious enough to listen. I was just lifting a plastic glass of vodka to my lips when a cop appeared in view. Not an old, paunchy cop. A handsome and young one – the uniform suited him, and he didn’t look like a scumbag. The copper greeted us politely enough and asked if he could bum a cigarette. We offered him a drink. As he downed his glass he ran an eye over my henchmen and me. I was ready to ditch the swine, when all of a sudden the cop asked me:

“Do you know the names of the vocalists in Agatha Christie’s band?”

I thought it over.

“The Samoilov brothers, but I forger their names.”

“Who cares? It’s the family names that count. Let me introduce myself: I’m Samoylov Vlad, police lieutenant. For you, your friendly neighborhood watchman. This is my turf. Sometimes I drop in on the parties while on patrol. If I see anything illegal, I bust’ em. Maybe call in for back-up. If things are peaceful, I don’t get in the way. Depends on the mood. I can even offer my support. But Saimalov’s a long name. You can call me airplane. Got that?”

 

“Got it.”

After that evening, Airplane became a frequent visitor.

The institute wasn’t close to where I lived, which meant I had to change buses twice to get there. One frigid morning, while rushing to my stop, I spotted Vlad on the bench. He was neither dead nor alive and had glassy eyes. Soon, the cops got an attitude, and Vlad became a drunk.

I remember at school my first love wasn’t a happy one. I was depressed for so long that my father finally sat down and had to talk with me. What he had to say was longwinded, but helpful. I don’t exactly remember the details, but one thing he said shaped how I’ve interacted with girls ever since: “Don’t be down, son. You’ll have so many more women in your life that I guarantee you’ll get tired of them all.” And so it was until I met my wife. It’s not gentlemanly, so I won’t tell you her name. My hormones were raging, and students, as you know, are poor. So the bench again came to my rescue. One incident stands out vividly. From the get-go, the word availability determined whether our relationship would go anywhere. A young moon-faced girl had a desire. I suggested a hostel, which was a common enough stopping place for tram depot workers, and was located in my courtyard. But when we got there, there were no free beds. On Communist Avenue (named after some Khan) lived a Hare Krishna sect. I tried them out too. The guys grinned at me when I told them how I’d buy a ballpoint pen and even dance a little if they let us in. But they closed their doors to things like physical love. Finally, getting desperate, I suggested we visit the bench. After a short internal hesitation, the nymph agreed. She kept looking behind her, probably wary of the headlights of an accidental midnight car. It took me a long time to squeeze in; it was dry, narrow, and I didn’t enjoy it too much. The girl rose abruptly, pulled up her jeans, and snapped open a lighter from her pocket.

Time passed. The city changed rapidly. It aged immediately – several hundred years at once. And not long afterward no trace remained of this once cozy garden-city. To be honest, this didn’t bother me. I’m a globalist and a nomad at heart.

Take everything, but just give me back my “Bench of Antiquities.”