Kitabı oxu: «Daydreams of Maria»

© Anna Gayatri, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0071-1094-5

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

^{Daydreams of Maria}

^Prologue

^{When I Become a Tree}

My name is Maria. My mother called me Manya. That name causes me pain, as does everything that came BEFORE. Now I can turn into anyone I want. Simply by walking down the street. I see a pigeon rising into the sky, and at once I feel a light yet powerful rush of air supporting my wings. I perceive the world with my peripheral vision, in entirely different colors, impossible for a human being to describe. The world becomes three-dimensional, sparkling, spinning rapidly, like a gigantic top. And I feel a strange hunger in my stomach. I need to eat. I have to eat something. And my sharp eye searches the carousel of branches, leaves, and roads for the tiniest thing that can be pecked at and swallowed…

And then I return to myself, only to slip once again into another body, another consciousness. Sometimes I like being myself, looking at the world through my own eyes. Until I fall back into childhood, and pain pierces through me.

Then I become a helpless five-year-old child again, trailing after my mother, who is always in a hurry, holding her little finger with my own, forever afraid that our fingers will come apart and she will rush away, disappear, dissolve into the noisy, overflowing river of people. Such a rarity, such happiness — to be this clumsy little elephant, clinging with its trunk to its mother’s tail. But there is something ahead — a kindergarten or a hospital, one of those endless changes. And I have to let go. And the aggressive world comes crashing down upon me. And Mama leaves, runs away, always in a hurry, relieved that the obstacle has finally disappeared from her dizzying, turbulent life.

I walk down the street. In a bright raincoat. Beneath a soft spring rain. And my gaze touches an old drainpipe, from which rainwater pours in torrents — or rather, erupts in a stream, like water spewing from a monster’s jaws. And I become water, soft and shining, filled with tiny splashes of sunlight. I hold my hands beneath the gutter, and the water crashes into my palms in an icy stream.

And suddenly I fall back into my own body, and a whirlpool carries me away into that tiny room where I am alone with a tall man who is holding a pencil and a sketchbook, drawing something in it.

Not something. Someone.

Me.

He keeps glancing at me. And I sit there, huddling against the cold, because he has taken all my clothes off. It is always like this when Mama is not home. He undresses me like a doll and sits me down on the sofa. And I have to sit still.

Then, putting his drawing aside, he sits down beside me. His long fingers begin to tickle me, and I laugh despite myself. And he starts giggling and presses his wet red lips against me. Then he unbuttons his trousers…

And then — I separate from my own body.

I am six years old. My gaze slips out the window. There is a single tree growing in our courtyard.

And I become the tree.

I feel its thick, wrinkled bark upon my little body. I no longer feel those disgusting kisses that make me sick. I feel nothing anymore.

Only the cold, clean air.

Only peace and silence.

It was my father.

My father.

When I had grown up and was finally able to tell Mama everything, she gave a little laugh.

“Nothing surprising. You were a beautiful girl. He was in love with you. And besides, he was an artist. They’re all like that.”

And I stopped wanting to be beautiful.

I stopped wanting to be myself.

And my soul continued its wanderings, begun in childhood.

I walk down the street. Red and yellow signs thrash in the furious gusts of wind. The world is full of deafening sounds — car horns, people’s voices, birds screaming.

And I want silence.

Silence and peace.

My feet carry me on their own. They follow a familiar road and bring me to a small courtyard where a single tree grows.

Strong, with mighty branches reaching toward the bottomless sky.

I walk up to it and press myself against its wet, wrinkled bark, merging with it with my whole being.

And suddenly my soul makes a strange decision:

to become a tree forever.

Never to return.

I sink into silence.

Everything has gone still.

I feel the thick bark upon my helpless body.

I begin to stretch with all my strength toward the light, toward the sun, toward happiness.

But suddenly I hear, in the distance, the approaching sound of an axe.

^{English Lessons}

“She had been told before that her mother was in heaven, that she had wings and a crown”¹…

It was quiet. Only the wind outside the window beckoned Liza into the street, promising freedom and serenity. But she sat up straight, her hands folded, like a model pupil, among other adults like herself, and listened to the dull voice that was making her sleepy.

“She had been told before that her mother was in heaven, that she had wings and a crown” — the thin teacher in enormous glasses looked thoughtfully at the young people sitting at their desks, and her gaze came to rest on a woman with short dark hair, the best student in her group.

“Elizabeth, please start translating from this sentence.”

Liza found the right paragraph in her book and began to read.

— “Ей и раньше говорили, что ее мама на небе, что у нее есть крылья и венец; показывали картинки с изображением дам в белоснежных ночных рубашках, которых называют ангелами”² Liza said slowly, carefully translating the English phrases into Russian.

The students sat in a stuffy classroom in a small club. An open book with colorful pictures lay in front of each of them, everything written only in English. And it was for this language that Liza had come to the stuffy classroom that evening.

If she learned English, they would give her the job she had dreamed of since childhood!

A white steamship would carry her away to distant countries, and she, Liza, would discover a vast world, shimmering with every shade of happiness…

A trickle of sweat ran down her back.

Liza sighed and glanced at the young man who had begun translating the text after her, slowly and thoughtfully searching for the right words.

***

“Mama!” Manya called, sitting up in her little bed.

The room was dark. A round clock ticked on the wall, its moustache-like hands trembling as they made a strange, crackling sound.

The bed stood beside the window, and frost glistened on the glass. Manya reached out to touch the cold black pane.

Black, because it was night outside.

“Mama!” Manya called again.

It was very quiet.

A sweetish smell drifted into the room from the kitchen, as though someone were cooking porridge.

Manya climbed out of bed and padded barefoot across the creaking floorboards to the door. She wanted to go into the kitchen and look for Mama.

And she was hungry, too.

She pushed the door.

But it was locked.

So Manya knocked.

She waited, then knocked again.

But no one answered.

***

“Там все луга в цветах, и целые поляны лилий, а над ними веет ветерок и разносит по воздуху аромат, и все его вдыхают — всегда, потому что там всегда ветерок”³, — Liza read aloud again.

It was hard to breathe.

The air was thick and sticky.

The thin teacher seemed to be listening absentmindedly, but she always corrected a student at exactly the right moment if they made a mistake.

And Liza almost never made mistakes.

She was the best student in this school for adults.

For adults reading a children’s fairy tale in English…

Liza smiled and looked sideways at her slender hands with their long nails. The nails glittered beneath a coat of pearlescent polish and gave her hope for a bright future, which broke through the gray reality of the present like a ray of light…

***

Manya felt as though she were standing inside a dark, damp cave, its entrance blocked by an enormous stone.

And she could not move it.

She pushed against it, beat it with her hands, but it was no use.

Manya remembered where the flashlight was and switched it on.

Shadows darted across the walls and ceiling, as though a many-armed giant were dancing.

“I have been locked in a dungeon,” Manya thought.

She was five years old, and she believed in fairy tales.

“I have been imprisoned in a dungeon and left without food or water. Only bats fly around here, and rats run about.”

And Manya began swinging the flashlight rapidly from side to side, and the shadows flew wildly about.

Everything became confused — it seemed as though a storm wind were raging, carrying scraps of cloth, leaves, and papers through the air.

And ghosts and vampires were flying everywhere.

And Manya began jumping and screaming, not from fear, but from delight.

“I’ll be a ghost too!” she cried. “I’ll fly outside and frighten people! And then I’ll find Mama, frighten her, and she’ll come back!”

Manya laughed and jumped around the room, waving the flashlight.

Then she ran to the window and shone the light onto the glass.

Night looked back at Manya, indifferent and utterly black.

“Mama!” Manya called uncertainly. “Are you there? Outside the window?”

She flung open the little window, and Night breathed upon her with mortal cold.

And Manya suddenly felt uneasy.

She realized that she was alone.

And that Mama was really, truly gone…

***

“А маленькие дети бегают в лугах, собирают охапки лилий, смеются и вьют из них венки. А улицы там сверкают. И никто никогда не устает, какой бы долгой ни была дорога”⁴, — Liza read aloud.

And she thought:

How tired I am. How tired…

The teacher looked straight through her and nodded, nodded, like a little bellflower swaying in the wind.

It would be so good to go home already. To sleep.

Liza wanted to stretch, to stand up, to distract herself.

But the taut little string of the text held her there, and she kept reading.

“Very good, Elizabeth. Very good.”

The teacher’s voice soothed her with a gentle rustling, like autumn leaves whispering in the wind…

***

Manya went to the door again and shook the handle, but it would not open.

“Mama, open the door, open it!” Manya sobbed.

She shook the door so hard that several books fell from the shelf onto the floor beside her.

“Open it! Open it! I’ll be good, I’ll listen! I’m hungry! I want something to drink! Please open it!”

She cried and screamed, but no one heard her, and no one answered.

Manya sank down onto the floor and began beating her fists against the wooden boards.

And one of the books fell open.

In the beam of the flashlight, Manya saw a bright picture.

It showed the golden walls of a castle, and in a golden room stood a Princess wearing a golden crown and a glittering golden dress.

Manya pulled the book closer and studied the picture carefully.

Above the golden Princess flew a fairy — or perhaps an angel. Manya wasn’t quite sure.

But she wished that wings would grow on her, too.

Even if they weren’t golden…

***

Liza walked down the street.

The cold wind filled her with joy.

This wind is blowing in my favor! Liza thought. It promises me mountains of gold! Once I learn English, I’ll work wherever I want! And all my dreams will come true!

She smiled.

She smiled at the trembling streetlights, at random passers-by, and at herself.

Everything would be exactly the way she wanted it.

Everything!

When she entered the little courtyard of her building, she saw a dim ray of light glowing from the window of her room.

“But I turned off the lamp when I left. And Manya was already asleep…”

She hurried into the entrance hall and, impatiently fumbling through her handbag, could not find her keys for a long time.

At last she opened the front door and rushed down the dim corridor toward her room.

She opened it.

And nearly stumbled.

Manya, her daughter, lay just inside the doorway, her head resting on a book, fast asleep.

A flashlight lay beside her on the floor.

Lisa bent down and saw tearstains on Manya’s cheeks.

Then Liza followed the beam of light and saw the bright picture of the Princess.

Beneath the picture, there were words written in English.

And Liza read:

“And the walls around this city are of gold and pearl, and they are so low that one can go up to them and lean upon them, look down upon the earth, and smile and wave to us…”

“And the streets are sparkling.”

Liza sighed and looked once more at the English words:

“And the streets are sparkling. And no one ever gets tired, no matter how long the road is. They fly wherever they want…”

Liza looked at Manya and whispered:

“And no one ever gets tired, no matter how long the road is. They fly wherever they want…”

The flashlight flickered.

And went out.

^{The Little Chick}

Manya was skipping down the street after Mama. She was five years old. Spring was beginning. The sun was cheerful, sliding bright rays across the thin sheets of ice covering the puddles.

Manya stepped on one of them—

crunch-crunch—

and it spread into a web of tiny cracks, while her shoe sank into the blue water.

Then Manya began jumping from one patch of ice to another, stamping her feet in delight and making little white fountains of glittering ice burst out of every frozen puddle.

She laughed and glowed with happiness until Mama called to her from somewhere far ahead, and she came running after her as fast as she could.

They had to hurry.

They were going to visit someone.

What a wonderful thing it was — to go visiting on such a beautiful spring day!

But Mama was a little worried. There was a child where they were going, and Mama wanted to buy a present.

She left Manya waiting outside, darted into a shop, and came out quickly with a small box.

Then they ran to catch the tram.

After paying the fare, they sat down on the wooden benches opposite each other.

Manya sat by the window and prepared herself to watch the sparkling world outside.

But then Mama opened the little box and took out a toy.

It was a bright-yellow, fluffy little chick on thin plastic legs.

Mama took some kind of paper and a little key out of the box as well, but immediately put them back.

Manya shyly reached out her hand to touch the soft fur.

And Mama let her hold the chick.

Just while they were riding.

Manya held the tiny creature carefully in her palms, hardly daring to breathe.

She was proud that Mama had trusted her with something so fragile.

Her heart began beating faster. Her cheeks turned red, and she kept looking and looking at the little yellow ball.

And the chick stared back at her with its black eyes, as though saying:

I am so small, so helpless. Protect me, Manya. Love me. Take care of me…

The girl could feel warmth coming from the chick, and for a moment it seemed to her that it moved and breathed.

Yes, Manya’s heart answered. I will love you and protect you!

The palms of her hands felt warm and soft against its fluffy fur.

Outside the window, lights began to come on. The day was fading.

People moved and talked all around them, but Manya noticed nothing.

She kept looking at her little chick, overwhelmed by love and tenderness.

Nothing else existed.

Only her warm hands, and in those hands — happiness.

A happiness in which everything came together:

the cozy glow of a lamp before bedtime, when your eyes grow heavy with pleasant drowsiness and you fly away to unknown lands;

Grandmother’s lullaby;

the warm spring wind;

Grandfather’s wrinkled hand as he stroked Manya’s head;

Mama’s voice;

the high blue sky;

and the carefree singing of birds.

The girl hardly breathed, dissolving into a feeling of peace and serenity, while her hands carefully held the little chick.

The steady rattling of the tram stopped.

“We’re getting off. Give me the toy!” Mama said.

Manya looked at her in bewilderment, not understanding the words.

“What, did you fall asleep? Fine, carry it for now. Come on!”

And Mama grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her toward the exit.

Manya pressed the chick against her chest and stumbled after Mama.

The puddles had begun to freeze again, making the pavement slippery, and she was afraid of falling, holding the little furry ball tighter and tighter against herself.

And then they reached the entrance.

“Give it to me!”

Mama held out her hand.

Manya stepped back.

“What are you doing? Give me the chick, quickly!”

She pried Manya’s fingers open, took the toy, and shoved it into the box.

“Well, cry some more! Greedy little thing! Come on!”

She pushed her into the entrance, and they began climbing the stairs.

Tears were choking Manya, but she swallowed them.

Her nose began to run, and she wiped it with her sleeve.

She tried to do it without Mama noticing, but Mama saw anyway and smirked.

“Greedy, and a crybaby too. Just try bawling in there!”

She rang the bell.

Behind the door came shouts and laughter.

“Smile,” Mama hissed.

The door flew open, and Manya was blinded by bright light.

There was a party going on. A group of children ran around, and the adults happily surrounded Mama.

Then an unfamiliar little girl came running up, and Mama put the box into her hands.

After that, Manya was taken into the children’s room, where the children were playing and laughing.

The unfamiliar girl opened the box and took out the chick.

“Oh! There’s a key too!” the girl cried happily.

She immediately began sticking the key into the chick and turning it several times.

And suddenly the toy came alive.

The chick began hopping across the floor, pecking at something as if it were alive.

Manya smiled despite herself.

The girl clapped her hands.

“He’s alive! He’s alive!”

She kept winding him up, again and again.

And then suddenly something cracked.

One of the chick’s legs broke off.

The toy fell.

Manya screamed in fright.

She pushed the girl away and grabbed the yellow little bundle.

The girl screamed too and lunged at Manya.

“Give him back! Give him back! He’s mine!” she shrieked.

Manya began sobbing at the top of her voice and pressed the broken toy even tighter against herself.

The girl grabbed her by the hair.

And Manya simply stood there and cried.

Then the adults came running.

Mama pulled the chick from Manya’s hands and gave it back to the girl.

Then she leaned close to Manya’s ear and whispered:

“I’m ashamed that you are my daughter.”

The adults left, and none of them saw how the girl, smiling maliciously, broke the chick’s other leg.

Then she spent a long time fussing with it, trying to wind it up with the key and make it jump without its legs.

On the way home, Mama did not speak to Manya.

She only looked at her sternly.

Then, unable to contain herself any longer, she said:

“I’ll talk to you when we get home. Greedy little thing.”

Manya didn’t care.

It felt as though there were a hole in her heart, and a black wind was howling inside it.

At home, Mama shouted at Manya for a long time.

And the next day, all her toys disappeared.

But Manya didn’t care.

She no longer noticed the joyful rays of sunlight that spring, or the fragile ice beneath her feet.

She obediently went to kindergarten.

She ate when they fed her.

She slept when they told her to sleep.

“What a gloomy little thing you are!” Mama said to her one day.

But Manya didn’t care.