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secret windows (don't look back)

I found myself in a conversation with an old friend, about the crossroads of writing, nostalgia and memory. "Distance and perspective are the upside." I said. "The slippery slope is romanticizing and being nostalgic. Well, that's the memory trap no matter who you are."
"It's funny... I spent most of my life thinking that I had a rather dull adolescence, and it's only recently that I've discovered that these stories are a lot more interesting than I gave them credit." My friend replied. I admitted that I gravitate towards stories that are based on a mistake, a lie - thinking you had some great childhood, when actually it was a shitshow, and you fantasized about being adopted but sort of blocked that out.  


The question wobbled around inside my head for a few days. Was I too fast to judge nostalgia, to quick to brush aside its sweetness, stepping over it towards something invariably darker and sadder?  On Sunday, I was walking on Kutuzovsky,…

the myth of sisyphus (accordions and safety pins)

There is only one perehod (underpass) we take on the way to school each morning. In winter, it looms dank and wet. In summer it is cool, under sputtering fluorescents and a low ceiling. A man sits halfway down on a tiny folding stool playing the accordion. It is the same brisk song. An old Soviet one, happily ironic. His face is lost in some unblinking slow motion. He has no smile, no sadness. It is as if he is a blank piece of paper. Empty. Motionless. Just his fingers moving and his body making a little sway right and a little sway left. If someone drops a ruble, he does not react. If you stare at him, or stop for a moment he does not look at you. 

On some mornings his song brings a sort of breath to our walk. We are almost there. I will pull E's long messy hair into a ponytail, kiss her once on the top of her head and agree what time I will take her in the afternoon. Some mornings his song makes me depressed. I keep hoping he will play a new one, or he will do something different. I try to imagine how many years he has been playing this urgent, forlorn waltz. 

Lately, he makes me angry. Every morning, sitting with his insect eyes poking out from his face. Every morning with that sideways tilt of his head. No suntan. No different stubble on his chin. The same pants. The same shoes. I want to respect him for his commitment. He is running a marathon that will never offer a finish line, or a silk ribbon to break. I think he will just lean over very slowly one day in this tunnel and die. A flame of embarrassment runs under my face, and along my arms at these cruel thoughts. He is a father, I guess. He found something to do, and he does it. He is not a quitter. Maybe he hates playing this song, but has no choice. Maybe this is the only song he knows. I can't expect him to improvise a new one. I can't expect him to do anything more than what he can. 

I pass him, thinking to drop a coin in the little cardboard box but I do not. I need small change to buy milk downstairs and they refuse to change bills.

I wonder how the accordion man sees all of us, scurrying to work, to bring children to school before they stop serving breakfast, to the market, to the bank. Maybe he feels sorry for us, running around like insects every morning. I wonder if he is bored of my face, sour and tired after I have brought E to school, my hands in my pockets, gazing at my feet as I go home to an empty apartment, to scramble some eggs and make a living. 




I am haunted by his half-lidded eyes that day. Taking the garbage to the chute in the hallway, the heavy metal door flops open. There is a safety pin at the bottom. It has been there for months now. Every time the door slams shut and wine bottles clang furiously down, I wonder if it has unloosed itself. A day or two passes, then the next garbage bag goes down. It is still there. A North star in a dark sky. Someone must need this safety pin. Someone must take it, I tell myself.

But they never do.

It is safe. It survives, maybe by luck or chance. Maybe by grace.
I hope it is there tomorrow.




Comments

mosaikmum said…
I'd have never have guessed what your photo was about!...looking at the small image on my phone I thought it a photo of пух accumulated on the ground...(I did notice the safety pin)...but your photo is a whole lot more than that. Great writing! Thank you!
liv said…
I'm not sure, my dear, whether you are Sisyphus or he is Sisyphus...? You both seem relegated to the same repetitive dance...only I pray, as you know, for a happy ending to yours.

Love this ability of yours to see the minutia of life as poetry - it speaks so well for your soul.

However, I know you are cooking...I KNOW you are. It is your secret weapon - can you share just a little? A photo? Send the aromas across the continents so I can swoon at their perfume? It's magic when you cook.
Annie said…
Beautiful, as usual.
There's a guy in a perekhod on Yakimanka, blind, with a dog and an array of icons around him. I sometimes feel I should suggest he wears military uniform and medals to complete the set, but sense he'd think me flippant.
He plays a recorder, beautifully, Annie's song this morning, last week the theme from Godfather, I pass him twice weekly and have yet to hear him repeat a tune.
I'm over your way often, maybe I'll find your guy someday: we could make a busking map of Moscow.
Mely said…
I look forward to read your post every week and as always you deliver a great piece.

But I am also wondering what it is that you cook.

Mely
Marco North said…
Mely - here is a glimpse at some of my cooking. http://www.flickr.com/photos/58953253@N08/sets/72157629939264042/
Lenochka said…
I do not know why but your expat view of Moscow coincides with mine so much. I was born in Moscow and now am living in St. Petersburg and I enjoy reading your posts.
Mely said…
Thanks for sharing.

Mely

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