Morphine the phantom of love

‘Vova, look here!’ she called smiling and laughing as she climbed the pedestal of a centenary street lamp. ‘I’m crazy about you! I’m crazy about you! I’m crazy–’ I ran up to her, grabbed her in my arms and took her down. She was looking into my green eyes and whispering over and over again: ‘Crazy, can you hear me… I’m crazy about you, my dear.’

‘I’m crazy about you, my crazy girl,’ and we would stand motionless in our love bubble in the middle of the Andriivskyi Descent; and passers-by would envy us with kindness, smiles tugging at the corner of their mouths..

How can I forget all of this? For I had promised her, and myself, that no one would ever take her away from me. How wrong I was…

‘Good evening, Vladimir!’ Two old women greeted me at the porch of our five-storey house.

‘Good evening! How have you been keeping, Galina Olegovna?’

‘Well, dear, thank you. Meet my old friend, Olga Dmitriyevna. She, too, knew your mother.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ I answered pulling a smile to a sincere “nice to meet you” on her part.

‘I knew you when you were small still,’ the woman of about sixty years continued. ‘Your parents once brought you with them to the central railway station. At the time, I was working as an accountant there. Your family was travelling to Crimea on vacation.’

‘Unfortunately, as is often the case, our childhood memories are replaced with the memories of subsequent years. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you at all.’

‘That’s fine, I’m glad to see that you have grown into such a handsome and healthy man.’

‘Thank you for your kind words. Excuse me but I have to run, it’s been a hard day,’ I tried to extricate myself from getting to know each other any further.

‘Ah, Volodya, by the way,’ Galina Olegovna interrupted having recalled something, ‘an employee from the public utility service came by again today. Haven’t you repaid your debt for the apartment yet?’

‘No, not yet, haven’t been able to come up with money,’ I answered in embarrassment before the new acquaintance.

‘She said a large penalty had already accrued and asked me to pass you this envelope.’ The old woman opened her old-fashioned handbag and after fumbling around medicines packaging and newspaper scraps, she found the white envelope in question, which probably held another court summons for non-payment of debt. ‘Here you go.’ After taking a closer look at my packed paintings, she added: ‘I see you’re bringing them home again.’

‘That’s right, I always keep all that is mine with me,’ the old women smiled, and I, taking one more note from the utility service, bid them goodbye and went up to the fifth floor.

As soon as I disappeared behind the door of our entrance, and my steps up the stairs were no longer heard, Galina Olegovna, having again zipped close her handbag, began sharing the latest gossip and stories about the neighbourhood with her friend.

‘Olga, what a shame about Volodya. He used to be such a good boy, brought up well by such loving parents, always dressed to the nines, such a gentleman and so sociable. Fate was kind to him. I’ve lived in this house for almost forty years now and I had known his mother and father for more than three decades. They were so proud of him! Not only they, but we all were so proud of this boy! He received an excellent education and, by the age of thirty, became the director of a huge company, a corporation, as they say these days. Volodya was respected by everyone in this neighbourhood – from the baker to the mayor. He often travelled abroad and was always the object of women’s desires.’

‘So, what happened? Why can’t he even pay for his apartment now?’ the friend interrupted Galina Olegovna holding her breath in anticipation.

‘Oh, my dear, when a man is in a mess, some woman is surely to blame,’ Galina Olegovna tied a knot with her little silk scarf around her neck with affected dramatism and continued, ‘Who else but a woman can inspire or ruin a man.’

‘Has he fallen in love?’

‘Of course he has, sweetheart, what else,’ the companion said. ‘Head over heels.’

‘What was her name?’ asked Olga Dmitriyevna with aroused interest.

‘Marina.’

‘Marine almost.’

Ignoring her friend’s contribution, Galina Olegovna continued with her usual emotional tone: ‘They were such an incredibly beautiful couple. They were a pleasure to look at. And I should know, I would see them here often when they came to visit his parents, when they were still alive. They loved Marina as if she was their own flesh and blood. She was a bit younger than him but a perfect match. Beautiful brown hair, wasp waist, graceful gait, and her manner of speech… And what lively eyes! You could lose yourself in them. Perfectly charming. You know, she reminded me of myself when I was young.’ A sense of personal self-worth flashed on Galina Olegovna’s face. She glanced at her friend, who was completely immersed in the story and continued: ‘They were a couple for a few years, and their love added colours to this house and street.’

‘So, what happened?’ Olga Dmitriyevna asked impatiently.

‘Olga, please don’t rush me! Where was I? Well, their love was like in movies. He gave her flowers, carried her in his arms, bought her cars.’

‘Cars?!’

‘Yes, I think I have already mentioned that he was quite successful, haven’t I?’ Galina Olegovna approached her friend’s ear and slowly dragged the words, ‘Rich, very rich,’ and having straightened up again, she continued: ‘He was a paragon of the independent and successful type!’

‘What about her? What did she do?’

‘As for that, my dear, it remains a secret,’ the old woman said raising her eyebrows. ‘I had asked his mother several times about it. It was impossible to get Volodya to say one word about his personal life, and his mother dodged my questions. Obviously with my aristocratic descent, I wouldn’t insist. You know, I’m quite a modest woman and don’t like to meddle in other people’s business,’ remarked Galina Olegovna, adjusting her scarf again as if it was some halo of dignity. ‘But one thing I know for sure: it was Marina who taught him how to paint. She loved painting. One day, she showed me a drawing. And literally on the spot I was able to tell that she was talented. I remember, Volodya even opened an art gallery for her on St. Sophia Square.’

‘What a man!’ exclaimed her companion in delight.

‘Yeah, a real man is one capable of great deeds. And Vladimir was such a man. I remember, he even quit his career and business for her sake.’

Olga Dmitriyevna could not believe her ears and kept shaking her head in astonishment.

‘Of course, I do not know whether any of it is true, but I know for sure that there was a time when they moved to southern Europe. The tears his mother shed, anticipating having to part with the kids. I consoled her. Assuaged her. I kept telling her that it was all for the best. And to myself I thought that we all make reckless decisions when in love. After all, you have to agree that a person in love is a person who is out of his mind.’

‘Oh, how I wish my granddaughter would meet such a groom,’ put in Olga Dmitriyevna dreamily.

‘Don’t be so quick to wish someone else’s life for yourself. You never know what lurks beneath the surface.’

‘So, what happened to such a successful man? Why can’t he even pay bills?’ the friend asked Galina Olegovna snapping out of her daydreaming. ‘How could someone who had everything hit rock bottom? Did you see how he looks? He’s tall and has handsome features, but his skin is grey and there are bags under his eyes.’

‘When he broke up with the love of his life–’

‘Did she leave him?’ asked Olga Dmitriyevna, perplexed.

‘You can say so,’ Galina Olegovna looked at the lit windows of his apartment and sighed softly. ‘You know, my dear, evenings are still chilly these days, and I am not dressed for the weather. Moreover, it’s rather late, we’d better go home.’

‘Wait, tell me what happened. Did she leave him?’

‘I don’t know. All I know is that he is alone here. And has been for several years.’

Galina Olegovna stood up from the bench, grabbed her handbag and adjusted her scarf. She hugged her friend.

‘I would love to ask you over for a cup of tea, but –’

‘Not to worry,’ the companion interrupted her, ‘I also have so many things to do before my husband gets home. Promise me that we’ll get back to this story later,’ and catching a promising look, she continued with gratitude: ‘I was glad to see you, to know that, at your respected age, you are full of health and strength, even just a year after your loving husband passed away.’

‘I’m very grateful to you for your support,’ the friends kissed each other on the cheek, like young coquettes and parted.

‘Why in the world did I loosen my silly tongue with a person who has never known the taste of loneliness,’ Galina Olegovna thought, returning home with small slow steps.

I arranged my seven paintings in the spot where they spent each night and sat in the armchair by the fireplace.

I stared for a while at the yellow flame, at how it was devouring the dry pieces of wood with abrupt pops expelling air from them. I was seeing off another evening of my life. I was recapturing the warm touch of Marina’s loving hands, taking in warmth from the fire. I could see her sitting on my lap, laying her head on my shoulder, pulling at the top button of my shirt with her delicate fingers, sharing her dreams and experiences with me. And as long as the fire was slowly burning, I would spend my time with her – the woman I love. I love just as I did before. Just as I promised to. Dearly and forever. Her only, my Marina.

Chapter 3

It was rather chilly in the apartment. Only a handful of ashes were left from yesterday’s fire. I had spent the entire night in the cosy chair without undressing. I glanced at my watch and got up with jolt – it was already eleven in the morning. I had to hurry up if I did not wish to miss another trading day. I was fully confident no one would buy them today, so I had breakfast, picked up my burden and rushed to Andriivskyi Descent.

‘Good afternoon, Vladimir.’

‘Good day,’ I said to a woman who was examining my works, as I put my coffee down. ‘Do you wish to buy a painting? There’s a discount today,’ my tongue let slip those two silly phrases.

‘A discount? So, what’s the price?’

‘Which do you like most?’

‘Any,’ she replied with indifference, as she looked fixedly at me with her brown eyes.

‘Wait a minute, how do you know my name? I don’t recall you as one of my regulars.’

‘Regulars?’ The woman broke out in laughter, so I had to take out a cigarette. ‘You haven’t had one single customer in 6 months, and I doubt anyone in the neighbourhood would be willing to pay for this junk. My name is Viktoriya Aleksandrovna Shlepko. I’m the head of the public utilities service, and you, my honourable artist, top our list of the biggest debtors. It seems you are no longer concerned about us having cut the central heating and telephone line in your flat for non-payment? Well, our next step will be electricity and water.’

‘Hold on,’ I interrupted this wound-up woman, ‘you won’t be able to do that if only for technical reasons.’

‘Believe me, nothing is impossible for me!’ she shouted.

‘No, you’re wrong. It seems that there is one thing you find difficult,’ I said with a smile.

‘What thing?’ Ms. Shlepko asked.

‘You can’t figure out how to make me pay my debt, isn’t that so?’

She took out some document and hurled it at my stall where my paintings were displayed, adding: ‘Legal action has been taken. Keep in mind that I will no longer wait till someone buys your paintings. Find the money and show up at court with it. You will pay dearly for my nerves! And for the time I’ve wasted on you!’

 Her shoulders winced in irritation and as she turned around and was about to walk away, my bleak words caught up with her: ‘I have no money for you!’

‘Well then, we’ll have to take away your desolate and most likely rotten dwelling.’

‘Are you planning on throwing me in the street, out of my own home?’ I was seething with anger. I took three steps, and was standing right in front of her, looking straight into her stony eyes.

‘Vladimir, if you’re unable to make a living from you blobs of paint, maybe you should think about drawing caricatures and cartoons?!’ she retorted grinning.

‘I’ll make sure the first one will be of your nasty face, Viktoriya!’

‘See you in court!’

She turned around and left me in the street with the summons and the disapproving glances of my colleagues and passers-by who had witnessed the entire scene.

The day went by over seven cigarettes. Perhaps the woman from the public utilities service was right to some extent: today, too, went by without me selling any of my paintings. Maybe my drawings were really good for nothing? Since I had never dreamed of becoming an artist. I had never studied painting. I merely painted what I felt… But apparently, those feelings were not enough for the paintings to sell. Not to worry, I’ll paint a dozen more. If I need the money, I can allow myself to draw a trite field of poppies or the domes of St. Andrew’s Church against the background of the spring sky. It’s very simple.

I collected my pictures and trudged home. Perhaps, you are familiar with the mood of a person who has decided to give up on his or her principles or, to be more exact, just decided to digress from them for a short term. To change the angle of perception. And for what? Obviously, for the money. Money is that for which many people veer away from their principles and views.

As I passed the benches near my house, I greeted Galina Olegovna mechanically, who completely alone this time was enjoying the fresh air of the still chilly spring evening.

‘Dear Volodya, the head of our public utility service, a highly respected lady named Viktoriya, passed by today–’

Not waiting for her to finish, I said: ‘So it was you who gave her directions to where she could find me?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry if this has caused you trouble.’

I was getting worked up and about to let the old woman have it for being a blabbermouth, but I stopped in time, showing tolerance and respect for her age.

‘She said that if one tenant fails to pay his utility bills, she has the right to raise the issue of cutting off the whole building from the services. Please, have pity on us, quite a few elderly people live in this house. I don’t even dare think what diseases we might catch at our old age if it gets cold in our flats. Immediately mould, mildew and who knows what else will appear on our walls,’ the old woman continued to dramatize. ‘But most importantly, Volodya, I wouldn’t like see any tenants denigrate your good name and the memory of your parents.’

With an affected sadness, she adjusted the silk scarf that enveloped her neck with a sea of blue.

‘Yes, of course. I will take the necessary measures. No need to worry, Galina Olegovna.’

I approached her, placing my paintings on the bench, and hugged her, thanking her for her support. The woman seemed to cheer up at once: her sad face transformed into a face full of understanding.

‘I’d love to help you. But my pension barely covers my medicines. And my children don’t earn much either.’

‘Oh, no, I would never think of asking you for money.’

‘But remember Vladimir, I may not have any money, but you can always come to me for advice.’

‘Yes, of course.’

I was about to pick up my paintings, when the woman asked me to see her home, as in such chilly weather she could easily catch a cold. Thus, she emphasised again that she would not survive were the public utilities be cut off from the house.

I took her by the arm and led her little by little, with small steps, into the entrance.

As soon as I was in my flat, I prepared a quick dinner, made some coffee and was firmly decided on painting some tacky pictures. I walked into my cold studio, put on my old, frayed and paint-stained jumper and started work on a new canvas.

I spent seven hours on those “Poppies” and, no longer being able to resist the urge to sleep, I collapsed on the bed. Sleeping on it, as they say, is usually a good idea.

When I opened my eyes, it was already noon. I got ready and had some breakfast. Having lit the day’s first cigarette, I looked out at the sunny day, thinking that it would be great to stop smoking, and inhaled more nicotine into my lungs. People get addicted by nature. So I’d rather be addicted to cigarettes than any of the other evils of our time. I walked into the studio, and as I took a look at last night’s creation, I felt sick to the stomach. “How is it possible that a real man can actually paint such nonsense?” I asked myself and immediately obtained a reply: “Money works miracles.” The painting was only half-finished and required quite a bit of effort to shape it up. I poured some clean water for the brushes and went into the kitchen for a coffee.

It’s funny how we condemn others and vow to never to do what they do, but the time comes, and all our old ways of thinking just go to hell. Especially when you’re short on those green bills or whatever colour they are in our country.

Here I am, painting stroke after stroke, mixing paints, changing tonalities, playing with light and shadow – all of this in order to survive. For I feel absolutely nothing now. You might ask whether I like what I’m doing? Absolutely not. I’m just going through the motions, with no underlying ideas or spirit. Actually, there is one – the spirit of money. For I really need your damn money, buyers! I stopped: my hand was tired of dabbing colours. I was sick of looking at this vacuity and having to admit that it was I who created it. Time for a cigarette. I take another Lucky Strike and, filling my brain with nicotine and the room with smoke, I removed the picture from the easel and placed it on the table.

“Very well, Vova, a bit more and I’ll sell this piece of crap, and forget all about it,” I thought and, holding the cigarette with my teeth, continued to paint. “What would Marina say if she saw me now?”

My teeth clenched into a smile, pulling the skin of my face, and memories burst into my head.

‘Honey, you’re selling your soul again for a buck.’ I remembered her face. ‘If you want to paint, go ahead, if you want to sing, go ahead, if you want to go crazy, go ahead. But do it with your heart, with one hundred, no, two hundred per cent. Our life’s too short to waste it on earning paper.’

‘You’re right, sweetheart. But this paper eventually can bring you so much joy.’

‘No, paper can’t. Money is nothing compared to the process of earning it. When you enjoy that process, you can proudly say that this is your work. So, just think: how can a doctor treat if he can’t stand listening to patients complaining? How can an investigator resolve another murder if he feels sick upon the sight of blood? How can your bodyguard protect you, if he dreams about becoming an actor in theatre? Do you understand?’

‘I understand, but still –’

She cut my phrases short. I did not dare object. I just wanted to hold her in my arms, capture our moments and make us a bit happier still.

I stopped. My cigarette was over. The pack turned out to be empty, and even the extra pack of cigarettes in the kitchen table let me down today. I do not like it when I have to go out to the store for cigarettes. “Why not quit smoking right now?” Indeed, it would be great. I used to do without them before just fine. I took off the coat I had just put on and went back to the canvas. I fussed over this same painting for about an hour more, but the result was still nauseous. This painting started to annoy me. It was not even the painting itself, but rather the idea that I needed the money. A man who once could afford buying anything in this country is now scribbling to earn some pennies for bread! Was this really the choice I made five years ago? Was this really, how I imagined freedom? Was this really something what I wanted to do?!

I put down the brushes and went to the bathroom to wash. The cold water washed off the sweat beads that had broken out on my forehead. I raised my head and looked at my reflection. I saw before me the same person who I was so unhappy to greet every morning. From the days of the former carefree and enthusiastic man, nothing was left. Where did my success go? My wealth? My will to live?

Well, it appears that all of it has gone along with her.

Thoroughly irritated, I grabbed my coat and went downstairs for cigarettes.

The day was imbued with spring. Birds were returning home from southern shores. The sun was thawing the remaining patches of snow on the ground. People smiled broadly. Even the ever-gloomy woman selling cigarettes in the kiosk wished me a good day. On my way back, I lit a cigarette, deciding that I would quit smoking another day.

‘Good afternoon, Galina Olegovna,’ I greeted my neighbour at the entrance as she walked slowly with a loaf in her hand.

The elderly woman turned to me and smiled. She wanted to adjust her brand new light green scarf, but one of her hands was occupied.

 ‘Hello my dear! It’s so good that I ran into you. I have a favour to ask,’ she said as she took my hand. ‘An old good friend of mine is looking for a drawing teacher for her granddaughter. I thought of you immediately. What do you think?’

‘Well, Galina Olegovna, I’m not really a teacher.’

‘It’s true, you may not be a teacher, but you’re an artist, aren’t you?’

‘An artist whose paintings don’t sell,’ I clarified.

‘Someone will surely buy them one day, but for the time being, this is a great opportunity for you to earn some money and do me a favour.’

I knew that it wasn’t worth arguing with this woman, so I promised her to think about it.

‘Do think about it. It is quite a wealthy family. I know the girl’s grandmother very well. It won’t be difficult to teach some basic techniques to that child.’

‘A child?’ I asked warily. ‘How old is she?’

‘How old, how old – what’s the difference?! She pays, you teach – that’s the main thing.’

‘I have absolutely no experience working with children!’ I said flatly.

‘So here you go, this’ll be your opportunity to gain such experience! Hold this for a moment please.’ Galina Olegovna handed me the loaf. ‘I have to find the keys in my bag… it’s always in such a mess…’ She began fumbling around her handbag, and I became aware that I have had an overdose of her these past days. ‘Here they are. Found them. Well, let me know your decision today. It would be unfortunate if someone else was to make use of this opportunity.’

‘By all means,’ I promised as I went upstairs to my flat.

As I approached my new painting, I had to pull a face again. The drawing itself was not bad, but it was simply vacuous. Perhaps, someone might find something to like about it, but all I could find was revulsion at myself. I had promised Marina that I would never become a slave to money.

I glanced at the envelope with the summons, considered challenging it, refuse to show up and not pay a penny. But it dawned on me that Galina Olegovna’s idea might be a possible way out of the situation. It was quick money. If the girl was still quite young, it meant that she did not know much about art and I would be able to teach her the basics quite quickly.

I bolted to the ground floor, and rang the bell to flat number three and promised the old lady to take on her offer.

‘I’m so glad!’ She threw her arms in the air. ‘Wonderful! I’ll give her grandmother a call and tell her that with my help, her granddaughter will get the most talented artist in town!’

I slammed the door to my flat, and the draught opened the door to the balcony. I started a small fire in the fireplace and went to the balcony… I was relieved.

I admired the view of the Andriivskyi Descent and the Dnieper. The mighty river had almost ridden itself of the blocks of ice that had been shackling its banks. Spring is the time when you have to rid yourself of everything that has shackled you so far. Alas, that is not an easy task.

I stood there basking in the sun. It was blindingly bright, and as I closed my eyes, I could see the woman I still incredibly miss.

‘Do you think we’ll never have to part?’ she asked.

‘I know we won’t–’

‘What if I leave?’

‘Where to?’

‘Just vanish. What will you do then?’