I am a story waiting to be translated and read.

Words don’t come easy – I stole these ones from a song, I think.

They stumble on the way out and hang limply on a line, secured by the old-fashioned pins, begging to be used.

I check the dictionary and find the correct meaning, but by the time I do that, the moment is lost, the pin has not moved, the word is still hanging.

Languages converge in my brain, confused, mixed up, lost.

I swim through ideas, run through subjects, trudge through images.

I am a poem, waiting to be recited.

I am cipher, waiting to be decoded.

I am a writer, I think.


Memories of the Melancholy Writer: Falling in Love

As far as Irina was concerned, there was nothing wrong with reading yellowish moldy magazines, that normally resided in the ugly wooden cabinet on the balcony of her third floor apartment, during her summer break.  Her father subscribed to the popular monthly science magazine imaginatively called Science and Life and never threw out the old issues allegedly on account of home improvement advice they carried on the last two pages.  Instead, they were banished to the family balcony and locked in their dilapidated prison never to be seen or read again.  When Irina discovered this treasure hoard in her constant search of reading material, she felt like Captain Blood who had just found a chest filled with emeralds and rubies in the bowels of the boarded Spanish ship.

She liked to pretend she was rescuing the unfortunate indifferently bound magazines from unimaginable suffering in total darkness and neglect giving them a chance to redeem themselves by proving their worth to her.  Once divested of their information, they were released to the local paper recycling center pedantically bound into accurate stacks, to be reprocessed and transformed into the new issues or books.  Something about this circle of life appealed to Irina enormously.  All school year she was waiting for summer break so she could unearth her hidden trove and unhurriedly read about breakthroughs in the fields of discrete mathematics, medicine, biology or physics while hiding behind the wall of wild ivy on the balcony of her old Polish building, bathed in the warm honey-colored light.  Being in her early teens when this conspicuous discovery happened, she didn’t understand most of the articles, but the sense of accomplishment of reading real grown-up stuff was so rewarding she didn’t let that trivial fact upset her.  Better to know something than nothing at all.

For her, the best thing about those magazines were the stories and excerpts from the books published in the section called Science in Literature.  Each issue was devoted to a particular science topic, so the stories had to reflect it as well.  Trembling from excitement, Irina ploughed through The Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud (in the Psychology issue), Strong Medicine by Arthur Hailey (in the Pharmacology issue), The Glass Bead Game by Hermann Hesse (unbelievably, in the Mathematics issue) and many others.  Irina wondered if her father ever made it to this particular section, knowing his taste in books.  He preferred war narratives and mysteries, not bothering with metaphysical connection between the mind and the matter.

Books were Irina’s refuge as long as she could remember herself.  She was taught how to read at the age of three by her exhausted grandmother, who couldn’t cook voluminous family dinners and read to her insatiable grandchild at the same time.  One day she made an executive decision and started Irina on her letters, and a few months later Irina’s parents proudly demonstrated her precocity to their astonished friends.  By the time Irina was thirteen, she’d read almost all the books in the family library and moved on to the local one, where she was on good terms with the two elderly librarians.  Both of them swore they’d never seen a mind so inquisitive and a memory so prodigious as in this tiny Jewish girl with sweet green eyes and a monumental nose.  Around that time her mother started throwing temper tantrums every time she saw Irina with a book.

“You have to stop this stupid reading and go outside!  Look at yourself – you’re losing your eyesight already and one of your eyes is getting smaller than the other from the excessive reading!” she’d scream in frustration.

“Bad eyesight is hereditary, Mom.  You and Papa both wear glasses, so there’s a 70% chance I would have bad eyesight as well.  As for the smaller eye, it’s because nature abhors symmetry.  Nothing is the same size in the human body.  One foot is always a little bigger than the other, one hand is a tiny bit longer and even the nostrils are not 100% identical.  Don’t worry about it, though.  Glasses would totally obscure this small difference.” Irina’d assure her mother reasonably, secretly proud of the fact she’d retained so much information from the Human Body issue.  Unfortunately, an answer like that would prompt her grandmother to deliver the stunning coup de grace, which Irina couldn’t contradict in any meaningful fashion:

“You’ll become a bluestocking and nobody’ll want to marry you!  Who needs a bookish wife?  Do you think you can be a professor or something in this anti-Semitic country of ours?  You’re a Russian- speaking Jew living in Lvov, Ukraine, where everybody must speak Ukrainian.  This is the place where dreams of stupid girls burn in flames.  Here, peel some potatoes for dinner, this will be a much better use for your time.”

Then summer would arrive, wrapped in the smells of warm earth and heated cobblestones, brought by the pointless flight of the lightest transparent spider webs.  It would awaken the huge walnut tree right outside the window of Irina’s room, so it can start its yearly ritual of gossiping with the wild ivy and morning glory flowers, which were growing on the balcony in happy fecundity.  Irina imagined that the tree, the ivy and the morning glory vines were her guardians, sent by the ancestors from another world, because as long as Irina was under their tenuous protection, her female watchdogs were happy – at least she was reading outside, breathing in fresh air.

She was fourteen when she stumbled on the Blood Disorders issue.  Irina was luxuriating on her balcony in the armchair with her legs propped up on the tiny stepstool, savoring a glass of lemonade and leafing through slightly wet pages of the fluttering magazine, when she heard a low susurrus from the Science in Literature section.  This was not unheard of.  Irina could always hear the voices of books and other published works, if she’d focus her attention on them.  These voices were usually guiding her through the library to the books she would ultimately select for reading.  The Science and Life’s voice was a low, defeated whisper, but this time for some reason it contained younger, crisper notes of love and other demons.

Puzzled, Irina quickly finished the article on anemia, making a mental note to check her iron and vitamin B12 levels at some point, and flipped to the story of the month.  She was mildly annoyed when she realized that the first couple of pages were ripped out, so the name of the writer, the title of the story and the beginning were nowhere to be found.  Who knows why her normally accurate father would tear out the pages from the periodical he knew his daughter particularly liked.  Maybe he needed a few pieces of paper to light the tiled stove in his room, and the poor magazine fell victim to necessity, since it was a December issue.

Sighing, Irina prepared to resign herself to a few minutes of confusion while trying to figure out the plot and characters, but the first sentence grabbed her attention with such power that she felt her heartbeat quicken.  “No one except the two of them understood the real basis or knew the origins of that unforeseeable love.”  Irina suddenly felt a light breeze that ruffled her short blond hair and made goosebumps spring on her arms.  And a few seconds later she was lost in the snow storm somewhere between Madrid and Paris in the luxury Bentley convertible along with Billy Sanchez de Avila and Nena Daconte.

They were a very young couple, teenagers, really, who married a few days ago somewhere on another continent and were in Europe on their honeymoon.  They belonged to the two of the most illustrious families in their unknown town and were rich, beautiful and madly in love, having just met on the beaches of Marbella three months prior to their wedding.  When the ambassador of their country met them in the Madrid airport, he bestowed on them the gifts from their parents: a mink coat and a huge bouquet of roses for Nena Daconte, and a key to the car for Billy Sanchez.  As Nena Daconte took the flowers, she pricked her finger on the thorn, but handled it with charm and grace.  When she realized that her finger had never stopped bleeding, she thought nothing of it at first.  Billy Sanchez, enraptured by the new car, drove for eleven hours without noticing that the mild weather of Spain had changed to the much colder winter of France, and snow had started falling around them, blanketing the countryside.

Somewhere close to Bordeaux Nena Daconte threw out the bloody handkerchief and stuck her hand out of the window, hoping that the cold and wind would have a cauterizing effect on her wound.  When she realized she was wrong, she made a feeble joke about how anyone who might want to find them would just have to follow the trail of her blood in the snow.  By the time they reached suburbs of Paris on Tuesday, her blouse, skirt and mink were covered in blood and her lips acquired a scary blue tint.  Billy Sanchez, crazed with worry, drove her to the hospital where a copper-skinned physician admitted her and immediately took her to the ICU.  Billy Sanchez held on to Nena Daconte’s hand until he was separated from her by the nurses and was eventually left alone, stupefied by the chain of events.

He didn’t go to the Plaza Athenee, where a honeymoon suite was waiting for him, but took a room in the dingy hotel a few blocks away from the hospital and spent an agonizing week trying to see Nena Daconte.   Every day he was firmly rebuffed by the hospital staff because visiting hours were on Tuesday only and France was a civilized country where laws must be obeyed.  Not knowing French, Billy Sanchez felt mute, confused and forlorn, so on Friday he decided to make a trip to his country’s embassy.  The embassy official wasn’t impressed by his illustrious name and advised him to wait another four days and visit the Louvre in the meantime.  On the way back to the hotel, Billy Sanchez got lost, and by the time he figured out that the hotel’s address was printed on the business card in his pocket, he was so emotionally drained that he didn’t leave his frugally appointed room for another three days, busying himself with washing the blood off Nena Daconte’s mink coat and staring at the ceiling.

When he came to the hospital on Tuesday, he walked through the snaking corridors until he suddenly saw the copper-skinned doctor, who had admitted Nena Daconte a week ago.  What he told Billy Sanchez was unimaginable.  Nena Daconte had bled to death on Thursday evening, after sixty hours of failed efforts by the most qualified specialists in France.  Everybody was looking for Billy Sanchez: first at the Plaza Athenee, then at the embassy (the official who was talking to him received the cable with Billy Sanchez’s name an hour after he left), then his picture was broadcasted on the TV and his description on the radio.  Nena Daconte’s parents flew in and waited for him in the tiny hospital chapel, but eventually called off the search and took the embalmed body of their only daughter back home.  On Monday, when Billy Sanchez was overwhelmed with sorrow and love for Nena Daconte a few blocks away from the hospital where she was no more, the burial had already taken place across the ocean in the small cemetery a few meters away from the house where they first discovered their true selves.

Billy Sanchez refused the offer of tranquilizers and left the hospital without thanking the copper- skinned doctor.  He needed to find someone and beat his brains out in revenge for his own misfortune.  He didn’t notice that the dismal greyish January rain gave way to the beautiful white snow without a trace of blood, and the Parisians around him were celebrating the first big snowfall in ten years.

When Irina finished the story, she realized she was very cold.  The balmy summer day couldn’t warm her up anymore, and she was shivering like a wet kitten.  The desperation of a great loss bled through the disheveled pages right into her heart.  And for the first time in a couple of days, she suddenly didn’t want to be alone.  She walked unsteadily into the kitchen where her grandmother was making meatballs and sat heavily on the chair.

“What’s wrong with you?” Her grandmother was a woman of few words, and all of them to the point.

“I just read a very sad story,” said Irina, horrified by the tears that threatened to make their appearance any moment now. “Grandma, do you happen to know the name of a writer who wrote a story about a girl named Nena Daconte who bled to death in a Paris hospital on her honeymoon?”

“God forbid!” Grandmother spat three times over her left shoulder and stared at Irina accusingly.  “Why are you reading such terrible stories and then come into my kitchen to scare me like that?  Can’t you do something more productive than upsetting your grandmother who is barely standing on her feet today?  Clean and cut these carrots right now, and stop your whining.  These books are making you crazy!”

She thrust a knife into Irina’s meek hands and imperiously left the kitchen to retrieve some ingredient from the pantry.  She always regarded books as a waste of time if they weren’t related to any school subject.  Irina began to wash the carrots, quietly berating herself for not offering her help sooner and bringing up the story in her grandmother’s presence.  Who wrote it? she wondered as she was methodically tearing off the green tops and caressing the knobby roots.  It was written in exquisite language with flowing sentences, poetic descriptions and a hint of supernatural that transcended the fact that it was translated from Spanish, as the tiny script at the end of the page informed the inquisitive readers.  Irina absentmindedly peered at a carrot and resolved to go to the library to look for a Spanish writer the moment her ordeal in the kitchen was over.

And so The Great Search has begun.  Everyone Irina knew was questioned about The Story.  The plot was described, the names of the two main characters revealed, and the only clue she had – the fact that is was translated from Spanish – was mentioned repeatedly.  The local librarians didn’t know anything about it, but suggested to start with Don Quixote, since Irina seemed to be interested in Spanish literature.  The two thick Don Quixote volumes spoke in the voice of clanking metal and whinnying horses, which did not sound like the mournful, but crisp voice of The Story, but were interesting nevertheless.

She wisely avoided her mother and went straight to her dad, whose contribution was that Nena Daconte probably died from hemophilia; that was the same disease Aleksey, the last Russian prince, would’ve definitely died from if he hadn’t been killed by the revolutionaries at the tender age of six.  This piece of information didn’t help at all.

Thus summer passed in futile search of the needle in the haystack.  When Irina returned to school in September, she mentioned The Story to her classmates and even to a few teachers, but none of them had read anything similar to it.  Then one of the boys, Albert, whose desk was next to Irina’s in Russian Literature class, suddenly offered his help.  Albert’s relative, it transpired, was a librarian in the University Library, and had access to the best books in the world.  If anyone was able to figure out the mystery of The Story, it had to be him.

Irina and Albert, whom everybody called Al, met one September evening in front of the high school and started toward the University, lively discussing their math homework.  Half an hour into their conversation they discovered that both of them were history buffs and their favorite historical period was medieval ages.  Consequently, they never made it to the library on that day.  They went to the park instead and spent the next few hours debating the wisdom of Philip the Fair’s decisions to expel the Jews from France in 1306 and to annihilate the order of the Knights Templar in 1307.  The huge oak trees whispered around them as if they wanted to be included in the discussion.  Only when the weak gleaming of the street lamps enveloped Irina’s and Al’s faces in the ethereal liminal light did they come back to 1986 and run to their respective homes.

Since that first date they became inseparable.  They did eventually visit the University Library, but Al’s relative was as unhelpful as the rest of the people confronted by the mystery of The Story.  However, by that time Irina was under the spell of love so The Story took a place on the back burner for a while.  Secretly, she compared Al and herself to Billy Sanchez and Nena Daconte and came to the conclusion their situations had nothing in common, for better or for worse.  For starters, she was pretty sure neither she nor Al had hemophilia, which was the most important thing.  Also, they weren’t rich, beautiful and ready to get married, but that was beside the point.

Irina’s grandmother promptly stopped worrying about Irina becoming a blue stocking and started worrying about her getting pregnant.  Irina tried to alleviate this particular concern by explaining that she didn’t plan to lose her virginity any time soon and was waiting for a special moment, which she would recognize instantly if it happened, but didn’t know how to describe it.  Her grandmother wasn’t amused by this logic and pointed out that Al might hold a different opinion on the definition of the special moment.  Irina let it pass.  She was wondering about it herself quite a bit.

As it happened, the conspicuous topic did come up in their discussions from time to time when furtive kisses would exhaust Al’s restraint and drive Irina to the state of supreme confusion.  However, he never made a big deal out of Irina’s refusal to take their relationship to the next level.  She thought he understood she just wasn’t ready for the next step.  Privately, she decided to wait until her sixteenth birthday in September, and then hope that the stars would guide her to an appropriate decision.

This summer wasn’t entirely devoted to reading.  Irina and Al spent a lot of time together rather innocently: going to the movies, hiking and talking, always talking.  They had an unlimited supply of different topics and were never bored in each other’s company.  Of course, both of them still read a lot.  Al preferred philosophical works of Friedrich Nietzsche, Jose Ortega y Gasset and Nikolay Berdyaev, while Irina was doggedly looking for the mysterious Spanish writer, jumping from Spain proper to Latin America.  That was how she discovered Jorge Luis Borges, Julio Cortazar and Gabriel Garcia Marquez.  Of these three writers Marquez was the one she liked the most, having absorbed One Hundred Years of Solitude within a week.  This book sang to her, accompanied by a dynamic Latin drum.  The combination of realistic narrative and surrealistic events was irresistible to Irina, and she and Al spend many days discussing the unusual residents of the mythical Macondo.

When September came, though, Irina discovered, with a little help from her friends, of course, that Al cheated on her with the school slut, Alice.  She was deeply wounded not just by the fact of cheating, but mostly by his choice of girl.

“How could you do this to me?” she demanded the moment she was able to get Al alone.  “I thought what we had was special.  What the hell does she have that I don’t?”  Irina swore to herself she wouldn’t cry in front of him, because the situation was humiliating enough already.  Red eyes and a puffy nose were not going to improve anything.

“Are you sure you want to know the answer?” replied Al.  He looked very uncomfortable and annoyed, but Irina knew he wouldn’t walk away without speaking his peace.

“You know I do” Irina was the wronged party, after all.  She felt she deserved an explanation.

“I am a man of flesh and blood,” finally said Al.  “You weren’t interested, and she was.  That’s all.  Did you think I’d wait for you forever?”  He was looking at Irina defiantly, sure of himself and his position.

Traitorous tears were trying to get out from Irina’s steely grip, blurring her vision and thickening her voice.  It didn’t matter what she’d say, she realized.  It was all over.  What was love for her was something else for him.  The special moment never arrived and, it appeared, for a good reason.  He really wasn’t Billy Sanchez, and their love never happened.  This thought strangely pacified Irina.  She wiped an itinerant tear and asked a question that had bothered her for some time.

“What are you even talking to her about?  I bet the last book she read was a collection of fairy tales, and that was quite a long time ago.”

Al turned to leave.  “We don’t talk much,” he said.  “I find it unnecessary.  Plus I don’t think you’d stop talking to me just because of this, right?  After all, it’s not like you have many friends.”

This was a low blow, and Irina felt it in her gut.  “You know my favorite quote from Omar Khayyam?” she said, trying to smile with trembling lips.  “You better starve, than eat whatever/And better be alone, than with whoever.”

She had a momentary satisfaction of seeing his cocksure expression waver a little.  “I’ll survive without you, Al.  Good luck with Alice.”

At that, she turned and left, trying to walk at a leisurely pace so as not to spoil the effect by running to the bathroom and bawling her heart out.  At least her grandmother will sleep soundly tonight, Irina thought with bitter humor.  No need to worry about unwanted pregnancy anymore.

Heavy tears were slowly falling from her eyes, making tiny splashes on the tiled floor.  If somebody would want to find me, Irina reflected suddenly, they just have to follow the trail of my tears.  The Story was ruling her life, whether she liked it or not.

The rest of the year passed eventfully, this being the last year of high school.  Everybody was getting ready for the college entrance exams and looking forward to self-actualization and adult life.  Al tried to patch things up with Irina several times, following her home after school and swearing that the fling with Alice was over and done; but she never accepted the olive branch of peace.  She couldn’t forgive his betrayal and was flabbergasted by the ease with which he threw Alice away when she lost the air of novelty for him.  But try as she might, she couldn’t forget him.

Luckily, Irina’s parents soon provided her with the ultimate distraction in the form of immigration to the United States.  In the beginning she felt like words were stolen from her mouth and whatever was coming out was colorless, like underwear washed too many times.  She enrolled in the ESL program in a local community college and was secretly mortified by the fear that she would never be able to speak English fluently.  In about three months, though, Irina shyly asked her teacher to recommend a book she could read.  The teacher suggested to start with anything written by the redoubtable Danielle Steel.

“You’ll see,” he said with a dry smile.  “She only uses about three hundred words in all of her books so if you read one, the rest of them will be a piece of cake.”

Having finished Family Album and No Greater Love, Irina graduated to Sydney Sheldon and read The Other Side of Midnight and Rage of Angels with the increasing degree of comfort with the English language.  These books didn’t whisper to her; they screamed in loud boastful voices, bursting with primordial energy.  She felt her reading senses assaulted by the glossy style and charming platitudes and bravely embarked on The World According to Garp by John Irving, which she bought for one dollar at a library sale, attracted by its sophisticated prep school drawl.  It took her two months to get through Garp’s intricate life story because of the complexity of the style and the abundance of the new words.  The pocket Russian-English dictionary Irina was always carrying in her capacious bag didn’t survive the long subway rides and midnight reading sessions and came apart at seams.  By the time she finished the book, however, she only needed to consult it in special cases.

In about a year Irina realized reading in English language was as enjoyable for her as reading in Russian.  The images conjured by the words on the paper were coming naturally to her once more.  Al was a distant memory, which didn’t pain her anymore, because she was preoccupied with the immediacy of her new life.  She was finally ready to continue with The Great Search.

One dismal winter day, when the sky was full of pregnant heavy clouds, Irina left the office where she was working as a Data Entry Clerk and took a stroll up the Fifth Avenue.  She entered the gigantic Barnes and Noble store and was immediately absorbed by its relaxing atmosphere and the multitude of soft voices coming from the sturdy shelves.  She had a curious premonition that something important was bound to happen that day.  Irina waited in line at the information desk, and when the hippie-looking sales assistant asked how he can help her, she tried to explain what exactly she was looking for: a story written in Spanish by someone who spoke of death and love as if they were two sides of the same coin.

The sales assistant was the first person in Irina’s life who didn’t become perplexed with her question.  In his opinion, he said, Marquez would be the best bet.  Irina readily agreed with this assessment, admitting that she had only read one book by this writer but was definitely open for more.

She traveled through the maze of book shelves to the letter M in the Fiction section, and soon became immersed into the world of mysterious people who lived on the edge of a dangerous abyss protected only by their connection to the things that were impossible to describe and could only be felt.  The characters from Marquez’s books were so full of life, yet so aware of death: it was disconcerting and exhilarating at the same time.  It was like falling in love.

Many years later, when she was telling her own children about this experience, Irina was still able to recall the atmosphere of the store, the low whisper of the books on the shelves and the moment of piercing happiness when she opened a collection of stories on the Table of Contents and read the title of the last story: The Trail of Your Blood in the Snow.  Not believing her luck, Irina fumbled with the pages until she found the first sentence: “At nightfall, when they reached the frontier, Nena Daconte realized that her finger with the wedding band on it was still bleeding.”

And just like that The Great Search was finally over.   Irina stood with the book in her trembling hand, not realizing that people around her were running toward the windows to look at the ethereally beautiful snow that blanketed Manhattan completely within an hour.


Ambivalent is the right word for the moment.  This is how I feel most of the time lately, it seems.

I’ve been thinking about this whole Golden Globes Meryl Streep controversy a lot.  I am not sure how I feel about her speech.  On one hand, throughout history of theater actors always used their position in order to champion their views on everything and everyone, but on the other hand, something about that particular speech at that particular occasion didn’t sound right to me.  Then, of course, thousands of people, starting with our president-elect joined the fray and happily used every medium available in this advanced century to express their opinions and post their memes.

Theater and politics always went hand in hand.  It started during Greek and Roman times, I suppose, because theaters were among the places where politicians, philosophers and orators delivered their speeches.  This tradition persists in modern times as well.   As The Bard famously proclaimed, All the world’s a stage / And all the men and women merely players, so being on the stage within the stage amplifies the effect of any action.  Film is just an extension of theater, it seems to me.

I’ve been a huge fan of Meryl Streep since I first saw her in The French Leutenant’s Woman speaking in the voice of a hesitant Russian dubber, back in Lvov when I was 17 years old.  For some reason I only managed to see Kramer vs. Kramer and Sophie’s Choice much later and in English, which definitely improved the experience.  She is one of the most versatile actresses, who perfectly embodies different characters in dramas, comedies and even musicals.  She is definitely not overrated, in my humble opinion.

It’s difficult to find something to say against her as a person, but the one who looks, will always find something.  One of the frequently posted memes questioned her integrity because she gave standing ovation to Roman Polanski’s Oscar win for The Pianist.  The meme goes like this: she must be a hypocrite, because she opposed Trump for mocking a disabled reporter, but cheered a convicted child rapist.

Here is my take on this.  Roman Polanski is undeniably a very gifted director, whose movies are a real work of art.  This, of course, doesn’t cancel the fact that he molested a 13 year old girl, was convicted for this crime and run away.  It doesn’t prevent him, however, from making wonderful movies with amazing actors, and getting all imaginable awards for his craft.  He cannot come to the US or to the countries that have extradition agreement with the US, but it doesn’t look like this situation hinders him in any way.

The Pianist is a gem of a film, so poignant and so tender, that I cried while watching it.  Polanski deserved his Oscar, but was unable to collect it in person, because of the aforementioned conviction.  Lots of pundits stood up when the win was announced, and, in my opinion, they applauded the immense talent and the courage it took the Holocaust survivor to make a movie about Holocaust.  So, it looks like Meryl Streep separated the craft from the person on that occasion, and was happy to see the film and director receive their deserved awards.

However, by the same token, I think that she should’ve separated the Golden Globes, where she received the Lifetime Achievement award for her craft from her political position.  If she was able to do it for Roman Polanski, she should’ve done the same for Donald Trump.  If she was there to celebrate the talent, the miracle of becoming someone else entirely, the mastery behind every movement, every glance and every word, she should’ve left behind not only the criminal action of one person, but also the indiscreet and hurtful actions of the other.

Having said that, I have to admit that I agree with most of her speech, with the exception of dislike of foreigners.  Two of Trump’s three wives are foreigners.  If he is accepting them in his family, I don’t see why he would object to them in Hollywood.

I strongly dislike Donald Trump and adore Meryl Streep, but the feeling of ambivalence is what is left in me in the wake of that debacle.


The Game of Chess: An excerpt from the story

“Please, not again!”

David was so tired of poking and prodding, he almost cried when he heard a knock on the door.

The hellish ordeal started two weeks ago, when a sharp chest pain suddenly interrupted his peaceful repose and made him gasp for air, like a fish out of its pond.  During the ambulance ride, punctuated by the wailing siren and Zoe’s anxious cries, David reflected on the fact that somehow he didn’t think he was dying at that time, which he tried to communicate to the people around him so they would just leave him alone for a bit until the pain subsided.  This profound conviction was shaken a little, when a middle-aged and suitably grim cardiologist told him that he had a massive heart attack.  Three days later another middle-aged and grim cardiologist performed a bypass surgery, and since that time David had been cooped up in the hospital with tubes sticking out of him every which way.  Most of the time he was in a morphine induced slumber, but sometimes he found himself in that liminal state, when he just hovered on the edge between consciousness and sleep, being neither fully here nor there.  But no matter where David’s spirit was, his body was still present in this world, and therefore, there was always someone at the door, checking his temperature, recording his blood pressure, reinserting his catheters, drawing blood, making him cough, examining his sutures until he felt that the only reason for his existence is to be the object of constant medical attention.  Then again, what can you expect at the ripe age of 86?

Today was one of the good days, though.  Faye, his favorite nurse, was a petite Asian girl, exquisite like one of the tiny German porcelain statuettes Zoe kept in the family china.  She had a gentle touch and a beautiful smile, so David minded it much less when she was the one who had to poke him with the needles or check his catheters.  He felt that physical discomfort might be a fair price for the pure aesthetic pleasure of watching Faye efficiently perform her sometimes unsavory duties.  Still, he would have preferred to be left alone once in a while.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Bernstein!” she chimed in her high musical voice that always made him feel like she is one breath away from bursting into a song, “No needles, no procedures!  You have a visitor.”

She ushered a tall cadaverous man into David’s room and disappeared behind the door.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bernstein.”  The visitor tried to shake David’s hand, but quickly reconsidered the gesture, assessing the amount of tubes and electronic equipment near the bed.  He was dressed in a somber black suit with a tasteful dark red tie.  “My name is Joe Brown of Brown, Little, Maxx and Black, L.L.C.  I am here in the capacity of legal executor of Mr. Robert Rubin’s will.  You were a close friend of the gentleman, I assume?”

“Robert?  Close friend, you said?” David slowly searched the depths of his befuddled memory for the name, coming up with nothing.  “I am afraid I can’t recall him, Mr. Brown.  Maybe I am not the right David Bernstein?  It’s a rather common name, I think.”

“Well, let me see.”  Mr. Brown nimbly scooted around the bed to the chair and comfortably plopped himself down. “You are David Aronovich Bernstein, born October 29, 1930 in Odessa, Ukraine.  Graduated from Lvov Polytechnic Institute in 1953 with a degree in mechanical engineering and were employed at the Lvov Bus Factory.  Am I right so far?”  David shook his head, speechless.

“I thought so.” Mr. Brown permitted himself a satisfactory smile.  “You and your family immigrated to the United States in 1975, where you worked as an engineer at ConEdison until you retired in 1999.  We are very thorough in our job, Mr. Bernstein.  Mistakes are extremely rare in our line of work.”

“OK, I admit, you got the right person.” David frowned at Mr. Brown, trying to concentrate on the lawyer’s face, but finding that impossible for some reason.  “However, I still don’t recall a Mr. Rubin, which is kind of strange, since he apparently made a bequest to me in his will.  Don’t you find it peculiar, Mr. Brown?”

“Do you play chess, Mr. Bernstein?” The question came as a surprise, which was exactly how it was intended.

“I… I do, or, rather did, as a matter of fact.  But I just don’t see how this is relevant to our conversation, Mr. Brown.”  David was uncomfortable and this bizarre business was making him very annoyed indeed.

“In a minute you will, Mr. Bernstein.” The lawyer’s beady eyes securely held David’s muddled gaze, as if trying to transmit some vital information to him without actually speaking.  “Mr. Rubin was a Candidate Master, like yourself, I believe.  He played chess all his life.  As a matter of fact, death caught him in the middle of the game.”

“Wait!” David suddenly captured the tail of a fleeting memory.  “I remember now.  I did know Bob Rubin, although I never actually met him in person.  A long time ago I played a few games with him by mail.  I couldn’t always go to the chess competitions, but at that time it was possible to still pass the necessary levels playing games via letter exchange.  He lived in Tallinn, right?  Oh, God, it was such a long time ago!  I must remember to tell my children about it, they will love it.”  David unexpectedly felt a burst of energy and fumbled with the controls of his bed trying to lift himself to a more comfortable position.  “May I ask how he died?”

“It was a heart attack.”

The words cut through David’s foggy brain like a knife through a fresh loaf of bread.  “You don’t say,” he mumbled, trying to avoid thinking about his own very close brush with death.  “Poor Bob.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Bernstein,” said Mr. Brown, sounding contrite.  “I shouldn’t have upset you.  Would you like to see what Mr. Rubin had left for you?  It might cheer you up.”   The lawyer produced an old shoebox from his bag and put it on a bedside table.

“Yes, yes, of course,” David took the box in his hands and examined it carefully.  It was very old, held together with strips of clear scotch tape, and definitely not made in the US.  “Let’s see what it is.  I am actually extremely surprised that Bob would leave anything to me.  I mean, I’ve never even seen the man.”

He lifted the fragile lid and peered inside.  He saw an old chess set and a few yellowed letters in the envelopes that brought a whole lifetime of memories back.  He would’ve recognized those square envelopes anywhere.  Only in the USSR would people write the address before their name, with the zip code in a separate section at the bottom.  The whimsical pictures on the left side were so pale with age they were barely recognizable, but if you looked carefully, you could still make them out.  Bewildered, David picked up the first envelope with a picture of a biker tearing through a sketchy forest and carefully took out the letter.  And just like that, he was back in time of the five-year plans, survivor optimism, communism right around the corner and post-war hunger.

November 2, 1952

Hello, Robert.

My name is David Bernstein, and I am very grateful to you for agreeing to play a Candidate Master game with me by mail.  Due to my class load, I am temporarily unable to travel, so this is the only chance for me to get the necessary points.  I am 22 years old and studying to be a mechanical engineer at the Lvov Polytechnic Institute.  I have a sister named Irina, who is 15 years old. I’ve played chess with my father since I was 10.  I’ve been a member of Lvov Chess School for the past 3 years, which helped me to refine my game.  I hope you will enjoy playing with me!

Responding to your first move to e4, I’ll go to e5.


David dropped the letter back into the box.  “Well, my writing style has improved markedly since that time, I can assure you.” He smiled sheepishly and looked at Mr. Brown, a little discombobulated.  “I just can’t believe Bob saved them,” he said, shaking his head.  “I wonder why he did it…”

Mr. Brown’s sharp eyes never left David’s face while he was reading the letter.  “I don’t know the answer, of course,” he finally admitted.  “I was thinking, Mr. Bernstein, would you like to recreate the game with me?”

“What, right now?” David was puzzled by the suggestion, but at the same time he felt the familiar tingling in his fingertips.  This always happened to him before the game.  He used to think his brain was charging his whole body with energy by sending electrical currents everywhere.  He joked once that this was probably how one might feel if plugged into an outlet.  “Are you a chess player as well, Mr. Brown?”

“I’ve been known to play a game or two in my time,” modestly answered Mr. Brown.

“Well, in that case I’m afraid I won’t be able to offer you an anything stimulating in my present state of alertness,” said David.

“Don’t worry about it!” hastened Mr. Brown.  “We won’t actually be playing a new game, right?  Merely recreating the one you played with Mr. Rubin.  We have your moves in the letters, of course, so all we will have to do is to come up with countermoves.”  He smiled unexpectedly.  “Could be therapeutic.”

Panoply of Words

First of all, I love the sound of this word.  Somehow it reminds me of a patchwork quilt: it’s irregular and orderly at the same time.  Since I started learning English, I was always amazed by how different this language is from my native tongue – Russian.

Russian is a very flexible language.  Every word can be changed and, with the help of prefixes and suffixes, become almost unrecognizable.  The sentences don’t have a rigid date-linguistword order.  Theoretically speaking, it helps if a subject goes before the verb, but it’s not required.  You can change a declarative sentence into interrogative by simply putting a question mark at the end – no need for doing anything more than that.  The amount of word variations is almost indefinite: we have an extraordinary amount of derivative suffixes at our disposal, and our kids’ names go through the stages, much like the kids themselves.

For example, take my son’s name: Michael.  Ordinary, simple and internationally recognizable.  Nobody has any trouble pronouncing it in any language.  Over the course of his short life his name went through the following transformations: Mishanya, Masyusya, Mishanechka, Mishan’ka, Mus’ka, Mas’ka, Myshonok, Mishushonok, Mishechka, Mishulya, Mishka, Mikey and Mike (this, of course, being an american influence).  Believe it or not, I probably missed a few…  Some of the excessively sibilant ones drew firm reprimands from my husband, who was complaining that I was diminishing my son’s male essence by using these names, but, being in the grip of irreverent motherly love, I paid no attention to that.  My son is 14 now and is as much a man as someone who never heard funny variations of his manly name.  Now do you see what I mean?  All of these derivatives of one of the most common name in the world are possible in Russian.  Every relative can pick and use whatever version they want – it’s still the same name.  Only your imagination can limit you in creation of new variations of your beloved child’s moniker.

When I just started studying English, I was a little put out by its syntactic restrictions and its inadequate supply of derivatives (or so I thought at the time).  But with time I understood that whatever English might be missing in terms of word creation, it more than compensates by word abundance.  There are so many strange and beautiful sounding words in English, that my nerdy heart skips a bit every time I encounter one of them.  The way words are formed in English is also different from Russian, but now I find it exciting and imaginative.  21 years later I finally made my peace with English and now am using it as my primary writing language, although I know that it’s still far from being perfect.

linguistic-relativity-thesisOn my precious iPhone I keep a running list of my favorite words.  In order to make it to my list the word has to be uncommon and beautifully formed.  I don’t know how to explain how I can tell that the word is beautiful, though.  I guess it’s all about the balance of the parts of the word, the letters used to represent it and the meaning it conveys.  I have a perfunctory knowledge of Latin, courtesy of Lviv State University, where I studied a lifetime ago, so sometimes I can guess the meaning of the word by recognizing its Latin root. However, even if the word is coming from a different language, occasionally I can discern what it means just by the way it sounds.

In a way, my obsession with the words reminds me of the beginning chapter in Umberto Eco’s book ‘Baudolino’, of which I am not the biggest fan, but this is as close as I can get to explaining what the connection of the word, sound and meaning means to me.  In the first chapter of that book the main character, Baudolino, is trying to invent written language.  And he is boldly trying to capture on paper what he sees in this mind’s eye, reconcile it with what he feels in his heart, and make it permanent by writing it down.

Every time I see a word like ‘Excrescence’ or ‘Absquatulate’, I can envision the long Blogger's Block: 'I'm all nouned out.'journey it had to make in people’s minds in order for me to be able to read and enjoy it.  To me, the words have personalities, just as humans do.  For instance, ‘wheedle’ is playful and light, but ‘virago’ is heavy and unyielding; ‘puissant’ definitely has a chip on its shoulder, and ‘invidious’ is sneaky and secretive; it’s obvious to me that ‘salubrious’ and ‘lugubrious’ are at odds with each other, and ‘prolixity’ is a sin I personally suffer from.

What more can I say?  I am a nerd and proud of it!


My Mythical Adventure

When my daughter was little, she never liked fairy tales.  Actually, my son didn’t like them either, now that I think about it.  Is this normal?  To me, fairy tales were the windows into the world of unknown danger, suicidal trials and magical surprises.  I mean, isn’t it cool to wake up one morning, getting ready for another miserable day in the chain of never godmommyending miserable days, and suddenly find a mysterious godmother sitting next to you, who wants nothing more than to fix your life for you, effectively putting a stop to the general unhappiness?  How can you not like it, I ask you?  I wouldn’t mind this godmother dropping in on me.  Apparently you don’t like it if you have a combination of my and my husband’s genes, with his proteins trampling mine on every turn.

Myths, however, is something my kids and I can actually bond over.  In my wenge Ikea book case I’ve got Mythological Encyclopedia, multiple versions of Greek and Roman myths, and the Holy Bible of every faithful anthropological student – The Golden Bough by James Frazer.  They are quietly gathering dust, until my loving hand plucks one of them from the shelf and takes it for a wild ride. Since my daughter was about 6 years old, she would fall asleep to the inspirational stories of Gods,Titans and Heroes fighting, falling in love, killing each other and doing much worse things to humans and the whole world in general.  My son definitely preferred the fighting myths to the sappy romantic adventures, but to my daughter the classification of the story always meant much less than the story itself.  And so, happy to share at least some of my inner world with my offspring, I animatedly recounted for them Heracles’s twelve labors, Eo’s frantic and futile flight from the tormenting wasp, Prometheus’s noble sacrifice, and anything else I thought was appropriate for whatever ages my kids were at thematrix time when they were still willing to listen to the stories.  They really liked Odysseus, didn’t care much for the brooding Achilles (I was actually able to trick my daughter into listening to a part of The Song of the Niebelungs, which dovetailed neatly into Ilead), were impressed by Athena’s wisdom and Hermes’s tricks, and repulsed by Agamemnon’s horrible sacrifice.  Eventually, the history of the world, Greek style, was imparted on them this way.

Of course, myths and fairy tales are very closely related, but I won’t go into anthropological nuances right now.  The three people who are actually reading my blog might just stop doing it, if I bore them to death with comparative analysis :).  I was always curious though, why my kids preferred one over the other.  Since both of them are not into reading, writing, or anything remotely related to liberal arts, it took me a long time to extract answers from them.  Apparently, to my kids the mythical creatures are more real and more relatable than fairy tale characters.  I took this confusing statement at the face value and forgot about it for awhile.

Some time ago though, I found that my kids are not the only ones, who are thinking along these lines.  Rick Riordan’s mythopoeic novels, Hunger Games and The Maze Runner trilogies, and even Harry Potter and Game of Thrones series are steeped in myths.  The characters, ideas and situations described in Greek and Roman mythology are constantly finding their way into our lives.  And we are losing ourselves in modern versions of Theseus’s journey through the Labyrinth, Zeus’s fight with his father Chronos, Prometheus’s plight to improve human race (and don’t start me on Oedipus and his weird family); thereby confirming what my kids knew all along – there is a very fine line between myths and reality, and we constantly cross it at will.


Second Thoughts

Second thoughts… I’ve had them since I remember myself.  I can never adhere to one idea, or accept one point of view.  I always see two sides to every argument,  I have second thoughts about every action I take, every decision I make.

I always envy people, who are one hundred percent sure of their convictions.  It doesn’t matter whether I agree or disagree with them, I just envy their ability to shut down arguments of the opposite side.  It’s not like I don’t have a definite opinion about things or have an amorphous belief system, I do have strong views about some things…in my own freaky way.  I simply can hear contradicting opinions as well.  And some of them make sense to me.

Take the recent presidential election, for example.  I was one of those despised undecided voters who didn’t know who they will vote for until they came into the voting booth.  I envied the Trump and Clinton supporters, who picked the side and firmly stayed with it.  I couldn’t do it.  Some arguments that came from the camps of both candidates made sense to me, and some didn’t.  But I just couldn’t place myself in the specific camp.

Yes, Trump won, but didn’t he run as an against-the-system candidate?  How does it make sense than, that it’s the system of electoral college that made him a president, not the majority of voters?  And becoming a president, hasn’t he become a part of the system he eviscerated during the campaign?  Now, when he is a part of the very system he wanted to ‘clean’, didn’t he fill his transition team with the people that were very much part of that system for many years?

On the other side, Hillary, who theoretically was the system (Democratic party) candidate, seemingly went against her core constituency by suggesting things like getting rid of coal industry, which cost her Pennsylvania, and calling Trump supporters ‘a basket of deplorables’, which probably cost her a few hundred thousands of potential voters as well.  Regardless what you think about her, those weren’t the smartest things to say on the campaign trail, and the system punished her for it.

Another example is faith.  I think I believe in God.  Not in the specific God, mind.  Every belief system has a right to exist and every interpretation is evocative to some group of people.  I would love to belong to any of these groups.  For the first time in my life I bitterly regretted not to be among the faithful after September 11.  Religious people went to their temples and found solace communicating with their respective Gods. But there was no solace for me.  I always thought that the doubting Thomas was the most real character in the Bible, because he had to see something in order to believe in it, and only after receiving verifiable proof was he able to truly surrender himself to the wonder of devotion.  I guess I am still waiting for some kind of proof to come my way.

I really do think there is a difference between not knowing what one wants and understanding consequences of each choice.  It’s true that sometimes the result of both ways of thinking is sitting on one’s butt and not doing anything, but the reasoning is totally different.  In one case it’s passive, in another case, it’s active.  Active thinking and weighing of the consequences will ultimately result in some kind of action, so it’s ok if it takes more time to figure out what that action should be.

There are very few things in my life that I don’t have second thoughts about.  Everything is up for a discussion, everything is a subject to change.  Does it make me a weak person?  I don’t think so.  I think this quality makes me more aware of other people around me, their thoughts and needs.  Nevertheless, I do have strong one sided opinions about certain things.  For example, I think that a man, who assaults a woman, or abuses a child has no right to walk this earth.  A woman, who hurts a child should not be allowed near another human being, because nothing is worth the tears of that one tortured child. Other than that, I will hear everything, weigh my options, wrestle with the second thoughts and most likely will make a decision at the end, or change the one I already made (if I can).  It doesn’t mean that it will be the right decision, just the one that I was most comfortable with at the specific time…

Second Thoughts 




I am always waiting for something.  When I was a child I was waiting for specific birthdays.  For some reason I thought that something very important is going to happen to me when I will be 19, 30 and 45 years old.  I was right so far: I got married when I was 19, my son was born when I turned 30, and I can’t wait for my next birthday to learn what life has in store for me at 45.

I was waiting for my kids to stop getting sick all the time, for my lucky stars to tell me what to do in terms of my career, for my parents to move closer to me, and most of all, for peace in my soul.  I am longing to be content with my life, but some unconscious black spot is always present in the back of my mind.  I feel that I lost my way somehow and not sure where to go from where I am.

I keep thinking that I am on the cusp of some defining event right now.  Everything that is happening around me is telling me that I am waiting for something.  I don’t know what it is.  I just hope it’s worth the wait.



Promises, promises…

How many times I promised myself something and then found a way not to do it?  Probably hundreds of times just in the month of October.  There is always an excuse not to do something that’s difficult or time consuming or unpleasant…  Let’s see, for the past months I promised myself the following things (and, trust me, all of them warrant exclamation points):

  1.  Go back to gym! (on hold lately due to my wrist surgery on top of my back surgery).  Theoretically, nothing prevents me from running on a treadmill, for example, or doing crunches in my living room, but I am one of those people, who needs a group of fellow sufferers and a merciless instructor to look forward to, not the solitary funny-gym-ecardreflection times on my carpet, and the classes in my gym all require two working hands…  And I still can’t go to Zumba, damn it!  Feeble excuse, I know, I know…
  2. Get on a diet already!  For someone who was able to adhere to Dukan diet for 2 years with great results just to watch it fail spectacularly one day for no good reason, any new diet is a painful commitment.   Yes, I need to cut on carbs, but what about those Goji berries, I am addicted to now?  I have at least three one pound bags stashed somewhere in the depths of my kitchen, and they have tons of vitamins ;).  How can I live without them?  And what about my monthly outings with the best foodie girls in the world?  You know who you are, I love you, guys!  Another sorry excuse…
  3. classy-wastedStop it with the wine!  Pain introduced me to alcohol last year and I’ve become a huge fan of red wine as a result.  Then the trip to Ireland in the summer affirmed my drinker status courtesy of a trip to Teeling whiskey distillery, and my life will never be the same after learning the proper whiskey tasting techniques.  Oh, the wine!  The heavy bodied Cabernet, light and flirty Beaujolais, and special occasions Amarone!  How will I live without you?  Insert a teary Emoji here, I can’t find a shortcut…
  4. Quit bitching about my job!  I have it, shouldn’t it be enough?  Tearful complains to everyone within the earshot are not doing me any good, and probably bored my friends to death by now.  It’s time to bite the bullet and get on with it.
  5. Stop this obsession with Outlander! This got to be the weirdest one.  I never obsessed with a movie, or a book, or with an actor or actress before.  Am I going crazy, people?  The show came to me after reading a review page in The New Yorker this June, the books came in the middle of binge watching Season 1 and whatever was c136a5cce30688f23112fafd3ed5c033out there already from Season 2.  At some point I understood that I just can’t wait the whole week to learn what happened next, and downloaded all 8 books to my Kindle.  By the time Season 2 finale aired I already knew what will be there, but cried my eyes out anyway.  It helps (or doesn’t, depending on the point of view) that the main actors are ridiculously attractive.  What the hell makes me rewatch and reread favorite moments specifically in this series, I will never understand.  I was never a pop culture fan.  Game of Thrones was a binge as well, but nothing will make me watch again the finale of Season 6.  I like the music from it, though.  It’s eerie and beautiful and a little creepy.  I listen to it from time to time on my iPhone and think about various deaths that happened while it played.  Yes, creepy, I know.  Hey, maybe I should subscribe to the workout sessions that Sam Heughan developed, this way I can exercise while feeding my obsession?  OK, the fact I am even considering it has to be the most out of the character thing in my entire life.  Is it the age, people?  It’s got to be the age…
  6. Get out more!  This should be easy, right?  I love museums, theater, hiking and traveling.  So what exactly is stopping me from doing something exciting every weekend?  Thanks to Broadway tickets are reasonably priced, my son loves theater, my husband tags along willy-nilly, and I have a bunch of friends that would love to spend a day in a museum with me (at least I like to think so).  My excuse for this one is: our basement reconstruction is not finished, so we need to pick stuff, buy stuff, transport stuff, and so on.  Of course, we’ve been doing it for quite some time, and most of the things we need have already been taken care of.  All right, I am lazy, I guess…  That’s no excuse, but at least I am honest with myself.

It seems I can go on for quite some time with the list of last month’s promises, but enough is enough.  Let’s hope I’ll act on at least couple of them this month.


What’s in a Name?

This is a review of ‘My Name is Black’ by Orhan Pamuk.

Let me begin by stating that I love this book.  This is my second time reading it, and it still seems to retain the original beauty and mystery upon rereading.

This amazing mystery novel is taking place in the 16th century Istanbul, where a miniaturist (actually a master guilder) has been killed by an unknown perpetrator.  We immediately gather, though, that the murderer is one of the victim’s co-workers, so to speak, another master from the same workshop.  The narrative is broken into separate stories, each told from a different prospective by a different character.  Some of them are told in a voice of a picture, drawn by one of the miniaturists, who are potentially implicated in the murder; one of them is told by a corpse, and some of them are told by the murderer himself, who the author is daring us to identify.

It can be considered a hermetic mystery, although the suspects are not locked up in the same house.  They are, nevertheless, bound to each other and the locale by the rules of their trade and by the sense of impeding doom.  The doom is brought by the different style of painting – the Frankish style, which is slowly reaching the Ottoman empire and infiltrating the painters’ minds.  I feel that we, the people of European culture, cannot adequately appreciate the battle the characters are fighting.  Their whole world is coming to a halt because of introduction of the portraiture into their lives.  While thousands of Islamic miniaturists faithfully copied pictures, created by the great masters before them, and eliminated any indication of a personal style or likeness to real people, the Frankish painters celebrated the difference of style, colors and subjects.  When I try to think what it must have meant to the old Master Osman, who spent his whole life following the lead of the old masters of Herat, never wavering from predetermined path and prescribed arrangements to find out that the Sultan has surreptitiously ordered a book done in Frankish style, it makes my heart ache for him.  Thus, the main conflict of this book is not between the murderer and the victim – it’s actually between East and West, the old style and progress, Renaissance and medieval traditions.

Everything was foreign and difficult to understand for me in this book:  the feelings between Shekure and Black; preoccupation with blindness among the miniaturists; the way the characters said one thing, while actually meaning something completely opposite, and everybody knew it and understood everything correctly; the real fear of developing an individual style of painting; and even the way the murderer was finally identified by the way he drew a horse.  The main female protagonist, Shekure, seems very conceited and dishonest, but it’s totally possible that I misinterpret her actions, since I don’t have a frame of reference to judge them by.  Black, the main character, is the only one, who I kind of understand, because he seems to say what he thinks and is true to his word.  I loved he complexity of his feelings when he is torn between mourning for his Enishte, love and desire for Shekure, and fear of the Sultan’s wrath upon learning that the book that he commissioned from Enishte Effendi is not going to be completed, pictures are stolen, money spent, and two masters from his workshop are dead in the process.

The book invites comparison to ‘The Name of the Rose’ by Umberto Eco, not only because of the title, but also because of striking similarities of the content.  In both books the murders happen in the painters’ workshops and have powerful religious undertones, in both books the killer seeks to stop the progress of thoughts and ideas through elimination of the people, who are curious and like to learn something new; and in both books the person, who actually commits the murders does it out of fear that the life as they knew it is vanishing fast, and they feel that they need to protect whatever is left of it.  I’d love to go into the comparative analysis of these two books, but am afraid that the blog is not a proper place for it 🙂

When I was re-reading this book, I was puzzled by the fact that I didn’t actually remember who the killer was.  How was this possible?  I remembered the kind of soup Esther cooked for her supper (lentil), the name of the slave girl that belonged to Shekure (Hayriye), and the color of Hasan’s sword (red, of course), but the main thing of every mystery novel – the name of the murderer – was lost.  I think it’s because the suspects were so consciously devoid of the individuality, that any one of them could’ve committed the murder under proper circumstances. Yes, they were different human beings, but they had more things in common, than the things that set them apart.  When they had to drew a horse upon the Sultan’s request, all 3 of them drew it in a way that did not reflect who they were, but rather, whose style of painting each of them followed.

In conclusion I just want to add that to me this book represents the triumph of individuality over the masses.  I think this is why Black was melancholy until his dying day – he was fighting the same battle inside his head as his Enishte, and wasn’t sure that celebrating each person’s uniqueness is the right thing according to Koran.