Яна Варшавская
Very bad English / Очень плохой English
© Y. Varshavskaya, 2019
© International Union of Writers, 2019
Yana Varshavskaya
Very bad ENGLISH
Yana Varshavskaya
Winner of the 2nd Prize of the national literary award «Writer of the Year» (2013).
Winner of the 2nd Prize and Winner of the International Poetry Competition «The Golden Stanza» (2011–2015).
Holder of S. Ya. Nadson medal «For Personal Contribution to the Development of Russian
Culture and Literature», «65 Years of ISP», Vladimir Nabokov medal «For Contribution to Foreign Literature», Boris and Gleb medal «For Sincerity in Literature» and the commemorative medal «220 Years to A. S. Pushkin».
She took 1st place in the Innocent Annensky Poetry Competition on the 34th International Festival «Aelita» (2017).
Awarded with the 3rd place in Marina Tsvetaeva Poetry Competition on RosCon festival (2017).
Marked with V. Belinsky Special Prize at the RosCon Fiction Festival (2019).
Author of 8 books and 50 collections published in 2011–2019.
Awarded with more than 70 diplomas, gratitudes and certificated from numerous contests and festivals.
This book was published thanks to my wonderful friends who live in Minneapolis-Saint Paul, Minnesota, USA.
Lilia Burleva, Jan Alboszta, I love you!
Introduction
I like novels like this one. Honest and open, like a conversation with a best friend. Maybe not the best, but the one ready to listen to you, which I think means a lot. The female lead character understands everything about herself, and doesn't even try to deceive herself anymore. She adds a little truth, a little bit of humor and completes the dish of her life with an interesting story. Only a woman who is honest with herself can talk about herself like this: «But I have nothing. Rather, I need everything. I have no apartment, no car, no summer house, no husband. Not even a dog. Oh yes… I have a dorm room. Six meters. From the threshold you can immediately collapse onto the sofa.»
It all begins with a letter from the unknown D. Frost, sent from America to Siberia. That's an intrigue! But then the letter story is forgotten, and the girl is waiting for her trip to the sea and Dubrovnik, she finds… a corpse at the door of her dormitory. What an amazing pun: «This stranger was the first dead man I saw…»
I'm very excited to tell you, reader, the whole plot of this first-class novel. It's very name, «Very Bad English», is worth mentioning. But we won't. We will not steal your hours of pleasure from «bathing» in a light, lively and alluring text. We can only add that if you are a fan of diary entries, you will come off to the fullest. Dates, nuances, small details and observations, open emotions are in the notes of the main character's sister. They sound like a separate song.
The author is very good at grasping reality and transferring to paper, conveying the mood and exposing women's internal dialogues. What is the other woman thinking? It's a mystery Yana Varshavskaya solved.
Maria Ziablova, journalist, criticist
The works of Yana Varshavskaya, both prosaic and poetic, retain a special atmosphere of mystery.
The novel «Very Bad English», which is defined as «female mystery,» is a narrative «about intricacies and unexpected turns of Fate…»
The roots of the plot can be found long before the beginning of the story. Two sisters, twins, were separated: their parents divorced, and their mother took one of the daughters with her. Their further fate destroys all accepted stereotypes about twins: they should have certainly become similar, choose the same life path, but this does not happen. On the contrary, they are contrasting, although this does not interfere with sisterly love.
The other twins are Dormidont, nicknamed Doremi, and Donald Frost. They are separated by oceans, borders and many other things… Fate seems to play with them: they meet in an Internet program, then, not allowed to speak or contact each other, they are immediately tear apart when the electricity is off.
At the same time, fate creates a different chain of coincidences, oddities, mystical events or simple surprises. The magic of numbers, the magic of general books, the magic of words – as if all the secret forces of the other world set the goal of connecting two pairs. They are led to each other to meet the «inexplicable secret», «the whisper of the Lord». Led to a happy ending and pairing.
However, «the two most important threads have remained unconnected. Doni Frost and Dorian Cooper… No one was embarrassed by the fact that young people are so alike and were born on the same day!» It seems to be a shadow overshadowing happiness. However, if you think about it, this means only one thing: the book of life has not yet been completed and, perhaps, another story will serve as a continuation.
SELECTION COMMITTEE I AS. PUSHKIN INTERNATIONAL LITERARY FESTIVALCrimea, 2019
Part I
Taska
He was still alive when I came in. The man was lying on the floor. His eyes turned to the sky were open. In fact, the sky was replaced by the high ceiling of our five-story dormitory.
Perhaps this was some last impulse… He extended his hand to me and said:
«Now the thread is broken!» His hand trembled, and he somehow immediately changed his face, as if petrified.
I stood right at the door, unable to move. This stranger was the first dead man I've ever seen…
Prologue
It's a dull weekend morning.
I have no need to wake up early today to walk to the university.
Actually, I love to walk. This is one of the few things I really love. I cross familiar streets, adjusting myself and getting used to the idea that I will hardly be able to change anything in this city. After all, there is nothing more boring than the work of an engineer. Well, let me clarify… An engineer of a laboratory.
For three or four years studying at university was a joy to me.
But it was a long time ago. I quickly got used to it and got bored. Now I'm thirty. Actually, a little more… The work now does not cause a faintest reflection of former polar sensations. No fear, no love. Although now I am a leading engineer, I'm still a leading engineer of a laboratory.
I'm thirty. All right! A little more. It's easier to list what I have than what I don't… I don't have anything. Or rather I need everything. I have no apartment, no car, no summer house, no husband. Not even a dog.
Oh yes…
I have a six-meter dorm room. You can immediately fall into the sofa once you enter. There is also a round aquarium with two black telescope carps and three goldfish, measuredly going nowhere. It seems that there is no limit to their indignation… Whenever I look in the direction of the aquarium, I see huge eyes and hear incessant conversations. How much more can they chat? Well, at least fish don't have a voice. So let them chat!
The aquarium has been decorating my home for five years and has replaced the sketchbook easel with aluminum legs, which is now assembled and occupies all the free space between the large tall wardrobe and the wall. The long easel straps occasionally catch my eye, but…
Evening art school is over. Period. No more sketches, no monotypes and drafts. Nothing. I turned this page.
Fish got hungry in the morning, so they swam to the walls of their glass shelter to demand food and, as it seemed to me, promise to fulfill any of my wishes. I automatically opened a box with dry larvae…
«Try to surprise me,» I said, crushing the food over the water.
Going down to the ground floor, I asked for mail with no hope in my voice.
«Just a letter, Tanya. But what a letter!» The duty watchman exclaimed, handing me a weighty A4 envelope.
«Well, well…» I thought, «You did surprise me!»
There were stamps in the upper right corner, just like expected. Remarkable stamps with large yellow flowers and the words: «I LOVE YOU!»
Trembling from emotions suddenly surging, I opened the letter, very carefully, not yet fully believing that it was addressed to me. In any case, it would not be difficult for me to seal it, and no one would have suspected that the envelope had already been opened.
The text of the letter was very neat, but… Good God, it's English! Yes, and it's written in block letters.
Chapter 1
Antipodes
The most common misconception regarding twins is that they all have a similar fate, call their children the same names, though without exchanging a word…
Probably, there is some truth in this. And there are thousands of examples, because they tell about such cases in popular magazines and books. But did anyone mention the dissimilar ones?
I'm afraid it would not seem so interesting…
Our parents decided to arrange a global experiment within a small family. I still don't get what they wanted to achieve. Apparently, there is still some reasonable explanation, but…
We were nearly copies of each other, or at least as similar as a reflection in the mirror and the one who looks into it. My mole is coquettishly located on my right cheek, while Eva has it on her left. My sister's right eye always betrayed her with a slight squint when she thought of a trick. My left eye betrayed me just as treacherously… But this fact was known only to our inner circle.
My sister and I studied in different classes and at birth we were given different last names. So few people at school knew that we were relatives, not to mention twins… I was the proud owner of my father's last name, while Eva carried the last name of her mother. She did not change it even when she got marriage certificate at the registry office, as she simply did not want to bother with a pile of certificates, diplomas and other documents that required replacement and waste of valuable time.
Parents could not spoil our happy childhood with the recommendations read in Benjamin Spock's «Baby and Child Care». Thank God our Mom had enough wisdom and intuition (or intuition and wisdom) to declare this book not only harmful, but deadly. As time has shown, our mom turned out to be absolutely right.
However, different things happen in life that fit poorly in the head of a thirteen-year-old teenagers we were at that time.
Mom was a very beautiful, but extremely straightforward woman. She did not hide her affair at work, divorced our father and left to St. Petersburg with her Romeo. She left taking Eva with her.
It was so dishonest, but no one asked us…
I put all my effort and time to school. I also wrote letters.
Paper envelopes were sent across half the country. Sometimes they crossed at the sorting centers with rare Eva's notes and flew in opposite directions. I could spend hours staring at envelopes beckoning with long journeys, examine stamps and seals, not daring to open the long-awaited letter.
Our parents did not communicate ever since. They did not call each other or see each other. And if it weren't for the Internet, Eva and I were unlikely to ever be able to meet.
When I saw her for the first time after the parental divorce, it seemed to me that my mirror had long since cheated on me with a different reflection… Eva looked like my opposite, a sort of Barbie doll: a good-looking blonde with my dream hair gathered in a ponytail. Impeccable dotted dress and shoes sparkling with Swarovski crystals…
«Eva?!.» I was only able to murmur, involuntarily pulling a crumpled T-shirt and not knowing where to put my hands.
Yes, it was a sentence. Sentence to me. Although I had long ago left my hometown and could not consult with my dad for any reason, it never came to my mind that I had matured, and could somehow work on my appearance.
When I was a child, my father used to say that in life you need to choose the best of what is offered. For example, if it concerns education, it's clear that I chose…
Of course, it was the best university with a renowned school and well-known professors, the most demanded faculty and, naturally, a department booming with world fame. All this was within my power. I studied easily, but then… Little depended on me alone…
So I stayed to work in the oldest Siberian university. Following my father's recommendations, I was in no hurry to arrange my personal life, taking into account someone else's choice, not my own…
I did not marry a widower with two children, who gave me perfumes and mountains of fruit on any occasion. Twice I refused the proposal of professor's son, who was wandering from one night club to another.
Why is that?
Because I was waiting for my Prince Charming. Well, you know, the one and only.
I was not even embarrassed to live in a six-meter room in our university dormitory. After all, this is the city center, and it's much better than renting an apartment somewhere in the suburbs.
Firstly, it saves time and money, and secondly, it gives the ability to temper your character, unless there is a natural tendency to depression or other things.
However, as the global parental experiment showed, the unbreakable paternal theory had a stumbling block…
Now when Eva appeared before me in full force, I realized that time had played a cruel joke on me. It was as if I saw myself from outside: jeans outstretched on my knees, black T-shirt and sneakers dreaming to rest in peace in some landfill…
No makeup, so as not to age prematurely…
Hairstyle? I've never had any hairstyle in my life!..
That was our very first meeting.
Then Eva suddenly got married, graduated from medical university and, thanks to her stepfather, got a job in a fashionable clinic. And now she brings up two boys. By the way, they are also twins!
What an irony.
«Taska, you look cool!» said Eva, meeting me once again at Pulkovo airport. I do not like it when she distorts my name, but this is a long-standing children's showdown.
«I'm glad you agreed to stop by! Your next flight is in a day anyway.»
«Is that mom's car?» I asked unconfidently, pointing to the mocha-colored Audi.
«Yeah… Mine is under repair. How are you? How's dad?»
«As usual. What about mom?» I asked, trying to be polite.
«Getting younger and younger! I'm not a competitor to her. I'll take you to her if you want, without declaring war!» suggested Eva, most likely, also out of politeness.
«Nope. I don't want to upset her.»
«You should! Actually…» Eva thought for a moment, «It's time to change at least something in life. After all, we only live once, right Taska?» she said with a slight sadness.
Now, looking at the mysterious letter, I remembered the recent conversation and assumed that there could be some connection between these two facts…
Chapter 2
The Letter
«I have no idea what you're talking about, Taska!» Eva said when, suspecting her of pandering, I called her without really understanding the essence of this strange and mysterious letter.
«Well then fine! I'll figure it out myself. The only trouble is… my English is very bad! Or, like they say: „I speak English a little!..“»
«Hey, bogey, send my best to dad! By the way… Mom was very upset that you did not call her. That's true, Taska! She has recently become some kind of sentimental,» Eva added before saying goodbye.
Having put the phone in the side pocket of the bag carefully imitating leopard leather, I returned to the letter.
I can't help myself, but this familiar crony American «Hi!» mocks me, to say the least. That is how the letter I received began. And then, despite the fact that the meaning reached me from the second or third reading, the hair on my head stirred.
At least it seemed to me.
There were two lined leaflets torn from a notebook and scribbled in small handwriting. However, despite the fact that it was written in block letters, it was incredibly difficult to perceive the text. I was tormented by a constant question, which distracted me from reading… Who was this? A man or a woman?
That's it, I won't torture myself like that anymore! After copying the letter, I sent it to an online translator. The translation was clumsy, but quick!
So:
«Hello!
I'm afraid to frighten you if I say straight away that I know you.
I'll just tell you one story today:
The Adriatic coast is far behind, with its deserted beaches and incredible shade of turquoise water. Bronze skin and light brown hair bleached under the sun are a reward for hours spent under the rays of the gentle August sun. I am among other tourists. There is some tour planned, most likely a boring one.
I am tormented: to go or not to go? Curiosity, or, I will not flatter myself, ordinary interest prevails.
I'm coming.
Museum. Just an ordinary museum. Our Romanian guide, Justin, is sincerely surprised. I ask:
„Is there something unusual? Moving pictures? Maybe revived statues?“
„No, can you imagine, He will accompany us through the museum.“
„Who's He?“ I ask, almost yawning.
„The director of the museum himself. They say for the first time in many years. Well, why?“ Justin says, still continuing to bewilder.
Foyer of the Museum of Local Lore. We are invited to go to the first hall. Suddenly I get a persistent feeling that we were placed inside a huge velvet box. Ripe cherry walls are decorated with swords and spades. Glass cases contain jewels and crowns.
Everything sparkles and shines, as it should. Insanely expensive and beautiful!
No one noticed him entering.
There's a tall man of about forty-five. Black hair, barely touched by a noble gray, dark blue suit, dazzling white cambric shirt.
As soon as I looked away from his elegant neckerchief, I immediately ran into his gaze…
It was not just interest in his eyes, there was something else. It happens when you suddenly realize that you have a representative of your clan, your like-minded person. A man who understands everything without words.
I don't know how much time has passed: an hour, a minute… I can't remember. I stayed behind the group, listened to the interpreter, poorly understanding the broken speech. The tour was drawing to a close. We were thanked for patience, and we headed for the exit.
„I want to show you something completely unique,“ he suddenly addressed me only in the purest Russian language, gently guiding me towards the sculpture of young Grace standing in the distance.
I listened to the vibrations of his voice and, as if under hypnosis, answered something.
Our guide, who counted everyone on the bus on their heads, and who did not count one, returned to the lobby. Seeing us, he was dumbfounded, and turned into a „salt pillar“… His face immediately expressed a whole gamut of feelings. When, finally, he restored the ability to move back, he grabbed my hand and literally dragged me from the hospitable museum director.
„Printesa, sunteti invitati si-au dat acordul. Mai mult decat nimic nu are sens![1]“ I heard…
„I studied the ancient dialects of our language, but I don't understand this one well. Where did you learn Romanian?“ Justin asked me, sitting down on the next bus seat.
„Are you kidding? We spoke Russian. He told me that many visitors rubbed Grace's foot to fulfill their cherished desire. It's a sign or something. Me too,…“ I suddenly stopped short, understanding what the last words said by the Grand Duke meant.
„I agreed…“ I whispered…»
This story seemed a little more romantic than the one that happened to me, but… My God, I again felt the light breeze playing with my hair and felt my heart fall down when our bus was looping around the Carpathian serpentine, rising higher and higher into the mountains. Everything was exactly like the unknown author stated, sending this letter to me…
In any case, the guide's name was Justin!
In addition to this mysterious letter, the envelope turned out to be an old newspaper folded several times…
Chapter 3
Under the Magnifying Glass
So what do we have?
First:
Eva had nothing to do with it. Anyway, why would I think that she even lifted a finger, and that her words spoken at a rare moment of frankness would continue in some altruistic impulse. Eva can be consistent only when it comes to her directly.
Alas!
Second:
Nothing follows from the letter. Will there be a sequel?
Maybe someone just made a joke. I remember telling this story to Eva in details at least ten times when I returned from Romania, even when we had guests, and by phone, to somehow dispel my thoughts about being chosen and about the fact that nothing in our world is happening by chance…
And now when I finally calmed down a bit and decided that I had come up with all this unusually beautiful fairy tale and, perhaps, under the influence of «Twilight»… Is that possible? Sure.
Now I get this letter…
Taking an envelope and raising a magnifying glass to it, I began to carefully study the small stamp of the sender's address in the upper left corner of the letter. The firm conviction that someone deliberately smeared the print so that it was impossible to make out anything other than the last name strengthened with every single minute.
D. Frost.
Funny, because the name Frost can be interpreted as Russian 'Morozov'…
Well, dear storyteller, it means we are also namesakes!
But my address was written very carefully, as if a person was afraid that the letter might get lost or fall into the wrong hands.
What an intrigue.
My mysterious stranger can also be a good psychologist. After all, if he sent a letter to my email address, there's a probability of two hundred per cent that I would consider it to be spam and delete it, despite the fact that some signal word would be indicated in the subject of the letter, for example, «Important» with three exclamation points. Noone likes spam.
But I love paper letters. Of course, not official ones, with the text known in advance, or maybe with rare exceptions…
As for trendy Postcrossing, oddly enough, it inspires me little. I'm offline most of the time, unless I make purchases on my favorite Victoria's Secret[2] website.
So it turns out that the most reliable option is unreliable!
Sending a letter by mail. And just in case, the letter looks like this: beautiful, solid, with a newspaper with colored photos in it… And, of course, more «I LOVE YOU!» stamps.
That's all!
I swallowed the bait, as if hypnotized. And since at the end of the letter there wasn't any «I am waiting for your reply…», I could not calm down until this situation cleared up.
I spent the rest of the weekend reading an old book, constantly distracting and thinking about the letter. Suddenly an unexpected thought literally pierced me: «Is that old newspaper put into the envelope just for weight?» I expanded it, and stumbled upon an article dedicated to the Oscar award, which Leonardo DiCaprio had never received again as the leading actor in «The Great Gatsby». The interview was circled in red marker…
I looked at the sofa. The open book of Francis Scott Fitzgerald in red hardcover was waiting for me. What can I say?
It was «The Great Gatsby»…
I felt helpless. It was like someone was studying me under a microscope, just like me recently, trying to read the return address on an envelope with a magnifying glass. Someone knew more about me and my addictions than I knew… And now, he was gloating!
Unless…
Unless he was trying to say something, but carefully dosed the information. I was completely confused. I turned off the light and cried. And when I fell asleep, I persuaded myself in a dream that all this was an absurd, a stupid dream. The next morning, waking up, I would not find any letter.
Such a naive.
The letter did not go away in the morning. It lay on a windowsill on top of an open novel. I defiantly pushed back the curtains, warmed the kettle and had my breakfast.
I tuned in on Monday, dressed, fed a starving flock behind the aquarium glass as it chatted about the weather, and rushed outside.
Indeed, it was drizzling in the morning, adding colors, or rather, depths to the surrounding landscape. Trees and flowers, washed and elegant, could be depicted on a canvas… I was again agitated by the thoughts of my abandoned painting and saved from other thoughts of an unknown author.
Opening the laboratory doors, I finally calmed down. Strangely enough, I didn't remember about the damn letter until the evening…
Eva's diary:
August 23, 1998.
Sunday.
It can be very difficult to start a conversation, even with the closest.
It seems like the words are stuck in the tongue, clinging to its papillae, and the only thing left is to swallow them.
Mom, I hope you never read these lines.
I write all these words, because otherwise I will suffocate or burst under the pressure.
They are so prickly.
I hate myself because I allow these thoughts appear.
«The world is full of surprises!» you reassured me when I was bored. You made me believe in the most incredible stories in order to cheer me up.
You gave me new books, believing that they could distract me from sad thoughts…