Real and Phantom Pains: An Anthology of New Russian Drama. John Freedman
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BLIZZARD: I just want to put on some music
VOLODYA: How come you let me down? Why did you lie to me like that?
BLIZZARD (Smiling blissfully): Forgive me.
(The witnesses return and leave the door open. BLIZZARD sees that the door to ORANGINA’s apartment is open, too. As is the door to the balcony. BLIZZARD suddenly races across to ORANGINA’s apartment and throws himself off her balcony.
He falls downward as if flying. As if in slow-motion his entire life flashes before his eyes. BLIZZARD thinks he is flying and, as honest, sad, exhausted and utterly free as he now is, he never wants to return to earth again. Free of everything and believing only in God, he is a true saint, a true freak.
MANIAC’s apartment. The following conversation occurs simultaneously to BLIZZARD’s flight.)
MANIAC: There are certain sensations that make you super-aware. And you ride along on them like you’re surfing, skimming over the surface, never sinking below the surface, never stopping
SNOWFLAKE: I used to skim over the surface, too
MANIAC: And now?
SNOWFLAKE: I don’t skim now
MANIAC: Why not?
SNOWFLAKE: Because you can’t skim over the surface all the time
MANIAC: Yeah, you’ve got to shake things up. You’ve gotta jump and fall, too
SNOWFLAKE: And jump back up again
MANIAC: There’s nothing to skimming over the surface
SNOWFLAKE: It’s really supercool
MANIAC: But it’s pointless if you do it all the time
(BLIZZARD flies, doing somersaults in the air.)
SNOWFLAKE: Where do you fall when you jump?
MANIAC: Doesn’t make a bit of difference. It’s the action itself that has meaning, of course. But you can’t attach meaning to it (Smiles.)
SNOWFLAKE: Do you have a goal?
MANIAC: Everybody has a goal. Even if you have no idea what it is, you still have one nonetheless. But if you don’t define it yourself, somebody else will do it for you. Whoever comes up with the best definition
(BLIZZARD flies. A dog walking on the street sees him flying, raises up his head and watches in amazement. Somewhere in the distance his owner calls:)
VOICE: Yo-Yo! Yo-Yo! Yo-Yo!
MANIAC: You want to relay a message of some kind, you want to have some impact
SNOWFLAKE: Why’s that?
MANIAC: To fill in the world void. Don’t you want to?
SNOWFLAKE: Me? No. I already lost my optimism, my youthful sincerity, my faith in people, my ability to think sober thoughts, to properly evaluate situations, to love my brother and orient myself in space
(BLIZZARD flies and the dog’s eyes grow bigger and bigger.)
The only thought that ever comes to me when I wake up in the morning hours is to commit suicide. But now I can’t even do that.
MANIAC: Why not?
SNOWFLAKE: Because you can’t do that
(ORANGINA’s apartment. SNOWSTORM, BLIZZARD and ORANGINA stand just as they had been standing, as though not a second has passed and, indeed, nothing has happened. VOLODYA runs out onto the balcony; a visceral, bloodcurdling scream is heard. ORANGINA’s eyes go dark and she falls in a faint.)
VOICE: Yo-Yo! Yo-Yo! Yo-Yo!
(On the ground beneath the balcony a dog lies dead in a pool of blood.
BLIZZARD runs down one street, another, a third, covered in Yo-Yo’s blood. He runs past red walls, fences, houses of some kind, and indeterminate people. The red ball of the sun, slipping beneath the horizon, reflects in his eyes. BLIZZARD runs to meet it, faster, faster, in order to reach out to it, to touch it with his hand, to catch it before it hides. It seems to him that he succeeds, that he made it in time.
Having reached the horizon, he slips down below the earth, not thinking, asking why or whether this leads anywhere. He goes down, down, down, passing trains resounding in his head. He races into the first open door he sees, pushes his way through a crowd into a corner, sits down in an empty spot, closes his eyes, takes the beret off his head, wipes off his red, wet face, smearing it with blood. He is riding somewhere, racing somewhere on this train so as to have time to think what he should do next in order to catch his breath and get hold of himself.
SNOWSTORM reads a poem to BUSHY-TAIL.)
SNOWSTORM:
There once lived a boy, a timid genius, who lived on the back lot of life
His daddy drank, his momma stank – the family was like that
But the boy was a romantic. He escaped life in dreams
Smelling his bubblegum wrapper he would fly away
From the wrong side of town and the back lot of life
To a light, quiet, cozy world, a land of starry dreams
And this timid little boy swore one day he would leave the back lot of life,
Jump on the trolley of dreams and ride away forever
(BLIZZARD in the subway. Eyes closed, as if in a trance, BLIZZARD thinks Vladimir Vysotsky and Marina Vlady are smiling at him from a black-and-white photograph. A cry is heard in a dream, as if it has no connection to reality. But the cry gets louder and louder. BLIZZARD thinks someone his shouting at him: “Atten-shun! Atten-shun!”
BLIZZARD opens his eyes. A soldier stands over him, screaming at him as if in a horror film.)
SOLDIER: Atten-shun!
BLIZZARD (Making to leave): Attention what?
SOLDIER: Atten-shun!
BLIZZARD (Tired of smiling): I’m out here. This is my stop.
(BLIZZARD looks around. The entire subway car is filled with bald, young men, new army recruits, just like himself.)
SOLDIER: Atten-shun!
(The doors open. BLIZZARD runs out, two soldiers following in hot pursuit.
Street, walls, fences: déjà vu.
Somewhere very near, one or two streets over, SNOWFLAKE is walking and people are turning to look at her. They point at her, but she ceased noticing this long ago.)
SNOWFLAKE: The street is dirty. People try as they may, laying out white rugs beneath their feet. But everything is pointless in this city. Everything is pointless.
(The soldiers catch up with BLIZZARD, a fight starts. BLIZZARD falls. They kick him viciously in the sides and stomach. He has stopped putting up a fight. Lies limply on the asphalt. Blood trickles out his mouth. The soldiers leave. BLIZZARD wipes off the blood with his hand, his hands are all bloody. He smiles exhaustedly. Gets up.
VOLODYA stands in front of BLIZZARD.)
BLIZZARD: What are you, Volodya, James Bond or something?
(VOLODYA hand-cuffs BLIZZARD.)
VOLODYA: You can’t run from yourself
(They get into a police car.)
BLIZZARD: I don’t understand anything at all. I’m screwed now. I’m already on two years parole. What is happening. Why? I must have a concussion. I’m sick to my stomach. They’re probably going to put me in prison. What about my job? What about everything? What about my dreams? My Lord, how did this happen to me? A complete and total breakdown. What I’d really like is to wrap myself in a blanket and go to