Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

The Button (an excerpt)

2011; University of Oklahoma; Volume: 85; Issue: 6 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1353/wlt.2011.0005

1945-8134

Iren Rozdobudko, Michael M. Naydan, Olha Tytarenko,

Themes in Literature Analysis

COVER FEATURE It was ... happened dreaming I had just at about the turned end fame. eighteen of August And I then. knew 1977. I ... I had just turnedeighteenthen.I was dreaming aboutfame.And I knew itwould come.Itwasn'taboutsomekindof temporary ascentontoa pedestalinthesmall space whereI livedthen.Itwasn'taboutthe applauseoftheaudiencethatforgets youthe nextday.No. I sensedthatsomekindofmissionwas thereforme,themystery ofwhich I needed to solve. Butforthetimebeingit was beinggenerated somewhere deep inside me,justas beanshad germinated in a damp cheesecloth - we did thatkindofexperiment in biologyclasses in school.All thirty-five studentsgrew beans on theirwindowsills, and aftera few weeks broughtthe results to school.I remember well thatmy sprout was largerthantheotherones.It happened a longtimeago,in thesixthgrade.Butafter myexperiments, I understood whatandhow thingsdevelop inside me. And I waited patiently. So patiently thatI triednottocall 60 1 World Literature Today unnecessary attention to myself forthetime being - sinceitmadenodifference tome.For thetimebeing. I finished schooland quiteeasilygotinto thescreenwriting program oftheDepartment of Film(myentrance examfilm script turned out tobebetter than theopusesofthealready experienced and mucholderprospective students, and they keptitfora longtimeinthedepartment as a particularly successful sample). After learning myadmissions examresults, I left for a smallvacation tothemountains, toa tourist hostel atthefoothills oftheCarpathian Mountains .In fact,thiswas a cinematographer's hostelto whichall myfuture classmates had gone - anannouncement aboutunusedstudent x passeswas hanging inthehalloftheInstitute. o We didn'tknow one anotherwell yet.We < wereunited bythecommon spirit oftherecent < exams,during whichwe all crowdedaround o jovially bythedoorsoftheclassrooms, clamorouslysaluting eachlucky individual. Allthiswas behindus. We arrived at the tourist hostel little bylittle, without making any arrangements beforehand withone another, andardently reveled ateachfamiliar face. They putus up insmallwoodenbuildings, and we immediately began to explorethe territory, finding outwherethedining room, swimming pool, and movie hall were along with the POST-SOVIET LITERATURE roquestyle, theshaggy blackforest murmured alluringly, and fromit a powerful wave of freshness and anxiety rolledontome.It was alreadyquitedark.Simplesculptures ofgirls withoarsand otherbodybuilders shonelike snowon bothsides ofthealleyslikeghosts. Almostall thebencheswere"toothless," and all thelamps"blind."I walkedup totheend closest Silpogeneral store, whereyoucouldbuythe cheapest port wine.1 We felt we were grown-up andexperienced. We triedto communicate with eachother ina looseygooseyway and uttered thenamesofouridolslike good buddies.We gave eachother Western names, that'swhy I was immediatelychristened "Dan." Myroommate, accordingly ,wascalledMax. Dan and Max- two That's why I saw something A silhouette, etched by the light of the moon resembling an incorporeal, empty outline in the total darkness. ofthealley, satdownona bench, andpulledoutthe cigarettes from mypocket .Andnearly right away I noticedthe flashof a redglowacrossfrom me. ... If I had not been drunk then, andif, likethe wine, the drunkenfeelingoftheeuphoriaofan entry intoa new lifehad not been playinginside me,nothing would have happenedand wouldnot havedraggedbehindita chainofevents that would cool guys,the future geniuses - quicklyran overtotheSilpogeneral storeand loadedup on severalbottlesofstrong "ink."We drank likefishsinceourgrade-school daysand . . . likejuveniles - nothing moreexpensivethan cheapportwine.To be truthful, a little laterI wassorry I hadgonethere. . . . The mountains turneddeep blue in the distanceand it seemedtheywere glimmering ,envelopedby thetornwhitesilkof an evening veil.AndI was forced tositona hard bed,chugging theportwineand listening to thechitchat of my acquaintances. Whenwe all started togetsick(no one,ofcourse, complained , andwe tried ourbesttomaintain our dignity), we begantotakeourturns goingout "for a breath offresh air."I finally managedto tearmyself away from thesmokyroomand, already nolonger ina hurry, tostroll alongthe grounds ofthecamp. Thiswas quitea quietlittle spot.Orelseit appearedthatwayat theendofthesummer. Behindthecurtains of thecottagesa dusky lightshimmered, vacationers weresitting in spotson theverandas, from an open"green" moviehallthesoundofthemusicfrom a film echoed.Itseemslikeitwas themovieYesenia.2 Altogether it was disorderand havoc. Just beyondan old-fashioned fencein pseudobapursuememyentire life. ButI was drunk. That'swhyI saw something . ... A silhouette, etched bythelight ofthe moonresembling anincorporeal, empty outline in thetotaldarkness. A womanwas smoking a cigarette in a longmouthpiece. She slowly raisedthesmall, redglowtoherinvisible lips, inhaled, and foran instant thesilvery smoke filledher entireoutline,as thoughit were sketching herbodyfrom theinside. And then,withthelast smallcloud of smoke, it,this body,onceagainmelted intothe darkness. Jeez! I strained myeyesand comically waved myhand beforemynose,chasingaway the apparition. "What, yougotscared?" The voice was husky,but so sensuous thatI gotgoosebumpsovermyentire body, as though thewomanhad uttered something obscene(evenlaterI couldn'tgetused toher voice:whatever shetalkedabout - theweather ,books,movies,food - everything sounded sweetly obscene, likecandor). "Well, no. . . I'mfine . . . ,"I mumbled. However, thedampnight andtheappearanceofthemountain summits that wereblackeningin thedistance, and thislittle redlight, Anovelist, poet, children's writer, and scriptwriter, Iren Rozdobudko (b.1962, Donetsk, Eastern Ukraine) has become oneof the most popular and prolific prose authors writing in Ukraine today. She turned her attention towriting fiction in2000 atthe age of thirty-eight when she published a mystery novel, ATrap for the Firebird. She has since published atotal of seventeen books, most of them novels. Her most recent book isJourneys without Sense or Morals (201 1).The psychological drama The Button (2005) received first place in the Coronation of the Word competition and has been made into afilm. Rozdobudko writes inalively, thoughtful, and engaging style that makes her accessible toanextremely wide reading audience. November -December 201 1i6i Michael M.Naydan is Woskob Family Professor of Ukrainian Studies atPenn State University and a prolific translator from Ukrainian and Russian. Originally from Lviv, Ukraine, Olha Tytarenko isa PhD student atthe University of Toronto and currently in the process of writing her dissertation. 621 World Literature Today andthewind - sosaturated andfresh - sobered meup.I tried togeta goodlookatthewoman whowassitting across from me.No use.Maybe atthat moment I wasalready completely blinded byher.A similar thing happens, forexample ,withmothers whoaren'tabletohonestly judgethebeauty oftheir ownchild, orwithan artist, forwhomthemostrecent canvasseems tobea workofgenius. "Areyoualsostaying atthis resort house?" I couldn't havethought up anything more idiotic tosay!It'sthesameas ifyouweretoask a passenger after theplanetakesoff, "Areyou also flying inthisplane?"ButI itched tohear that voiceagain. "Do youlikeithere?" I continued. Theglowflashed evenbrighter (shetook a drag)andsliddown(shelowered herhand). "Do you knowwhereI likeit?"I heard (goosebumps! goosebumps!) after quitea long pause."There." Thetiny glowofhercigarette flicked inthe direction oftheforest. "I haven'tbeenthere yet. . . ," I said. "I arrived justtoday. ..." "Strange!" Thefire inan instant flewinto a bushandwentout."Let'sgo!There'sa hole hereinthefence. . . Bytherustle ofherclothing I understood that shehadgotten up andmadea stepinmy direction. "Givemeyour hand!" I stretched intothedarkness andstumbled ona chilly palm.I gotgoosebumpsagain.Her handwashearty, notsoft. "You'recompletely drunk!" Shestarted to laugh. I gotup,trying tokeepsteady. We were thesameheight. I was able to discern something more orlessdefinite: anelongated figure, a dark,possibly blackshawlthatcoveredher shoulders . . . butnothing more.AndI could alsosmellherscent. Back thenI stilldidn'tknow the scent of expensiveperfumes - theygot themfrom "undertheir skirt" on thesly,girlsI knewfor themostpartusedtheoverwhelming Scheherazadeor thehighly concentrated Lilyofthe Valleybrands. Andhere, suddenly, a waveof a fragrant aroma - bitter anddizzying - wafted in on me. Involuntarily, I clenchedmyteeth and pressedherhandmoretightly. Givingin toherwill,I swiftly movedtoward a deadend wherethefencestopped.Therereallywas a bigblackholeinit,whichI didn'tnotice right away.Without letting go ofherhand,walking after her, I bent myheaddownsharply, andwe endedup ontheother sideofthetourist hostel on a wideplainthatwas overgrown withtall grass. Wewalked, buried initup toourknees. AgainI triedto look overthewomanwho had commandingly led mebythehandlikea little boy.Her long,blackshawlcoveredher from headtotoe,so thelength ofherhairwas unclear tome - itflowed with hershawlandin fullsight wasjustas blackandlong.Notonce didsheturn backtoward me.Itseemed shewas completely indifferent to whomever she was dragging behind her. I strove nottofalland nottolag behind, so I begantolookbeneath myfeet moreoften, and thewild vegetation reminded me ofthe seathat rollspowerful, fragrant wavesandjust aboutdragsyou to a depthfrom whichyou can'tswimaway. Myheadwastopsy-turvy. Thenight, a thin crescent ofthemoonaboveclouds,mountains, goosebumpsall overmybody,intoxication, thisunknown woman.. . . Everything seemed tobephantasmagoric. I cherished these kinds of adventures. I couldn't imagine what wouldhappenfurther ! Maybewildsexina clearing inthe forest? Whowas thiswoman? Whyandwhere wasshetaking me?Howoldwasshe, whatdoes shelooklike? Whatdoesshewant? Wewalked uptotheslopeofthemountain covered intrees that roseabovetheclearing likecolumns next to theentrance ofa pagantemple. Thegloom again swallowed her, andfrom theforest theparticularthick scent ofresin wafted. Thewomanled mebeyondthefence ofthefirst standoflarge pine trees, from whichtheforest began,and leanedupwith herbackagainst oneofthetrees. "Wonderful, isn'tit?" I barelycaughtmy breathand looked around.Really, itwas wonderful! Itwas as if we had endedup inthebowelsofsomegreat living organism, somefairy-tale fish. Thetrees wereitstwisted muscles, itbreathed through the treetops, and somewhere inside,in the depths, slowly, itsheartbeat. I couldevenhear thisrhythmic, uneasy sound. "It'salive.Do yousenseit?During theday it'sallnotquitelikethis. ..." Sheclicked hercigarette lighter, andfor an instant I sawthesemicircle ofhercheek andthe flash ofherblackpupil.Thenonceagainthered glowbegantodanceinfront ofme. "What'syourname?"I asked,persistently thinking howthis strange adventure might end. "What's thedifference? Especially now. . ." The red glow tracedan arc and disappeared .And again I sensedthatI had been tree,each bush.A mad thought entered my brainthatsomewhere shehad spreadouther shawl,hadlainonit,andwas waiting, so that I'd stumble onherbodymorequickly. ThenI becameangry: Whatkindofidioticprank ?ThenI beganto worry whether I couldfind theroadback.Andthen a little later takenby the hand and dragged somewhere higher . We walked quickly, as though we werebeing chased.I heardherintermittent breathing. At a certain moment things gotuncomfortable for me. Branchesof treesthatI didn't manage to brush aside smackedme in the facefrom time totime. Finally, we made ourway evenhigher and stopped. Everything repeated - hermerging withthe tree, the redglow. Thistimewithwonder I looked below: we had come out of the maw of the beast, and in the distancethe outlinesoftheclosestvillage were being painted by vague littlelights, intersectedbythegoldenline This time with wonder I looked below: we had come out of the maw of the beast, and in the distance the outlines of the closest village were being painted by vague little lights, intersected by the golden line of the river. I inopportunely recalled that hisplacewas swarming with legends about mermaids,niavka river nymphs, mavka forest nymphs, molfar wizards, andwitches. . . . It was unpleasant enoughto go down themountain by myself. Theentire timeI listened attentively to tryto hear the sound of her footstepsnearby . Buttheforest onlybreathed deeply and grabbedat me with itsstiff fingers. I evenfell twice. Coming out onto a flatclearing, I took a breathand again looked around at the forest.It seemed to me that up aboveonceagain,thelittlered glow ofhercigarette wasbreathing. Itwas of the river.Fromhere,the thicktops of treesthatgrewbelow seemedlikeclustered stormclouds,along whichyou could walk as thoughon dryland.I completely cameto mysensesand breathed deeply,enjoying the strange tasteoftheair,whichI was able to appreciatejust now. Together withthisair, rapture filled me.How gooditwas thatI had tornmyself awayfrom thestifling roomand stumbled upon thiswoman,who led me on sucha wonderful stroll! I understood thatthe twoweeksofmyvacationwouldbe wonderful .I turned back,I wantedtothank her.. . . Theglowdisappeared. I walkedup tothe treewhereshehad justbeenstanding, I even touched itwithmypalm.No onethere! "Haloo,"Ihailedquietly. "Where areyou?" My voiceechoedunusuallyin thedarkness . Somewhere not faraway a nightbird begantoflapitswings.I walkedaroundeach observing me likean eye.Andmaybe, itwas laughing. . . . Translation from the Ukrainian ByMichael M. Naydan & OlhaTytarenko 1"777" wine. Aninexpensive, high-alcohol-content wine madeintheformer USSR andnowinRussia and Ukraine. 2AMexican melodramatic film from 1974 that wasvery popular asa rental video inSoviet times. See www. videoguide.ru/card_film.asp?idFilm=17763. November -December 163 ...