Spring of a Down - 4
Метрополітен
She sees straight lines, where once were flowers.[1] Lines of columns and lines of metro trains in orthogonal cubes, like a cross of perspective in a course in drawing. Lives left behind to eke out an existence here. She sighed– my string will be the first to ring. Once the first day when she came till the last day. Α to Ω. The one is past, the other future. Her husband was in the past – they found him with a desiccated daffodil.
He had survived till spring. Undergrowth with two figures, lying together on the street. He had a bottle of Vodka in his left jacket pocket. He was an official and he looked the part. His dream, when he was young, was to be a concert pianist – but an official paid better except at the very top. That death was the fate that befall him.
She sighed again. Several men were leaning against the columns while at their feet women rested, with, occasionally a child wrapped in her bosom. There was a range of clothes from overalls to suits. One came from the Assumption Cathedral ladled with layers of the church steeple. Her best clothes were what she wore, all the others were drab. She could tell this from her bra, which was worn on the straps. She slept beneath her man. Sleep little one.
A young man stared at her, then he spoke: “My name is Narcissus.”[2]
“Nice to make your acquaintance.” But she said it with no feeling.
But still, he continued: “I have seen you here before.”
“My husband ordered me down on the first night of the war. He knew that the Russians were coming full on.”
“I know little of the war. I come from the Engineering School.”
“Close to the cathedral.”
“Yes, with its high pediments.” He waited. “I did not catch your name.”
“I do not think I said it.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I will tell you a secret – my wife works at the Psychiatric Hospital. I am waiting here for a little while and then head to her.” He looked at the Soviet-style blocky trains. They presented well but smell badly.
“Good for you.” Her face had straight lines. She imagined the washed-out pink bricks on the Psychiatric Hospital. It was from the 19th century, with classical style only its name was recent: they called it Psykhon. It was short with three levels at most. And crowded: there is not a straight line in there, except for the architecture.
“What do you do?”
“I am a Doctor.”
“How amusing. Not with the Hospital.”
“No.” At present.
Then both heard a flute. It was being played, rather simply, by a member of the Philharmonic Society.[3] A few musicians played concerts here on the frozen earth. One opened with Dvorak; the sweet melodies of a distant home. The concert was played upstairs in the marble not down here in the concrete.
A glance over at the flutist reveals a thin woman in street clothes. The was no music in front of her. It was the national anthem in a slow and deliberate way. It snaked up and down. Finally, some are not in straight lines with grace. The string will sound solemnly and quietly.
The tone had quieted the conversations down. Then there was applause.
“That is more lovely than it had a right to be.” Then she wept.
“I never liked the tune until now.” He admitted with accuracy. “Now, these are the rays that helps the soul to survive.”
“It will give us courage.”
“I heard the Prime Minister of Great Britain; he was speaking Russian.”
“What did he say?”
“It was about the atrocities.”
An old lady piped up: “We know them well. Many were killed, many were raped.”
“Russia will not care until we are all dead.”[4]
The old lady grimaced. “Have you lost anyone?”
“My husband. He was found along the street by the Metropolitan Station.”[5]
The old lady grew silent. Then prayed “To you, Ukraine, our helpless mother.” The old woman left.
“You did not tell me he had passed.” He fumbled for a cigarette only to find the package had none left.”
“You should not smoke down here.” There was the hard edge of the Doctor.
“I suppose not, but who is to care?” But he fumbled because he had heard the warning, which he had gotten used to from his woman.
She glanced over the right side. “The flutist for one.”
He looked over to the middle-aged woman who was about ready to play again. She then played Bach, the famous Badinerie of Bach’s late age. A few bounced their heads in unison. It was a tease but a tasteful tease.
She hummed a menuetto from Dvorak.
“What instrument do you play?” Because almost everyone played an instrument.
“I scratch out a few phrases on the violin.”
“My girl does the same.”
“She is still alive?”
“Yes, most definitely.”
She looked at his face and saw something off in it. “I am sorry.”
He admitted the foible. “Don’t be for I am used to it.”
Then the flutist moved in their direction and halted within the limited of conversation. “You do not know me, but I know you. My name is Kira.”
The woman raised her head. “I hope you are not about to reveal a secret.”
The flutist laughed. “That your husband drank? That is hardly a secret.”
“He drank to excess.”
“Yes. He showed me your picture because he was so proud of you.”
“How do you know him?”
“He often played the piano. He was very good. We had a group known as the Cathedral. We thought of playing out in spring.”
“He could ring out what was beneath the straight lines.”
“Anyway, my condolences on your lost.”
“Thank you very much.”
With that, the flutist turned and went away.
There was a blackout for a minute, a pause. Everyone was on edge.
The two huddled near the floor. Amidst the smells. Amidst the fiery reek.
Then she said to him: “You may call me Echo.”
“That is not your real name.”
“No, but it was what I called myself. I knew of his group. It played at the Psykon to give the crooked lines some respite.”
“Group?”
“There was music and vodka and two figures by night.”[6]
[1] Vega, “Straight Lines.”
[2] Which is another name for Daffodil.
[3] Best orchestra in the city.
[4] Queen, “All Dead.”
[5] Title.
[6] VanGogh, Undergrowth with Two Figures.