Caf’e Interview
The sun beamed on the green tablecloth, playing with the silverware; the window looked like a picture embellishing the room with old Kyiv cityscape clad in refined winter attire. The caf О was half-empty, cozy, smelling of coffee and freshly baked buns.
The atmosphere made the man sitting opposite me relax. He was enjoying the warmth and quiet, relishing his coffee and food, marveling at the deceptively antique cityscape outside. He kept eating sandwich after sandwich, washing it down with strong tea, and doing it at an even rate. And he kept talking. I was not sure if it was because he wanted thus to thank a journalist for the treat or because he was happy to have an attentive listener.
We had met by the gate to the monastery. The man, in his middle age, sat on the frozen earth, miserably hunched, among other beggars (later it would transpire that he had a folded piece of a thick sheepskin coat sewn to the seat of his pants; when asked about the sheepskin coat, he mumbled something about spotting it somewhere). I had walked up, introduced myself and invited him to the caf О across the street. He had hesitated, and then agreed.
“I was born to a professor’s family and had quite some training even before I went to school. I could play the piano (even now when I hear Mozart, it’s like a sound from paradise lost), spoke English and French, read thick books from my father’s library, and most importantly, I was accustomed to keeping myself intellectually occupied. School was rather boring, yet I collected knowledge like a sponge. Same with the institute. I graduated with a cum laude engineer’s diploma and a burning desire to accomplish something no one had before me.
“I was assigned a job at a design bureau [in the Soviet Union graduates were assigned employment]. I found myself in a hall with a hundred drawing boards manned by other engineers. Several years passed and I still didn’t know all of them, and nor could I figure out what I was doing, drawing simple design components, a job anyone with an incomplete secondary education would have done as well. Before long I felt like a primitive automaton: you press a button and receive a drawing, press another one and another drawing is produced. Year in and year out. Not once had anyone required my professional knowledge (which was considerable). Of course, I could have quit, may parents wanted me to take a postgraduate course. It was as though someone had pressed the wrong button on my automaton’s panel. Who needs that postgraduate course, or being a scientist for that matter, I asked myself. Look at your friends, some of them have defended their theses and are into science now. So what? You know as well as anyone else that they are dumb. Do you want to join the crowd? My father pulled some strings and I was appointed chief or senior engineer, and things got even worse. Now I had to attend meetings, assume some “obligations” on the eve of official dates, and “overfulfill plans.” Also, there were lots of undercurrents. They said I had to join the party. I refused and then had to quit. I started moonlighting, first giving music and English lessons, then working as a porter, janitor, boiler man... Well, it’s a long and dull story. Now I work at the monastery gateway and let me tell you, it’s a job as good as any, if not better. See, you invited me to this caf О and I’m giving an interview (with a wry smile). My own life experience is graphic evidence that a man can adjust to a lot of environments and will be equally unhappy. There is no way to escape from yourself.
“My parents died and it was a very heavy blow. They both passed away in one year. Deep inside, however, I was relieved of a great burden as I had constantly felt guilty before them, haunted by that wonder-boy-turned-out- nothing complex. I was married at the time and my wife was as disappointed as my parents, although I didn’t feel guilty before her, just the irritating family burden; I had to do this and I couldn’t do that, I should follow my learned friends’ examples. Meanwhile all my duties, even habits were a growing burden. Returning home every day, bringing miserable pay every month, brushing my teeth and washing my shirts and socks (I had to do it because my wife bluntly refused).
“So one day I just banged the door of my flat shut for the last time. The more so that my wife had by then somehow got me off the records as the owner of my parents’ apartment. I wanted a lawsuit at first, but then thought of the red tape, court hearings, lawyers, and paperwork, and just shrugged it all off. Meaning that I had no place to live but was absolutely free. I was now free of all habits and being constantly dependent on social dictates, having to do things the right way or else people would say bad things about me. Now I didn’t have to conform to any rules, I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t like. I thought that this freedom would allow me the pleasure of spending long hours at libraries, outdoors, going to concerts, you name it. Yet somehow all this had become part of my past. Now other things interested me. What things? I could tell you, but I wouldn’t want to see disgust in your eyes. After all, I am your guest, my dear lady.” Saying this, he stood up grandly and bowed like a true stand-up comedian. For just an instant I could see not a tramp dressed in rags, a cynical grin on his unshaven face, but a witty gentleman.
“Of late, sitting with my dirty and odorous ‘colleagues’ by the gate, I have felt as though the circle had closed and that I had returned to that Soviet design bureau, as large as a shooting range; that I was again drawing all those damn bolts and nuts that had long been invented and drawn by someone else, as in a recurrent nightmare, doing all this for a pay just enough to buy a loaf. The only difference being that I had then to keep looking and acting decent, watching every word I said, reporting for work on time and leaving when it was time to leave.
“Indeed, I am absolutely free now, although I often find myself thinking what the hell do I need that freedom for, now that absolutely nobody has any need for me, and never will till my dying day. Well, maybe even there (pointing upward, then, grinning, downward) I’ll find myself in a design bureau of sorts meant for beggars like me.”
As he walked out of the caf О , the waiter rushed to the window and opened it with a sigh of relief.
