Fog

I didn’t like my school, but not because it was a bad one. On the contrary, it was very prestigious and was known as the best in the city. It even had official “showcase” status. I didn’t like it for this very “showcase barracks status.” The school reminded me of an endless corridor with dictatorial teachers on one side and coarse and brutal class hooligans, all of whom have some business with you and you have nowhere to hide; you just have to go on and on. And it’s a long time yet to dismissal.

But every autumn there was something that not only reconciled me with those trials, but also made me look forward with some impatience to the start of a new academic year. It was the transparent, cool September air, with cobwebs floating in it, rustling golden leaves falling from the poplars, bonfires consuming the fallen leaves. But it was mainly the fog.

It was not “increased humidity,” but the real master of reality, an opaque, fluffy, snow-white body that was advancing on us without a single sound — a magic shroud that turned the trees and shrubs into mysterious giants and spirits of the woods, the passersby into phantoms or gnomes, and the mind-numbing, asphalt, and predictable city into a misty wonderland. Here one could expect anything — and everything did happen because the fog mercifully allowed me to fantasize as I wished, and I would instantly launch into a game of childish dreams. The fog had its own character; it was slow, measured, and at the same time enigmatic. It mastered the city, muffling sounds and voices; it played hide-and-seek with me. It could arrange a true solar eclipse or shine with a solemn and festive light. It would then slowly and solidly fuse and finally fall asleep, hanging over the Dnipro like a huge cap. Since then much water has flown under the bridge. One excessively prolific writer tried to scare me with his story entitled “The Fog,” in which he writes that terrible things are happening in that terrestrial cloud and can kill anyone in the most savage manner. I am no longer in that city; there is a completely different climate where I live.

Suddenly: I have never seen an autumn like this in Kyiv — such a merciful one, almost without rain, cold winds, or heavy, drizzling mist. Then something totally unexpected happened. The fog came, the same real luxurious kind that I last saw many years ago. We meet every day and every time we remember our old games. Fortunately, I don’t have to go to school. And the fog is in no hurry to go anywhere either; it doesn’t try to hide even during the day and accompanies me everywhere.

Why did it return now of all times? Why has it tarried for so long?

Who knows.

I must have forgotten a very important lesson, or maybe it hasn’t played long enough.

Or maybe it wanted me to write about it.

Well, this is what I’ve just done.