The old town (the area of Chkalova Street and the surrounding neighborhoods) is small, low. Two-story houses built by German prisoners of war. Yellow, orange, beige, green… In the sunlight, they sound almost Spanish. Bright reflections and shadows of leaves paint whimsical patterns on the walls, and what seems like decay doesn’t look as sad. The trees are taller than the houses. White linden snow on the paths.
Cats are the queens of the city. Small, large, fluffy, scruffy. Calm, transcendental, like cockroaches. Two, three, black, gray. They curl up in little balls in the yard, majestically sit on windowsills, guarding the entrances and exits through the window. Slightly timid kittens. The children of the city. They’ve displaced the dogs. Because of this, Yaroslavl feels soft, fluffy, tail-wagging, and purring.
The province. It keeps trying to be civilized. The birthplace of Russian theater. One of the oldest in Russia. Aunt Nina keeps a sharp eye on my bag: “They’ll cut you!” Faces are kind, simple. “Could they really?” Pleasant Volga dialect. Soft vowel sounds and an accentuated intonation.
Drunk people don’t lie around carelessly; they quietly lie not only under balconies but also right on the sidewalks, as if they’ve laid their heads on a pillow, curled up in little balls, like their cats, as if at home on the couch. They sleep quietly, and it doesn’t seem at all that they’re drunk. There are few of them, but they appear with enviable regularity…
The roads. Which don’t exist. A marvel… Inspectors on public transport.
My aunts chew over gossip about how poorly things are now, munching on vegetable salad without salt, sighing and groaning. I love them, but they don’t remember the word “positive.” Maybe they never knew it? They talk in the night about who and how loved them when they were 20. That was long ago. That was 40, 50 years ago. They lament that they don’t always eat meat. They rub their legs with “Sustavit” gel. I’m pierced by the accidental sight of her hands, twisted by atherosclerosis.
My little nephews marvel at the ring on my toe, saying, “You can’t wear it like that, because Mom doesn’t.” They’re delighted by the “tutti-frutti” mouth freshener, begging me to spray more in their mouths, “liquid candy,” and whining to Mom to buy them the same.
My sister, 32, is divorced. She’s beautiful. She’s gained weight. With her height, she seems very large… She wears synthetic turquoise pants and a bright orange t-shirt with a small stain on the chest. She is very kind and simple, born prematurely at six months, suffering from headaches, and she doesn’t believe that her “personal life” will ever happen again. She has dedicated herself to the children.