MALVA LANDA

selections

PART 1

1

Somewhere deep in the heavens golden stars flew from branch to branch, shaking shimmering golden ambrosia from their wings, and it fell on the city that was concealed in a stony slumber, in the cold tears of autumn, it settled on the sleepy windowpanes of the evening, dying on the illuminated ones, blossoming on those darkened . . .

Boomblyakevych randomly leafed through a slim dried-up and yellowed book and read . . .

At such an hour loneliness is deeper

And space more confined.

Like a spurt of blood, the linden trees cast

Their deep blue shadow to the dew.

The bitter acacia, the sour apricot,

Simmered in blossom,

And the sky floats between white fingers

In spring water.

Such a fragrant evening background—

The siege of spring . . .

The sun leapt up in a quivering tear

From my face . . .

There wafted over him again the certain special magic of nostalgia for the colorful world of the Secession, one that is interwoven with the hops and blades of Indian cress that has already blossomed, where the flowers and sprouts of the lotus are striking in their thin contours of female bodies. On the darkened book cover, those strange plants surrounded her name, the name of a poet forgotten by God and man, whose slim book he had acquired somehow by chance and, to his astonishment, inexpensively . . . This name for quite a long time, from when her poems began to sound in his head, aroused in Boomblyakevych an incomprehensible sorrow, as though it was the name of a well-known person whom he had met sometime long ago and lost touch with and now she had dived out of the mysterious hazy depths and was enchanting him, squeezing his heart into the silver ring of sorrow.

He had no other pleasure but to rummage through other people’s attics, closets and drawers looking for books and swindling people out of them for a trifle or even stealing them, hiding them under his belt beneath a knitted spacious sweater especially made for this purpose. And when he failed either to swindle or steal them, he had to buy them, sparing nothing, for more than on one occasion he was forced to sell something from his house in order to acquire the book he fancied.

He lived at home in a two-room apartment completely filled with books, and since they constantly were being added, less and less space was left for them, and thus he found shelter for them even in the refrig­erator. When his mother was still alive, Boomblyakevych was forced to tolerate a great amount of her things that stood in the way of the books, they guarded their territory before them and very unwillingly stepped aside even for a centimeter. And when his mother died, with a tranquil heart he remade all her dressers into bookshelves, even the old bed on which he was conceived right in the year when the NKVD [1] agents arrested his father and dispatched him to the untamed lands, where heavy snows swallowed him forever—he even took apart that bed with rusted springs, gnawed up by woodworms, and pressed it up against the wall.

When she died, his mother not only freed him from her things, but also from her constant reproaches and grumblings about a wife, and from his dreams and ravings bordering on madness about a mysterious young woman who was waiting for him somewhere in a park hiding from the rain, and when he appeared with an umbrella, her tender and sonorous voice would pour out unexpectedly from underneath a spa­cious beech tree and tickle his ear, throbbing in his heart—“excuse me, but could you, kind sir, accompany me in the rain, because I have an urgent matter.” And that matter, well, to be sure, was a premiere at the theater, and it would turn out that there were two tickets, the other was for her girlfriend from work who disappeared somewhere, and there they were floating under the sail of the rain . . . And Boomblyakevych went to the park, wandered under the beech trees, and waited for her voice . . . but there was nothing . . . just a mirage…

Then he related everything in succession to his mother: about their acquaintance in the park, the theater, and how they arranged their next meeting, about all the further meetings with detailed conversations (“I want to know all-all-all of it,” his mother said) that he had played before in his head.

“What’s her name?” She asked him once.

And at that instant, he sensed that if he gave her some kind of ordinary name, he’d really depress his poor mother, he’d depress her so much that he was afraid she would stop believing these inventions of his, and then he blurted out:

“Malva [2] . . . That’s her name . . .”

“Ma-L-va . . . ,” his mother repeated and shut her eyes. It sounded like sweet halvah, that name, and it melted in her mouth, running to her palate.

Rambling through the city in search of his next treasures, Boomblyakevych fantasized about his conversations with Malva, and when he really went to the theater or to the movies, he then discussed what he had seen with her for a long time and even argued with her so that afterward he could relate everything to his mother.

“How intelligent she is . . .”

And she really feared he would bring her home sometime.

“Just don’t bring her here . . . Because when she sees the way we live, she’ll break up with you . . .”

2

. . . Boomblyakevych approached the mirror and judgmentally looked at the balding chubby dwarf with upturned radar antenna ears. With such an external appearance, he simply had no moral right to steal up to any decent young lady, much less utter his last name.

First of all, there is this schizophrenic BOOM, as if someone were drumming on something empty, or maybe on a tambourine—boom, tsik, tsik! It’s true that a certain well-known person has already had this BOOM in their last name. Wasn’t there a Boumidienne? [3] But fur­ther on there was this indecent and scatological BLYA! [4] And though it’s clear that the last didn’t come from the fact that someone was constantly drumming or occupied with blya-blya-blya, but entirely with something else, for example, with tapping, which is an entirely decent pastime, for in truth, what is disparaging when you begin to tap your index finger on your lips—that is, to drum? But not everyone has the patience to penetrate so deeply into the etymology of someone else’s name, and to explain it every time you meet someone would be entirely comical. And nothing remained for poor Boomblyakevych but to glow and to float in a worked-up sweat in the presence of an innocent young lady until his ear-radar antennae pricked up even stronger and watch­fully would quiver like aspen leaves . . .

This all was wild and indecent, but Boomblyakevych had never had a woman, and from the realization of his state, he was growing bitter and resentful, as though someone were mocking him. True, he didn’t consider himself a little boy, for from the age of twelve, he occupied himself with solo action, and those were special moments of inspiration that he waited for, one can say, all day long. At night, before sleep, he dove into his dreams and fantasies in which only bizarre women failed to submit to him, in which beauties nearly had to gasp for breath from those unbelievable splendors with which Boomblyakevych show­ered them! Often these were girls and women whom he knew or didn’t know, or just ran into on the street, all of them had to have a round, prominent little bottom: he didn’t like skinny or bony ones! After he read Robert Merle’s novel The Island, [5] he began to imagine himself after the sinking of a ship on an uninhabited island. Only he and eigh­teen captive girls survived . . . Oh, what splendid nights they were on that Polynesian island! The captive girls even argued over him, some­times even leading to fights. Somehow once one of them was missing. And only after some time had passed, the ocean tossed her body onto the shore in green seaweed . . . And then one more disappeared . . . And the ocean tossed out her body . . . A third was found in thickets, a fourth in a precipice, a fifth under a rock, a sixth in lava, a seventh in the snow, an eighth in amber, a ninth in a bottle, a tenth in the belly of a shark, an eleventh in a coconut, a twelfth in the clouds, a thirteenth in the tears of the fourteenth . . .

In general, if not for his mother, then who knows how his life would have turned out, because on occasion the opportunity to be with women would come up, but he didn’t have anywhere to take them, and everything broke off after a brief flirtation. Eventually, there was an attractive young woman by the name of Slavtsya who lived in apart­ment next door. His mother loved to chat with her, but on more than one occasion, she warned her son not to even try anything with her.

“She smokes, she can drink an entire bottle of wine by herself and reads all day. She’s not for you.”

Slavtsia was thirty-two years old and, having decided that she was already a spinster, gave free reign to herself—she’d eat everything that tasted good and stopped caring about her figure. Boomblyakevych knew her from childhood and treated her like a sister. But on the other hand he caught himself thinking that if not for his mother’s kvetching, then something with Slavtsia might have happened. She wasn’t stupid, she was a teacher in fact, and they had a lot of things in common for con­versation. But each time, just as his neighbor would call him either to help her move a couch, or to take down blinds, or to chop up a bone for broth, in just a few minutes his mother appeared with her invaluable advice and would not leave until they both returned home together.

His mother looked after him like the apple of her eye. And Boomblyakevych was left with nothing other than dreams and fantas­tic perversities, instantaneously capable of transporting his mother out of life if she managed to break into those dreams for even a minute. Though he just dreamt about it—he was the dread of the entire city, who lured little girls somewhere into dark places and made love to them . . .

The little girls had appeared very unexpectedly, just most recently.

One time, he went to his cousin on some matter, and right at that moment she was in the bathroom bathing her little one. And she had to get up because the telephone began to ring: her girlfriend was on the line.

“Take care of my Danusya for a bit because I have an important call. Be careful she doesn’t mess up the whole bathroom!” his cousin tossed out at him as she flew out and disappeared in the next room.

Boomblyakevych sat down on the edge of the bathtub, and the little girl, achieving her freedom, began to dive up and down in the water, to turn in every direction, showing him all her goods, because the clean, clear water even without that failed to hide anything. He looked at her as though he were under a spell. The little girl was, maybe, eight years old, but she was rather tall and plump, and on her breasts two little pink nipples were painted. Her full round thighs, as though she were doing it on purpose, didn’t stay together. She lay down in the bathtub, spread­ing them and riveting the eyes of her uncle to her puffed up lips, that had frozen in some kind of dreamy state, as though right after a kiss.

It suddenly dawned on Boomblyakevych that this had been going on for several minutes, from the time the little girl stopped her craziness and had lain down in front of him in this embarrassing pose. She lay there and looked at him smiling, and his eyes darted nervously and continuously returned to the captivation of her thighs. Now he distinctly saw that the little girl was interestedly observing him gazing at her, but at the same time this was quite dangerous — what would her mother think when she found her little one spread apart like that?

“Well, take your bath,” Boomblyakevych said. “Keep bathing.”

And he splashed water on her. The little girl started to laugh and puffed out her tummy, but she didn’t change her pose. Then he splashed water on her one more time. But the little girl refused to move from her spot.

His hand, touching the water in which the little prankster lay, was no longer capable of retreating. A certain incomprehensible power drew it to the deep, to those little thighs that waited for his touch. He watched as the little girl swam around with a smile as his hand dove deeper and deeper and, it seemed, that diving would never end. The water wet his shirtsleeve that was rolled up above his elbow and began to rise up higher, his fingers already felt like they had to push forward to those taut little thighs, but for some reason didn’t push forward. He bent over the edge of the bathtub and even dunked his head into the water and, opening his restless eyes, tried hard to see where those little legs had disappeared. His fingers scratched the bottom of the bathtub, further along the sides, but it was empty everywhere. He plucked his head from the water and saw that there was no one in the bathtub. The water was not as transparent as it was at first, some kind of yellow cloudiness rose up to the surface, and waves spread in all directions as though from a breeze. He sensed this draft on his back and even began to sweat.

He sprang up onto his legs and surveyed the bathroom with his eyes in terror. The girl had disappeared. Did she drown? Without thinking very long, he dove into the water and started to swim, ner­vously paddling with his arms, and from the bottom a caustic yellow fog rose up and blocked off his view, slashing and burning his eyes with fire. At every turn, he sensed as though something were striking him along his legs, something like the tail of a fish or the fan of a coquettish little lady. Palmated algae stuck to his face, and his ears were already gurgling from the water as though ringing springs with myriad tiny bubbles were beating, tearing upward, and it seemed as though his soul was being torn from him, and there was quite little left to do—just to open his mouth and let in the intrusive cloudiness in order to settle in these parts forever . . .

With strength, he pushed off from the bottom with his feet and sprang to the surface. He plaintively swallowed the air, but he already had no strength to reach the shore.

Someone’s gentle hands dragged him to them, helping him get out of the bathtub.

“What are you doing?” His cousin was astonished. “Why did you crawl into the bathtub with your clothes on?”

“I . . . I was looking for her . . . she was drowning . . .”

“The frolicsome girl?” His cousin began to laugh. “She’d sooner want to drown someone herself. Danusya, come on get out! Where are you hiding?”

Boomblyakevych waited for the muddy waters to part and for the little girl to dive out of them, but the waters didn’t part, and instead a hamper with clothes opened up, and the tiny naked prankster jumped out, laughing uncontrollably.

His gaze again fell on the water—it was just as yellow . . . What could it have been?

“What kind of tricks are you doing?” His cousin chided her daugh­ter. “Do you know how much you scared your uncle? Poor guy’s all wet.” Here she also took a look at the water. “Yikes! Well, you’re going to get it now! Who poured egg shampoo into the water?”

And she smacked her on her bare little bottom that immediately became red and turned into a ripe apple; a full mouth of saliva congre­gated on his lips.

“It wasn’t me-e-e, it was uncle-e-e,” the little one sobbed.

From then on, little girls constantly visited his imagination, and it was entirely the same to him whether they had round little rumps or ones like pears, whether they had breasts or just tiny nipples. The main thing was that they should be young kissie-pie virgins—extremely sexy and obedient, inquisitive and seductive . . . Whatever you sug­gest—agreeable to everything. Just at the end, you had to give them a chocolate, or a mandarin, or a little picture book . . .

But when Malva appeared, all the captive girls were trumped completely.

She first used to come just in those non-existent meetings and con­versations, which he fantasized for the sake of his mother, but later one evening, something happened that changed everything. Boomblyakevych slid his hand under the covers and tried to summon from his imagination one particular little girl who lived nearby . . . He suggested to her that they go on the roof to look at a star that was called Malva Landa . . .

“Malva Landa?” she whispered, and eagerly followed him.

And there on the roof he hugged the little girl and randomly pointed his finger into the starry sky:

“There, do you see it? That star—that’s Malva Landa.”

“Oh, wow!” the little girl said, staring at the sky spellbound and entirely unaware of the fact that the hand of a grown-up guy was pet­ting her little round legs, petting her round little stomach, then taking off her little white underwear, with his lips falling to her round little bottom.

“Malva Landa!” the little girl uttered, as if she were under hypno­sis, and set Boomblyakevych onto his knees, and the entire starry sky, the completely starry sky watched with thousands of pupils as they made love on the roof beside the cats and gutters . . .

But then suddenly a single star began to grow and grow and to shoot out rays, flying to them so so rapidly . . .

“My Lord!” Boomblyakevych shouted upon seeing that the star had turned into a queen and was standing on the chimney.

The queen was in a translucent tunic that fluttered in different directions in the wind, and her name was Malva. She moved close to the little girl, grabbed her by the skin as though she were a kitten, and flung her off the roof into the darkness.

“Now you are mine!” Malva said imperiously, and forced Boomblyakevych to belong to only her . . .

Malva took him by the hand, and they flew off somewhere above the buildings, into the deep blue warm air of the night . . .

Notes 

[1] The earlier name for the KGB in Stalin’s time. The acronym stands for the National Commissariat for Internal Security. (Translator’s note)

[2] Meaning: “hollyhock.” (Translator’s note)

[3] The former president of Algeria Houri Boumidienne. (Translator’s note)  

[4] “Blya” suggests “blyad,” the word for ‘whore’ in Ukrainian. (Translator’s note)

[5] Robert Merle (1908-2005) was a French novelist. His novel L’île (The Island) was published in 1962.

Translated by Michael M. Naydan