Nine Days

Gennady Bondarenko

 

Base

So, we’re unpacking. I’m looking at everything I’ve brought. Not much: some groceries in store packages. A bottle of brandy, just in case. A can of ground coffee and a pack of beer. I’m beginning to feel more secure: yes, this would help me make it through the week or so. My friend-turned-host whom I’ve nicknamed Klaus seems to have guessed my thoughts (and it’s not hard to tell, by the look on my face):

“Cheer up, ‘Robinson’!” – he laughs, “We’ve got all the comforts of home. A kitchen stove, even two – the electric and gas ones, with a gas tank. And the electricity’s free here, so you can use it as much as you like. It was a military unit, after all, though I have no idea if they are still paying for it. There is a fridge as well, so you don’t have to torture yourself with warm beer. And in case you miss a civilized life, you can turn on the TV in the room, the only one here worth being called repaired. It’s true, the TV doesn’t show anything — I mean, no programs… except maybe some Turkish ones, and even getting those depends on the weather. There’s a VCR though. Guess you haven’t seen a film on a tape cassette in a long time, have you? There are some video cassettes, too. Of course, old ones, as old as video itself. But if you get tired of wild nature in Crimea at some point, you can entertain yourself with Terminator.”

I look at the large yellow limestone house in front of me. A veranda, in flaking green paint. A huge old alycha tree along the side of it, with its bright, ripe cherry plums. Jaybirds greedily grab ripe yellow berries. The Terminator is the last thing one expects to see here.

Around me are the Crimean Mountains: the relict forest, and somewhat higher, the mountain peaks of red granite. It’s still morning and they are absorbing the heat of space, coming from the sun. Somewhere down below us, but still very close, is the sea.

For some reason this place is still called a hunting reserve. Or even a nature preserve. I’m not sure for what. Many years before, or rather ages ago, during Soviet times, there was a small military unit located here. Sort of a secret one, hidden in the forest under the cover of the reserve or preserve. The rusty barbed wire, fencing along the perimeter of its hectares, is all that’s left now. And this empty old house, which my friend Klaus pretends to call his dacha.

“And that’s not all the wonders of technology,” Klaus goes on. He obviously enjoys the role of guide. “Let me show you the shower… e-e-eh… cabin, yes.”

He points to the corner of the house. Now I see that he mentioned the Terminator for a reason. The design of the DIY “cabin” fits some post-apocalyptic scene better than a Crimean idyll. A tin tank, attached to the side wall with some wires running into it. A stainless showerhead sticks out of the tank, right above where the head is supposed to be – high enough off the ground. Klaus definitely made it with his nearly two-meter height in mind. How does one fill this tank with water? I wonder. By hand? Apparently so. It all looks quite civilized though: the makeshift shower place is even curtained with a blue plastic film screen.

“Yeah, the whole thing required some raw creativity, you’re right. Electricity here, as you already know, is free. There was no bathroom, though. Those who used to live here would go to the bathhouse. There are still barracks down in the valley. But why not build it right here? Basically, it’s a maxi tea-urn: The contacts, inserted into the water– they heat the water like a boiler, and – voila! So how do you like it?”

“I find myself leaving the civilized world and entering an even more technologically advanced civilization,” I joke back.

“Well… that is only here,” Klaus smiles back. He nods toward the driveway, the house, framed on either side by the barberry bushes. “You just step out the door and find wilderness all around here.”

Mountain and descent

But I came here exactly for that: the solitude of the sea, as a classicist once said. Journalism (and metropolitan journalism above all) is good only to the extent that one understands when to quit it for good. Still, this invitation from Klaus, who had moved back home, from Kiev to Crimea, long ago, was like a bolt from the blue.

Based on his account, I learned that he had run the parliamentary election campaign for a local big timer, the owner of his newspaper, in the spring. The guy wanted to get elected to the Verkhovna Rada in his electoral district. “There were plenty of people willing to get involved, all sorts of spin doctors,” Klaus explained. “But our guy decided to do it with the local forces. Get-rich-quick he may be, but he still knows how to count money. All the more because our newspaper belongs to him. So I had to urgently train myself in electoral intricacies and turn our editorial staff into the electoral headquarters. And, of course, learn from scratch. However, there was nothing very special about that. We know the local situation and the people we deal with daily.”

The campaign was a success, the big timer ended up in parliament, and Klaus got this house, as an unexpected bonus.

“Understandably, not to live in it. I have a building lot within the city limits. So, in fact, that’s what his offer was: to disassemble this house, made of real solid Crimean limestone, and then build my own with the stones. That is, save on the building materials. The house is spacious – eight rooms. As many as four young officer families lived here.”

“But, as you said, it’s a sort of military base?”

“Yes, maybe on paper it still is. Even after it was no longer active, people in the military still used it for a while – for representational purposes, as they say now. There used to be some cruise missiles here, or whatever, aimed at the NATO military in Turkey. Clearly, it was a long time ago, back in Soviet times. Then came perestroika, and then – disarmament…. You know: Why would Ukraine aim rockets at someone and attack them?”

“So the local army brass used it for exactly what it has: natural beauty. Just imagine: Some important inspector from the military district comes… and his local subordinates bring him to this place. Back then when the whole thing was built, the missile silos were covered with a huge steel plate. There were pine trees planted on it, so that the place would be invisible from above. The pines are now huge, so you can’t tell this place from the rest of the forest around it. The big guys approach… There’s forest and rocks everywhere, and – all of a sudden, right in front of their eyes – a rock with trees moves away. And there they are – at Aladdin’s cave! And the banquet tables are already set.”

“Can I count on something like that too?” I ask.

Klaus nods, appreciating my joke:

“Well, get promoted to general first. No, actually, this is a relic of the past. Although technically it’s still a military unit, the locals have already made plans for it. In fact, they own it. Probably, something will be built here one day. Maybe some kind of resort. The view from here is spectacular, as you will see soon. Understandably, they don’t need any of the army buildings here. But I’m in no hurry to disassemble it. Let it be a sort of summer dacha for a while.”

“Yeah, wild and authentic.”

“Well, not so wild,” Klaus says encouragingly. “Chin up, anchorite! All the more reason for me to visit you.”

We say goodbye. I go out to see him off, shutting the door of his old blue Opel. The barberry bushes with red berries form a thin red line separating the civilization Klaus is going back to from the world of mine, all unknown now. I’ll live here … for a while, I don’t even know how long – until I have had enough. One week? Ten days? I have it all to myself now: this freedom from city life, the solitude of sea and mountains – and this house, too, where no one lives now.

Day and night

With a sigh, I decided it’s time to start my first day here. And the first thing on tap was to head to the sea. I’d unpack the groceries I’d brought from the city later. The base with this house was on a sort of plateau, midway from the ridge to the sea. It seemed like the coast was not that far, probably half a kilometer or so – a nice walk down the mountain, at a brisk pace, and then I’d be dipping my feet in the scintillating water.

But for starters, let’s have some coffee.

To do that, I have to haul some water from a spring in the forest. I was warned about that as well: Yes, there is water at the base, but it’s so-called technical water. Only good for showering and washing dishes. Drinkable at your own risk, even after a great deal of boiling. But there was a spring in the forest, just a short walk away. That’s where the house inhabitants of the past had gotten their drinking water. Not a walk, though, Klaus had warned, but a trip. Then he pointed at a cart next to the doorsteps, with a handle as long as he was tall, and still packed with white plastic canisters.

I grab the handle and pull the cart, rattling, up the rutted trail, gray with mountain dust.

The natural spring turned out to be like everything here – military solid. Not wild at all, and in quite good condition. Nothing like what one might expect to see in the mountains. When I found it, I almost mistook it for a well: a concrete rim, only without a cast-iron cover. But on coming closer and bending over it, I realized it is indeed a forest spring with transparent water that looked a bit greenish in the shade. Pure and inviting in the midday heat. I cup my palm, daring to sip it. Hard to my taste, probably from the high level of limescale, not at all like industrially softened water in bottles. I fill the canisters and put them into the cart one by one. On the way back, the cart, though full, rattles the same way.

My new Robinson Crusoe life begins.

The coffee, despite such hard water, didn’t disappoint at all. Good city coffee. The day begins in quite a familiar way.

I stuff the backpack with those few things I might really need at the sea. Walking into a glade, just beyond the driveway, I behold the panoramic sea view below, beneath my very feet. A dark silhouette of a submarine slithers through the water, presumably headed for Balaclava, the nearest town here. The mountains surround me in a semicircle. For a moment I feel like I’m in an ancient amphitheater. But there is life all around me, and it’s brimming with energy.

My walk down resembles something akin to a botanical tour of the peculiarities of Crimean nature. Back on the plateau, where that sort-of hunting reserve is located and where my “home” stands, deciduous forest ensconces everything; the air is humid, and grayish clay soaked from the recent rains sticks to your sandals. Further down, the oaks and linden trees give way to pines and junipers; the air becomes dry and hot, the true southern sea climate; the insane chirping of cicadas now surrounds me from every side. I descend further. The forest path turns into a hiking trail. Now I make my way among yellowish-red boulders – and finally reach the sea.

I could see Mys Aya, a prominent cape visible everywhere from this part of the South Coast. And farther, nor far away but still over the mountain pass – Balaclava. Somewhere near should be the famous Crimean “wild beaches” Batiliman and Laspi.

However, the place where I reach the sea looks quite secluded. Somewhere in the distance, right behind the forest fringe, a few tents have been set up, almost on the cliff over the water. But the rest of the area is open to view and… vacant, my urban mind promptly suggests.

I walk to the edge of the water. The greenish wave sparkles in the sunlight. My first, quite unexpected thought: I’m here, at the sea – so what? The sea is like the sea should be, green and wet. So what am I doing here, actually? Maybe instead of hiding from my problems, I should be working on solving them? There, at home, instead of staying in a “home”?

Somehow, this unexpected turn of thought makes me feel uneasy. I look around: the afternoon cliffs seem watchful, as if calmly expecting my next move. You, the mental toxins of city life – you won’t spoil my freedom here, I proclaim somewhat ceremoniously and throw myself into the warm afternoon sea water.

Back

Climbing back up the mountain slope in the afternoon heat, I find the ascent rather difficult: It took me about twenty minutes to get down to the sea; the ascent probably drags on for twice as long. It’s not that I’m unaccustomed to such energetic brisk walking, but it’s a completely different thing in the mountains, without training. And yet it was just as picturesque and engaging: like a movie tape rewound backwards, through familiar places, but seen from a different perspective.

Fear

The evening did not come for a long time. But then, as it is in the south, the sun quickly fell below the horizon, and the sky darkened: I stare at the stars, as if I’d never seen them before. I even ask myself if I’ve ever seen a sky as beautiful as this. Or maybe it’s just because it’s so different here in the mountains – this starry night sky – for someone used to the orange haze hanging over the urban night.

As I’m nodding off, the moon shines through my window. It is still without any curtains or blinds. I feel uneasy. Tossing and turning from side to side, I tell myself I should get up and somehow curtain off the window. But I don’t feel like getting up, either. I look around the dimly lit room, hoping to spot a blanket or something suitable for a screen. Maybe there is something like that in one of the remaining rooms.

The moonlight is too bright, however. I have to get up. Like a sleepwalker, I walk through the other rooms, from one to another. Yes, I see what Klaus meant when he mentioned that only one room had been renovated. All the others look really desolate… in ruins. In the light of the moon that follows me from window to window, they look creepy. Who wrecked this? And would they do the same to my room… to me? Break into this house. Invade my life. Destroy it, shatter it, under the watchful but indifferent moon?

Just you try it, I tell myself. Has it been a long time since anyone gave you a good beating? And what if it’s them who will beat me? No, they won’t. I’ll kick back, no matter how many of you there are. But… barehanded? I’ll find something tomorrow, something really handy and heavy. And I’ll keep it near me, certainly at night. The thought of this heavy something calms me. I lie down on the same bed I just got up from, without finding anything suitable to use as a curtain. The old rusty bed springs sigh soothingly. The mattress is slippery, but that doesn’t keep me from falling asleep right away.

Morning

Transparent, bluish morning light; it’s barely dawn. I shake off the sleep: The early morning seeps into my room, through the only window. I get up and go to push open the front door to the house. The cool of the morning mountains immediately fills the house. The freshness is so dense and palpable that for a moment I don’t want to interrupt it with the smell of coffee. But once I think of coffee, I can’t stop. Unscrewing the tin can, I mindlessly sprinkle some of the grains on the table. A usual morning rush. But to… where? And what for?

I sit down on the green veranda sipping my coffee. It’s only been a day since I arrived, but I’m already finding a routine. A cup of coffee from the spring water here tastes… real. I look at the alycha: It’s the only thing nearby to look at. Well, there are also the mountain peaks around me. They’re starting to glisten in the morning sun. Suddenly I recall my fears during the night. That they… who might they be? Who can come here, to my cool solitude? Who in this world could even know that such loneliness exists at all?

Sea

I’m really not in a rush to get anywhere (but still have to be reminded of that). This morning I will thoroughly prepare myself for the hike to the sea (mindfully, the urban thought pattern suggests). I pack my backpack: some sandwiches from the fridge, the ones I have brought from the city. A few peaches. Cold beer, a couple of cans, wrapped in several layers of propaganda bulletins still left from the election campaign. There are stacks of them around the house. Klaus took what was left of the electoral campaign here, to his dacha: They are great for firing charcoal in the grill oven.

Going down the already familiar slope, I breathe the fragrance of the pinewood forest, welcoming the same greeting sung by the cicadas. The Crimean sun is already burning my shoulders, but I am not afraid of a sunburn. Soon I will plunge into the sea.

I have always been impressed by the Black Sea color here in the Crimea. Not a dense aquamarine, like in the Mediterranean for example. Here, it’s yellowish green, like liquid sunlight flowing down from the granite of the mountains, pouring into this cup on earth.

I settle on a big flat rock. What about a sip of beer, before taking a dip in the cool morning sea? Spotting some little crabs, I toss sandwich crumbs into the water. They cautiously hold back for a while, gathering for a treat. I’m curious to see what would interest them: crumbs of bread? Little bits of salami? The purple shreds of a peach peel?

Day and night

It’s the second night here; I have just closed my eyes when I remember my previous sleepwalk yesterday. I get up again. I saw a toolbox this afternoon, right by the front door. Yes, here it is: And near the toolbox there is an axe. So… to have it next to my bed? Just in case? No, that’s too much. Let it sit right here, near the closed door. They won’t get in, no way. The moon is still shining through the window. But now I’m not at all troubled by it. I calm myself and fall asleep. No one will come to harm me. I am safe here: It is just me, myself and the world around me.

Klaus

A couple of days later, Klaus comes, as promised. Instantly, I feel awkward about the axe, still there at the door. But he hardly pays any attention to it. Probably thought I was barbecuing, chopping wood and forgot it on the doorstep. We make a fire together, and cook traditional shish kebabs with meats he has brought, drinking some wine and talking at leisure. When he readies to leave, I am jarred by feelings of remorse. I feel somewhat desperate about his returning home. Should I ask him to take me along? Tell him I’ve had enough of the solitude and now want to… be back among the living?

Vibes

In fact, it’s not at all peopleless here. I knew, of course, that this is where the Crimean nudist beaches are. Hiding from the midday heat in the shade of pines, I see chains of sweaty breathless hikers pass me single-file. Once a group leader asks, on the go: how far is it to the inzhyr (the fig)? I am astonished: the fig? How on earth might a fig be found here, among these pines? He scans me with a dissatisfied look: Sure enough, he’s wasted a few breaths on me, so precious in this heat! When the hikers have passed, and only then, do I realize: How dumb can you be?!? Not an inzhyr – the Inzhyr! That is what they call one of the most popular nudist beaches on the South Shore.

Those hippish inhabitants of the tents I spotted among the pines the very first day swim naked, too. And I’m trying to stay farther away from them. Those lower vibes are the last thing I need now that my working anxieties and night fears seem to have left me. I glance in the direction of their camp. Yes, the tents can be seen through the pines: one, two… I say to myself. It seems that after just a few days here I have already developed the habit of talking to myself: Interesting that they’ve managed to camp on this territory – it’s still a nature resort, right? They probably settled the matter with the rangers, paying them some small bribe. Oh, this ubiquitous Ukrainian corruption! And, hmm, where do they get water among those rocks?

Session

The next day I find myself at a photo session. Not mine, of course. Two girls are snapping shots in the shallow water, near the place I usually stop. One is on a rock near me, posing in her glamourous bathing suit. The other, waist-deep in the water, takes pictures, commenting in the process. I already see those photos appearing on social media. Hello from the South Coast of Crimea! Somehow this scene makes me laugh. Don’t know why but in an instant, it reminds me of the proverbial Ten Bulls of the Buddhist folktale. A kind of medieval Buddhist comic about a man taming his consciousness, that is compared to an unruly bull. And then they both go through the different stages of taming the bull / teaching the man: anxiety… fear… lust turned to tranquility and peace, with himself and others – and the last stage, which is called, if I remember it correctly, returning to the world with a bare chest. Join the masses – this final stage seems to be the real purpose of the whole mind-bending process.

So this is what the bare-chested one’s return to the world looks like – at least, in the twenty-first century. I smile to myself: naive DIY glamour generously offered to the world through publicity-hungry social networking.

Void

But what’s in it for me, I say to myself. And who’s that me, actually? The one troubled, scared, wishful? What is left of him, is now lying in the morning warmth, face down on the rock, looking into the water, watching my new friends, the little crabs, gather nearby. Spotting me, they slowly make their way toward my rock, confident about the treat. As they try to snatch a piece of tomato from each other, I think I deserve a treat, too. I pull a newspaper-wrapped beer can out of my backpack and take a cold sip, in the blistering heat. A strong urge to read the local newspaper overcomes me: What is life like… here?

Back home

“Hi!” I hear – a young voice resonates behind me (my first thought: I hope you haven’t forgot to put on your swimsuit?) I turn to the voice: yes, a black bathing suit, almost indistinguishable on the dark bronze tan.

“I know you – you’ve been coming here for days! But keep away from us people, lonely! Though I understand you. You always have a book. A real treasure here. Shall we exchange them? We’ve read everything we brought!”

She puts her palm to her forehead, trying to see me against the sun.

“Yes, I have a couple of books,” I reply, “and I’ve already finished them, actually started a second round. For the reason you mentioned.”

She smiles understandingly:

“Then do have ours! We have a few Pelevins if you don’t mind reading him. And I would gladly exchange them for yours.”

I smile back understandingly:

“I have another offer, no less great than a book. I mean, a canister of water. After all, you do need water there in your camp, right?”

“So you have water there… where you go back to in the evenings? Yes, please! We buy it from rangers, and it’s not cheap!”

I listen to the sound of her melodious voice, savoring her words that enter me like air, and listening to my cacophony.

“My name is Emma. Then, come, join us for some terrific port wine as well – we have a whole canister! Locals sell it this way, in plastic bottles and even canisters. Probably stolen from the winery nearby. But… tasty it is! And do you play the guitar? We would love to have someone with a new repertoire in our group!”

“I used to,” I nod, though not sure of myself. “There was really a time when… but that time was long ago. When we played at school dances with my friends. Not sure anyone listens to those songs now. But I will try to amaze you happy shiny people with my talent.”

Home 

I trudge uphill to my house of yellow limestone. When is Klaus supposed to come back for me? I seem to have lost count of the days. How long have I been here? Probably a week, maybe some more. Nine days? Do I still need another one, that very tenth day, to complete the full cycle…

…for my true homecoming to happen.