But really I would prefer to sit, drink water, reread some Russians a while longer —a luxury perhaps, but why should I, anyone, call it that, why should reading what I want, in a well-hydrated fashion, always be what I’m planning to finally do, like hiking or biking, & now that I think of it, reading should make me, anyone, breathe harder, then easier, reach for cold, cold water, & I prefer my reading that way, I prefer Ivan Turgenev, who makes me work for not quite pleasure no, some truer sweatier thing, Turgenev, who is just now, in my small room in West Texas, getting to the good part, the very Russian part, the last few pages of “The Singers” when the story should be over, Yakov the Turk has sung with fervor, meaning true Russian spirit, meaning he’s won a kind of 19th century Idol in the village tavern, The End, but Turgenev goes on, the narrator walks out, down a hill, into a dark enveloping mist, & he hears from misty far away some little boy calling out for Antropka! calling hoarsely, darkly, Antropka-a-a! & it’s that voice that stops then opens my breath that voice & all Monday-Wednesday-Fridays all Tuesday-Thursdays are gone I have arrived in the village of no day none & I am sitting with the villagers who are each at once young old who have the coldest water to give me & songs I think I have sung before they sing their underground tree-root syllables they give me silences from their long long hair Copyright © 2016 Chen Chen. Used with permission of the author. |
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