Max Nemtsov's Blog, page 87

Alexander Dyomin: Something to Tell

сегодня в честь праздничка пусть будет еще одна старая песенка Дёмы, ставшая гимном наших дней, хотя написана 18 мая 2000 года. к ней я тоже шел долго, потому что размер там, гадство, Дёмин, и так, как он, ее больше никто и не поёт. поэтому перевод – скорее ознакомительного свойства, возможно, я буду его еще допиливать. но если б не война и не эмиграция, я б, наверное, к ней так и не подступился

From the typhoid, to the West. From the plague, to the East.
From the Teutons, to the South. From the Mongols, to the North.
With the neck in a noose. With a hook in the crease.
Tied to a tail. Dragged through frozen earth.
All hail the evacuation.
All hail the evacuation.
All hail the evacuation—
We’ll all have something to tell.

From the pest, to Monaco. From the dearth, to Iraq.
From the Whites, to Yakutia. From the Reds, to Tibet.
There’ll be no free pardon. Here are all of us stuck.
The sentence is final. On that you may bet.
All hail the emigration.
All hail the emigration.
All hail the emigration—
We’ll all have something to tell.

From raids, to the well. From pogroms, to the vault.
From riot squads, to the woods. From Gestapo, to the fen.
Belly on broken glass. With your nose to asphalt.
Each one for himself and save what you can.
All hail the capitulation.
All hail the capitulation.
All hail the capitulation—
We’ll all have something to tell.

So long live the occupation
Long live the elimination
Long live the exhumation
We’ll all have something to tell

услышать ее можно здесь

предыдущая и некоторые другие песни Дёмы в переводе

Мемориальный плейлист Александра Дёмина

some preliminaries

Международная неделя Пинчона в Ванкувере обзавелась новым плакатом (а мы допиливаем поправки к переизданию плакатного романа, хотя ребята-пинчата отчего-то были уверены, что его не будет)

на связанной с этим ноте напомним: 20-22 октября в Сент-Луисе – конференция , посвященная столетию Гэддиса, если кому интересно

меж тем вдумчивый читатель продолжает исследовать Бьянку и Готтфрида в “Радуге”

мятущееся читательское сознание изучает “Почтамт” Хэнка

а Кляйнцайту вот “4 3 2 1” Остера не понравился, тут и тут

недаром, видимо, я в последнее довоенное время вспомнил и начал переслушивать “Иностранца” – они приличные люди, собрали $100 000 для Украины

some publishing news

“Подписные издания” открыли предзаказ на “Птичек” – стоит она пока всего 990 руб. 20 коп.

а в “Лайвбуке” продается трилогия Мервина Пика – только вчера, не устояв и купив ее в дружественном лабазе “Во весь голос”, мы разобрали, до чего это красиво. вот здесь видно, что она мало того что с искрой, но еще и корешки там складываются красиво (в этом вы сами лучше убедитесь). в общем, это лучшее пока издание трилогии (хоть и без “Мальчика во мгле”) – и лучший памятник Сергей-Борисычу, конечно

журнал “Мужское здоровье” выходит во властители литературных дум и рекламирует “Женщин” Хэнка:

Все произведения Чарльза Буковски слегка циничные и жесткие, но от этого не менее привлекательные. Роман «Женщины» рассказывает о жизни 50-летнего Генри Чинаски, чей образ во многом автобиографичен. Герой много выпивает и не ограничивает себя в сексуальных связях, по-своему восхищаясь каждой новой подругой. Буковски во всех подробностях описывает любовниц своего персонажа, уделяя особое внимания эротическим сценам. При этом его Генри ни в кого по-настоящему не влюбляется — он в целом не придает никакого значения любви. Счастлив ли Чинаски при этом? Можно ли считать его модель поведения здоровой? Ответ на эти вопросы не лежит на поверхности — выводы делайте сами.

…а мы потом удивляемся, откуда у нас такие читатели берутся

занимательное чтение для тех, кто не очень в теме

Alexey Sheremet: * * *

We used to live then
On Tchaikovsky St.
And on that street
We used to have a
Woman
There was an
Old woman
We used to call her
The War
Always dressed
Garishly
Seen from afar
The lads and I used to hide
When she
Approached
‘Cause if you’re off your guard
She’d grab you
By the arm
And say
The war
The war began
Her son died
A long time ago
He fell into a manhole
Just a kid
Long before us
And she’s been like this
Ever since
Not to mention
My uncle
Uncle Alik
Once he came home
From his institute
Why are you so early
We were dismissed
Don’t you all know
There’s the war
And that was it
Why, how come
Who told you that
And he said
Go turn
The radio on
There are posters already
All through the subway
So the granddad
Calmly
Went down to the subway with him
Where, he said
Where are those posters
They were here
They took them off now
But he was cured quickly
That time

April 25, 2022

оригинал

без связи с происходящим пару дней назад умер Арно

some real news again

вчера вечером вышел первый номер ROAR – мы туда кое-что написали, но в основном переводили, потому что нельзя не. и будем продолжать

вчера была еще одна публикация – в EastWest Literary Forum: стихотворение “Улицы Киева” Стивена Оливера (2015), его я тогда же и перевел

немного на другой ноте: ребята-пинчата постепенно дозревают до того, чтобы сделать Пинчон-вики на русском. интересно, что у них получится

пополнение в Баре Тома Пинчона – на сей раз в виде сопроводительного чтения там Зак Смит

Майя Ставицкая о “Счастье”. о том, как мы читаем обложки: на ней ясным шрифтом написано “Найлл Уильямз”, правда же? (см. приложенную фиг.) так нет же, мы с УДЛП везде пишем что? “Нейл Уильямс”. вот как это, а?

впрочем, у читателей всегда не понос так золотуха. вот, например, рассуждения о Буковски

ну а тут вдруг накопились отклики на “Женщин” Хэнка

ну и в честь 106й годовщины Пасхального восстания у нас сегодня вот что

no recreation

Обрывок реки. Избранная проза 1925-1945. Блокадные стихотворения 1942-1944 by Gennady Gor
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Нарезка из маленьких стилистических шедевров, причудливых и капризных, – о мире, который насквозь фальшив. Даже сквозь все фиоритуры декоративного постмодернизма проглядывают свинячьи рыла и зверские морды т.н. “русского народа” – ну и вранье советской власти, конечно. Такое ощущение, что под всем этим – последние кадры человеконенавистнического фильма “Новый Гулливер”: на какие б ужимки ни пускался автор, хохочущие хари пионеров с сетчатки не стереть.

“Корова” поэтому – в общем, лживая агитка о чудовищном эксперименте с колхозами, написанная витиевато и небездарно, но совершенно понятно, почему сам Гор, мастер переобуваний и виляния анатомией, ею не хвастался впоследствии: место ей, в общем, на помойке. Потому что там все вранье. Даже Платонов в своих завиральных текстах о социалистических юродивых был честнее. Поэтому здесь остается любоваться только звуком и формой. “Эх, к такому платью бы да еще бы голову”, короче.

Но примиряет с ним, конечно, то, что автор он все-таки исходно дальневосточный, и восточно-сибирские традиционные его рассказы, в общем, хороши. Да и городские рассказы в нарезке получше, если из них не прет заказуха по зову сердца, – ими, обывательскими, вполне можно наслаждаться, потому что приспособленец-то был отнюдь не бездарен. Чудесные тексты другого питерца, Михаила Гаёхо, выросли, в частности, из них.

Блокадные стихи, наверное, были хороши когда-то, но теперь русское слово совсем обесценилось, поэтому все выглядит враньем и позой. В идеальном мире автор после таких стихов бы сразу и умер, но у нас мир не идеальный, и автор стал “советским писателем-фантастом”.

ДнМ с его бабьими причитаниями и заплачками – тоже военный фальшак. Есть правда способ дочитать до конца и не стошнить: все слова “немцы” в нем заменить на “русские”. Тогда еще ну как-то.

Time Machines: Time Travel in Physics, Metaphysics and Science Fiction by Paul J. Nahin
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Поскольку на русском читать ничего все равно невозможно, it’s all tainted, попробуем продолжить чтение по программе. Книжка Пола Нейина – занимательная спекулятивная энциклопедия путешествий во времени и собственно самой природы времени, она имеет непосредственное отношение к “роману в работе”, где вопрос времени – основной в сюжете. “Попаданцы” – лишь одна разновидность путешественников во времени; здесь целый раздел посвящен беженцам из неприятного будущего в идиллическое прошлое. Чтение прошлого и будущего (без влияния на них) – другой крюк сюжета. Похоже, Пинчон пользовался этой книжкой как шпаргалкой, в общем.

Вплоть до того, что несколько ее персонажей (Мактаггарт, к примеру, или Минковски) выступают фигурами стаффажа в “романе в работе”. Мало того: сложные временнЫе конструкции у Пинчона (все эти ‘is going to have been past’ и ‘was going to be future’, которые невозможно компактно передать на русском, где время весьма примитивно, взяты непосредственно из того же Мактаггарта, когда тот (лукаво) пытался доказать несуществование времени в 1908 году. Хотя понятно, что с анахронией Пинчон работал с самого начала. Гистерон-протерон у него один из любимейших приемов: “распалась связь времен”, как известно, но не только: каузальность как основу рациональности ХХ века он тоже подрывает, вплоть до энтропии. Обратная каузальность (петух кукарекает, но светает не поэтому) у него тоже есть, да и “вечное возвращение” Эрнста Цермело фигурирует. Отдельно радуют проходки по перпендикулярности множественных стрел времени (надеюсь, в следующей книжке этого у него будет больше) и аппараты для рассматривания прошлого и будущего.

В обзорно-теоретической части, кстати, наш автор еще и поднимает вопрос о выносе ума наблюдателя из пространства-времени – в некую область, мы бы сказали, “сознания Будды”, и вот это уже становится по-настоящему интересным. Но автор этого не говорит, фактически не заходит дальше выражения “на том уровне, о котором нам ничего не может рассказать физика”, т.е. остается целиком в западной позитивистской парадигме и переходит к чему-то там другому. А жаль, поскольку это по-настоящему богатая тема для рассуждений и построения умозрительных моделей (в т.ч. и путешествий во времени, конечно). При этом надо понимать, что ссылается он на шотландца Клемента Мандла, “философа и парапсихолога”.

Ну и дорогого стоит фраза Брэдбери, которую я раньше не видел (она из предисловия к книжке, которую я не читал), – она описывает примерно любые человеческие занятия, не только чтение книг или путешествия во времени: “We attend them [спектакли по пьесам Шекспира, в данном случае] to toss pebbles in ponds, not to see the stones strike, but the ripples spread”.

немного дополнительного полезного чтения : у Денниса Купера – большая подборка материалов о Уильяме Гэддисе

ну и про кино. оно в меня не лезет, но это я смотрел как документальную кинохронику.
в общем, поделав дневные дела, решил я побыть со своим… да нет, не народом, конечно, это я сам по себе… – и посмотреть наконец кино, которое сейчас все прогрессивное человечество смотрит, хотя снято оно в начале 90х на той помойке под красным фотофонарем, где Лопушанский снимал все свои фильмы. “хорошее кино, жизненное”, как говорила моя учительница химии по кличке “Молекула”. т.е. смотреть его так, как оно, видимо, замышлялось, – как надрывные стоны о чем-то невнятном, но явно прошедшем – уже не получается, а получается смотреть, как тотальную злобную пародию на т.н. “россию”, ее “народ”, ее “культуру”, ее “историю”, ее “литературу”, ее “интеллигенцию”, ее вечное кликушество, ее “особый путь”, ее “грешить и каяться”, ее “слезинки ребенка”… ну в общем, примерно на весь комплект этнических консервов, который мы до сих пор тут имеем. особенно прекрасна фраза “я пришел скорбеть” и очень уморительны последние кадры, когда наш герой долго, минут пять экранного времени, включая финальные титры (а это очень, сука, долго) зачем-то ползет в веригах и обносках по снегу, что-то беззвучно орет и пихает в рот этот снег горстями, т.е. осуществляет совершенно бессмысленные со всех точек зрения (кроме станции метро достоевская) действия. нихуя симфонического, в фильме, кстати, нет, наоборот, и он очень смешной. пафосный плакат с попом по дороге на куликово поле, кстати, сказать, вырван из контекста, потому что в контексте картинка совершенно издевательская. описание фильма в ру-вики тоже дурацкое, он не вполне о том, что там написано, но кто когда чего-то хорошего ждал от ру-вики. однако, в общем, если кому-то все еще интересно, как в этой стране воцарилось тотальное зло и почему оно начало, в частности, нынешнюю войну, по фильму, в общем, можно составить себе довольно непротиворечивое мнение об этом. его хорошо смотреть после, например, “покаяния” абуладзе, а после него – “трудно быть богом” германа. тогда будет полное стерео

ну и неувядающих песен протеста вам:

“Враги вошли в город, выбили двери, а мы с соседями смеялись в первый день…”

а эту все и так знают. “Этот столб давно пора валить”

smth smth smth

скоро у нас день рож любимого писателя, а еще немного погодя – Неделя Пинчона в Ванкувере. по этом поводу Джефф Северз, основной ее орг, дал интервью

ну а у нас все как обычно – вот такие вот лояльные читатели: некто о “Мертвом отце” Бвртелми

ранее он уже описывал примерно в тех же понятиях
– “Страну коров” Пирсона
– “Край навылет” Пинчона
– “Если очень долго падать…” Фариньи

а тут некий деятель смм числит среди любимых писателей Буковски и Криса Мура, поди знай

напомню, что книжку с такими картинками скоро еще можно будет добыть тут, а больше ее нигде и нет, считайте. где в этом рассаднике высокой мысли вторая рецензия на нее, я, правда, так и не понял

a little news again

ну что, обстоятельства издания этого перевода до жути напоминают издание и оригинала, но канал “Внутренняя Ирландия” сообщает, что книга ушла наконец в печать

а “Шенна” Пядара О Лери – в коротком списке “Вавилонской рыбки”, удивительно

не устаю радоваться красоте трехтомника Мервина Пика. его уже можно купить на сайте издательства

порознь дороже

еще немного красивого и правильного, чтобы вспомнить, как это бывает

у “Искателя” Таны Френч появился еще один хороший читатель

но в целом, конечно, эксперимент по вливанию в русскую читательскую массу хороших книжек следует признать неудачным. из свежего вот о “Женщинах” Хэнка:

Ни о чём. Одно да потому. Меня хватило на 50 страниц этого барахла. Абсолютно никакой литературной и художественной ценности. Рвота, пьянство, разврат, рвота и так далее по кругу. Можно про это писать и даже, вероятно, нужно, но не так бездарно. Обыкновенная нудятина написанная настолько неумело, что УДИВИТЕЛЬНО, как из этого получилась целая книга! Повторюсь, претензии не к теме, или сплошному мату, или разврату, а к стилю изложения. Бесполезная трата времени. Не рекомендую ни под каким предлогом. Исповедь графомана. Про разврат и пьянство так бездарно не пишут.

вот о скверно переизданном Бротигане (не трехтомнике):

Вероятно, для понимания “Рыбалки в Америке” нужен больший культурный бэкграунд и погружение в историю Соединенных Штатов, которая для меня по большей части известна обрывочно и потому большую часть отсылок я не смогла считать – это было долго, мутно, непонятно, и очень постмодернистски – с этим вечным обращением к человеческим порокам и упрощению и низведению человека до его низменных потребностей и пороков… Это сплошной ребус без подсказки и разгадки, и поэтому мой культурный диалог с Бротиганом здесь оборвался, даже не начавшись – мы просто говорим на разных языках и физически не способны докричаться друг до друга сквозь форелевый ручей, сквозь прозрачное стекло из арбузного золотого сахара.

вот о “Чем-то гадком в сарае” Бонфильоли:

Купила эту книгу на распродаже за 100 рублей и неожиданно оказалось, что это третья книга в трилогии (какая я внимательная). Ну, думаю, попробую, вдруг она не связана особо с первыми двумя книгами и я угадала, практически никаких отсылок на предыдущие произведения. Что касаемо самой истории: мне было тяжело читать, да, у книги такой стиль, да, множество ссылок и отсылок, но как же многое мне осталось непонятным, особенно чисто английские пасхалки. Сама история нуууу, я ещё когда читала, думала, а как вообще можно нормально закончить эту книгу?? И вот самое забавное, как раз конец мне и понравился, из-за таких банальных вещей как измена , может происходить описанное в книге. Возможно, прочитаю первые две книги, пусть автор и оказался для меня сложным, некоторые его высказывания мне понравились.

ну и глазурью на тортике – отклик на раннего Джона Барта, не нашего. цитировать бесполезно, там все песня

но наш сегодняшний Райхсчемпион Альпийского Кошмара вот:

с 3.25 девушка рассказывает, как она “редактировала” перевод Мураками.

“Ivan Davydov”: RUSSIAN WARSHIP–Act 2

это пьеса одного современного русского писателя, скажем так, не последнего десятка. второе действие. перевод черновой и ознакомительный

Act 1

ACT 2

It’s still dark. Then, a slight buzzing is heard. There is a light from a mechanical torch operated by pressing its handle. Its light gets brighter and dimmer alternately.

LANA crawls from under a blanket.

ARTYOM’S VOICE: Don’t buzz. Take an electric one.

LANA: Gotta save the battery.

ARTYOM’S VOICE: You’d better save me. Let me sleep.

LANA puts the mechanical torch down and turns the regular one on. It hangs from the ceiling. She picks up a water bottle, wets her handkerchief and wipes her face and hands. Then she retreats to the furthest corner of the basement, separated with a sheet of plywood, some planks, pieces of concrete and bricks. ARTYOM stands up, holding on to the wall. His right leg is in a splint made of two slats and bandages. LANA steps from behind the partition, and ARTYOM clumsily hops there, supporting himself with a crutch and a stick.

LANA: Shall I help you?

ARTYOM: How, by holding it?

LANA: Some sense of humor you have, comrade captain.

ARTYOM: It fits our life.

He walks behind the partition. LANA inspects the remaining food. She makes some sandwiches. ARTYOM reappears, hops to their bedding and makes himself comfortable beside LANA.

LANA: About five days more worth. If we save.

ARTYOM wets a cloth and wipes his face.

ARTYOM: If we still breathe, the air comes from somewhere. Gotta search.

LANA: We’ve searched already.

ARTYOM: We’ll search more.

LANA: We will—

She hands sandwiches and water to ARTYOM.

ARTYOM: Two for me and one for you. Unfair that.

LANA: I’ve got to stay in shape.

ARTYOM: Your shape is swell—

LANA: Don’t even start.

ARTYOM: You don’t even like me at all, do you?

LANA: Leave me be.

ARTYOM: It’s a perversion. A young man and a young woman live together, sleep together and— nothing. How do you bear it?

LANA: Easy. I’m surprised that you want that. Does your leg hurt much?

ARTYOM: It does. But I can live with it. And those shots help.

LANA: But you don’t sleep well, tossing and groaning all the time. You wake up a lot.

ARTYOM: Yeah, I grown— or groan, what’s the right word?

LANA: What do I know, you have the IQ of a genius. Let’s say, you moan.

ARTYOM: I moan. And you know why?

LANA: You were a womanizer or what?

ARTYOM: Why the past tense? I’m still alive, you know. Not a womanizer, no, but— I like it. No, I’m really a steady one. I had only two girlfriends. But it was serious, with real relations. I never had anyone else while I was with both. But I liked the process itself very much. Lana, I’m serious. Just think that we’ll simply die here. Wouldn’t it be a pity that you’d had your chance to enjoy a man and you never used it—

LANA: It’s all right, I’ll survive it.

ARTYOM: When the food runs out, what then? We’ll have to eat each other. If you’re a stranger, it’d be easier for me to cut you up and eat. But if we become related, I won’t be able to do it. It’s unimaginable, to eat your beloved. I’ll cut off pieces of myself to feed you.

LANA: Are you so selfless?

ARTYOM: Of course. When we parted ways with my first one— No, we didn’t, why mince words, she left me. She said, forgive me but you have those assignments, they don’t pay you millions and, God forbid, if they would or kill you— And I need some stability. Some material security. So— I told her, wait, I still may be left for training with the general staff, I may still be the future minister of defense! I spend a whole week persuading her. And then I learned that all that was just crap, she just had someone else. With no stability there, some bare-assed fitness coach.

LANA: It all depends on the ass.

ARTYOM: I asked her, why did you lie to me? Presenting yourself as a gold-digger and practical bitch— And she said, I did it intentionally, so that you hated me and stopped loving me. I’m really not a gold-digger, I just fall in love easily. So I fell in love. After that. I wanted to punish her, of course. Or him. Or both. My friends suggested it. But I didn’t. Everyone has a right to one’s own life. What could I do if she fell in love? It’s unpleasant, even hurtful but you can’t force her to fall in love with yourself again, can you? What are you looking at?

LANA: Marveling at your IQ. The military may be real smart when they don’t fight wars.

ARTYOM: So, you like me after all, don’t you? What’s the matter then?

LANA: I never liked inevitability and the sense of doom. Ever since my childhood.

ARTYOM: I don’t get it. Help me get up, please, I’ll have a little walk. If I stiffen, the muscles may atrophy. (LANA helps him, and ARTYOM limps around the basement. LANA walks side by side with him, ready to support him if need be.) What inevitability, what are you talking about?

LANA: My dad died when I was little. So, I didn’t understand it, how come, why is that? Other people live but my dad died. It drove me crazy. My mom used to console me, Lannie, yes, it’s a terrible grief but your dad was very ill. For a long time, and then he just— It was inevitable. So I hated that inevitability! When you can’t do a thing, when nothing depends on you. Take a ship, for instance.

ARTYOM: A Russian warship?

LANA: Not necessarily. Let’s have the Titanic. She sped up, but there was an iceberg up ahead. And she can’t stop. The terrible force, inertia. And she can’t turn aside. All she can do is crash into it and sink. The war is also like a ship. It sails but not across waters, it sails across blood. Bad for everyone, and no-one can stop it. Until it crashes and sinks. There’s much sense of doom in life. Not only in life, though. I wanted to learn how to write books, so I took a writing course, and they told us there, beware of the doomed plots when it is clear from the first line what happens next.

They come back to their bedding and sit on it again.

ARTYOM: I got all this, apart from one thing only. What were you talking about?

LANA: If I wrote a book about two people, a man and a woman, stuck in a basement, everyone would expect that they fall in love with each other. It’s a doomed plot.

ARTYOM: But I like it.

LANA: So do I, strange as it may seem. Come to me, you Russian warship.

They hug, and this is the moment when something explodes near the building. Everything shakes around them, the electric torch falls from the ceiling and goes out. It’s dark. LANA switches on another torch. One partition crumbled, and LANA approaches it, pointing the beam of light there. She peeks in, then pulls out a cable.

ARTYOM: Is it electric?

LANA: No, it’s internet.

ARTYOM: I don’t think it works, must be broken down in all places.

LANA: It was an underground feed to this house.

ARTYOM: Even if it’s whole, it must be turned off. There’s the whole system there, with all those providers and services—

LANA: Miracles happen. I have connectors here, let’s try it—

LANA finds a penknife in a crate, a connector, then she cuts the internet cable and inserts the end into it, fixes it, and inserts it into the router. Then she plugs the router into the transformer, and green LED lights start blinking on the box. Lana turns her laptop on. The screen picture is beamed onto the TV monitor.

ARTYOM: I say— Look for some news.

LANA finds a news channel. An ANCHORWOMAN reads the news headlines[1].

ANCHORWOMAN (taped): Step by step. The Mariupol suburbs are fully controlled by our military forces. However, there is still some fighting with the nationalists in the downtown area— Profession: the reporter. Foreign journalists in the Donbass area speak out and show, and this is their professional heroism on the backdrop of the colossal pressure from the West— Broken and frightened. Driven by the people militia, Ukrainian nationalists run and hide, leaving their Nazi symbols and extremist literature behind— Our medics conduct some most complicated operations in field hospitals of the Kyiv sector— The advancement of Russian science is the focus of Vladimir Putin’s attention— The Russophobic intoxication and the open banditry. The unprecedented level of aggression. Sergey Lavrov’s opinion: there should be a pretext, and they’ll always find sanctions to it— A sweater should help. Plus 15 degrees Centigrade at home can be endured. German authorities’ suggestions are far from optimistic— It’s difficult but doable. In Russia, the third stage of the ‘Midday Break’ project— (ARTYOM’s portrait is onscreen.) For his heroic deed, Artyom Gromov is awarded with the title of The Hero of Russia, posthumously.

LANA looks over at ARTYOM. He raises himself. There someone in army major’s uniform onscreen now.

MAJOR. I’ve always known Artyom as a courageous and selfless warrior. We fought side by side with him, we were friends, and I— I’m sorry, I’m nervous— I saw myself how Artyom carried several women and children from the basement of a burning and bombed-out house, who were locked there by Ukrainian Nazis. Of course, we also— We led everyone out, but he decided to check for possible strays. And here was the strike from the Azov battalion. The house was completely blown from the face of the earth, and we unfortunately couldn’t find Artyom, his heroically dead body is still somewhere in the liberated ground, unfound.

ANCHOR: Near Voronezh, in the hero’s birthplace, the monument to him will be erected.

The canned music. LANA switches the TV off. She doesn’t say anything.

ARTYOM: It’s a good story.

LANA: À la guerre comme à la guerre. The Ukrainians also tell barefaced lies— And that guy, the friend of yours, he—

ARTYOM: He’s not my friend, I saw him for the first time in my life! Wait. (He fumbles in the blankets and finds his phone.) How smart we are— we turned the TV on, but we could also call by wi-fi! (He dials a number.) Mom?

His mother’s face is onscreen.

MOTHER: Who’s that?

ARTYOM: Mom, what’s up, it’s me, Artyom!

MOTHER: Sweet Lord— how come— but you— Are you alive?

ARTYOM: Yes, sure I am!

MOTHER: Where are you?

ARTYOM: I’m here in the basement, but I’ll get out of it, don’t you be afraid!

MOTHER: But how— Jesus— But I knew, Artie, I knew you would be alive! (She weeps.)

ARTYOM: Don’t cry, mom, it’s all fine!

MOTHER: And they told me— They saw you— Artie, they gave me money. I didn’t want to take it, I don’t need their money but you know, Ollie—

ARTYOM: You did the right thing, mom, it’s all right! Don’t worry, they won’t take it back!

MOTHER: Who knows them, they might. They could tell me they gave me the money for hero’s death but as soon as he’s alive—

ARTYOM: I’m telling you, mom, they won’t! I won’t let them!

MOTHER: I just can’t believe it’s— Artyom, is it really you?

ARTYOM: What are you saying, mom? Why should I play tricks like that?

MOTHER: You wouldn’t but our TV plays them all day long. Maybe they dressed someone looking like you as you? You, young man, if you’re not Artyom, should be ashamed of yourself—

ARTYOM: Mommy Ommy!

MOTHER: You! Oh that’s you all right! No one else ever called me that! My God, Artie— when are you going to come back home?

ARTYOM: Soon, mom! You won’t believe it, I’ve found me a bride here! (He gestures to LANA and she approaches.) Here, look how beautiful she is. Her name is Lana.

MOTHER: Is she one of ours? A Russian?

ARTYOM: What do you care?

MOTHER: Who knows them, they might forbid marrying Ukrainian women after the war. Watch out, Artie, the Ukes are all crafty!

LANA: I’m not crafty, and I’m not a Uke. Although Ukrainian women really—

MOTHER: Oh, I almost forgot, Artie, Putin called me! Right on my telephone at home, first they called me and said the president would be calling me, so I didn’t believe them at first, but then I hear the voice, and it’s familiar! I say, Vladimir Vladimirovich, is it really you? And he laughed, all very kindly, and said, Yes, it’s me. I sympathize with your loss, he said. And then it really started, they all called and called. They even came from the TV, saying, tell us a couple of words about your sadness, but I drove them away, I said, what words do you need, I don’t have any words for you!

The onscreen image flickers.

ARTYOM: Mom, we’ll talk more later, the connection is kinda bad here, and I still need— What you should do, you call all ours, tell them I’m alive. I love you, I kiss you, Mommy Ommy, I’ll be back soon, don’t cry! Please don’t cry! That’s all, bye! (A pause. ARTYOM wipes his eyes, LANA does the same.) So— we have a connection so far. (He dials another number.) Yurik? Yes, it’s me, turn the camera on.

YURIK is onscreen. He’s army captain, like ARTYOM.

YURIK: For fuck’s sake!

ARTYOM: Don’t swear, I have a girl with me here.

YURIK: What g— Are you really alive? No, but how? (Looking around.) Listen, we have our bigwigs coming now, I’ll call you later— The line’s unsecure— (Aside.) Comrade general, I just— There’s Artyom Gromov there who died heroically. Only he didn’t die, he— Yes, sir, comrade general, of course— (He hands the phone to the general.)

GENERAL (with only half of his face visible): Have you made a fake? A provocation?

ARTYOM: No, sir, comrade general, ask Yurik there he knows me through and through. It’s me!

GENERAL: This means you’re alive, no?

ARTYOM: Fortunately yes, sir. Buried alive.

GENERAL: I see. Yet it looks silly. That is, it’s good that you’re alive but— You’re our posthumous hero, they showed you on all TV channels. They want to name a street after you. Well, I’m glad you’re alive but maybe— Could we announce it a little later?

ARTYOM: Meaning?

GENERAL: Look, it turns out now that— The president personally commiserated with your mother. But it’ll turn out that our information was false, and we misguided not only the whole country but the president himself. It’s awkward, see?

ARTYOM: So, what should I do now, hide that I’m alive? Or should I die for real?

GENERAL: Don’t be such a hotshot, will you? We’ll think of something, and you in the meantime— Send us your coordinates, an address where you are or something— (Listens to someone off screen.) They say, they see you by your geotag. So sit tight there. Over and out.

ARTYOM smiles. LANA switches all devices off.

ARTYOM: Why?

LANA: Got to save the juice. Are you glad?

ARTYOM: Why should I cry? And we don’t need to save anything anymore now, soon they’ll dig us out. Don’t be afraid, I’ll tell them that you’re one of ours, and—

LANA: That I’m your bride?

ARTYOM: Do you think I pulled your leg? Now I’ll tell you everything. I wanted to do that afterwards but— In short, I’ve fallen in love with you. Deadly. And that’s a fact. A ship, like you say, can’t just stop.

LANA rummages in her knapsack, pulls out a hand grenade, and pulls out a safety-pin ring. Then she hands the ring to ARTYOM.

LANA: Let’s do it like they do it in the movies. Propose. With the ring.

ARTYOM: Are you insane? Do you hold it firm?

LANA: So far, yes. And if they catch me— I’m criminally prosecuted, Artie, for the anti-Russian propaganda. I’m on their wanted list. For speaking the truth. So, if they catch me, I’m in for a very long sentence. I don’t want it.

ARTYOM: But why? Is it about the war?

LANA: It is. The war they declared on me. I had to leave a year ago. But they caught up with me here, as you can see.

ARTYOM: So are you going to blow yourself up?

LANA: But how beautiful it is. A bride and a groom go directly to Heaven. Like the president promised.

ARTYOM: Suicides don’t get to Heaven.

LANA: There’s no Heaven, Russian warship. There’s only hell, and it’s here. Do you really think they’d dig you out to save? I wouldn’t be so sure of that. If they reported it to Putin that you died heroically, you must die heroically.

ARTYOM: Oh come on, it’s bullshit— Though— Damn, one could expect anything from them—

LANA: So you’ve thought twice about that proposal?

ARTYOM: No. (He takes the ring and lowers himself on one knee, thrusting his wounded leg out.) Lana Zakharova, will you marry me?

LANA: Yes, Artyom Gromov, I’ve fallen in love with you, too, and I will marry you.

ARTYOM: That didn’t sound serious enough.

LANA: It was. I’m serious. Fallen in love with you. Unfortunately. This damned sense of doom.

She takes the ring and puts it back into the safety pin.

ARTYOM: Well? May I kiss the bride now? (They kiss. There are thuds from outside.) They’ve started digging us out. Somehow they found us rather quickly— Could your guys intercept my phone calls?

LANA: What ‘my guys’, Artyom? And who are those ‘your guys’? The only ‘our guys’ here are us.

ARTYOM: Looks like it.

LANA goes behind the partition and emerges with the pistol and the submachine gun. She lies down in a firing position behind the fallen pillar. ARTYOM thinks a little and lies down beside her, with the pistol in his hand. The thuds are now louder. LANA reaches out for the torchlight and switches it off. A piece of concrete falls out of the side wall, and something flies into the hole. An explosion.

It’s all dark and silent. Suddenly, the TV monitor comes to life, and we see the SECOND ANCHORWOMAN.

SECOND ANCHORWOMAN. For over a week, two our heroes, a man and a girl, had been holding forth in a basement of an apartment house. Desperate to get rid of them, Russian fascists destroyed them and all civilian residents they were defending, with pinpoint blasting. Damn this bloody war and let those who rob the best sons and daughters of our motherland of their live, forever burn in hell!

The image gets distorted and flaky. The FIRST ANCHORWOMAN appears.

ANCHORWOMAN: In a basement of one apartment house, the body of Artyom Gromov, the Hero of Russia who died while saving civilian residents, was recovered. It turned out he had been repelling attacks of enemy combatants defending those who were trying to save themselves from Ukrainian Nazis together with him. Desperate to get rid of the Russian warrior, the brutal Nazis blew up the basement with all the people in it. Gromov’s comrades swore to revenge his death hundredfold.

THE END

[1] Taken from the Time news show, March 28, 2022.

“Ivan Davydov”: RUSSIAN WARSHIP–Act 1

это пьеса одного современного русского писателя, скажем так, не последнего десятка. сегодня первое действие. перевод черновой и ознакомительный

RUSSIAN WARSHIP

The performance scenario in two acts [1] by Ivan Davydov

DRAMATIS PERSONAE:

LANA, aged 28
ARTYOM, aged 33
The rest of the cast is onscreen.

ACT 1

The high-rise apartment building basement, lit by a dim lightbulb. LANA with a submachine gun clutched to her chest runs in, followed by ARTYOM, the Russian army captain, with a pistol in his hand.

ARTYOM: Stop, you cunt! I’ll shoot you! stand still, bitch!

LANA reaches the wall, presses her back to it, and clumsily points her weapon at ARTYOM.

LANA: Don’t come near me!

ARTYOM (diving behind a concrete pillar, shouting from his hiding place): Drop it, you daft fool! Drop or I’ll fucking blow you the fuck apart! I count to three! One!

LANA hastily checks her weapon, presses the trigger, and there is no shot. She finds a safety catch, moves it, and presses the trigger again. The shot rings out, and the bullet flies somewhere off to the side, and LANA drops the gun but picks it up quick enough. She runs sideways to a concrete partition parallel to the wall, and hides behind it.

ARTYOM: You’re fucking nuts? Give me the gun, and I’ll let you go, I don’t fucking need you.

LANA: Get out of here! Get out or I’ll shoot you!

ARTYOM: I saw you shooting. Some shooter you are. Why the fuck did you grab the gun? The others are fucking normal, they looted the store but you had to—

LANA: Did you loot it, too?

ARTYOM: I was controlling you bitches so that you didn’t kill each other! You fell upon it all wild! And they call us looters!

LANA: They blew the store up, and the people were hungry!

ARTYOM: So you’d better grabbed the grub, not the machine-gun, you moron! Why the fuck?

LANA: To kill you, imbecile!

ARTYOM: Are you a Banderite or what? You fucking louse, I put the gun away for just a moment— Where did you come from at all?

LANA: I live here! Where did you come from, you fascist bastard, you occupying invader?

ARTYOM: Are you fucking insane, you fool? Who the fuck are we occupying? We’ve come to liberate you, we don’t touch the civilian population if they don’t ask for it, and who are you? Aren’t you Russian? Why the fuck did you grab my gun, I’m asking you?

LANA: To defend myself!

ARTYOM: Who from? (A pause.) Give me the gun. It’s registered in my name, do you get it or not? Losing a service weapon means a tribunal. I promise, you give it back, I’ll go. Throw it right here.

LANA: Go fuck yourself, Russian warship!

ARTYOM: So you learnt the joke, you daft cow? No, really, you speak Russian smooth, your whole city is Russian so what the fuck are you doing? Who’re you gonna fight here?

LANA: You, say!

ARTYOM: You fucking nuts, miss? I’m just as Russian as you are!

LANA: Did they invite you here? Did they ask you to come?

ARTYOM: Did I come to some foreign folks? I’ve come to my own people!

LANA: Who’s your people here? What do you want with us?

ARTYOM: You need us! To live normally together with us, with Russia!

LANA: We’d been living normally here without you!

ARTYOM: Oh had you? And weren’t your Nazis killing and torturing people here?

LANA: Right here, sure thing, by hundreds! Your government’s all jumpy with annoyance, how come we try so hard, jailing people, poisoning them, legally torturing them, beating them on their heads in the streets, sticking broomsticks up their asses, but we have a right to do it, and who are they? No, we won’t allow just anyone to humiliate our people — we’ll come and humiliate them ourselves!

ARTYOM: Just look how sarcastic we are! You learnt it from the Ukes no doubt, all them Uke women are sarcastic. Ok, enough chinwag here with you, give me the gun, and I’ll be going.

LANA: Come and get it then!

ARTYOM (peeking out): You hid yourself, viper. How old are you?

LANA: All those years are mine.

ARTYOM: You look like a grown-up person but sound fucking mental.

LANA: Enough cursing already! And you call yourself an officer. Although I heard you people speak, your entire army are muck-spouts.

ARTYOM: And yours is not, right? Pardon, geben sie mir bitte? Or have you all switched to the American, like your whipmasters? Do you know how Coca-Cola sound in Russian letters? Suck salt! You’re all suckers here, that’s who you are! (A pause.) Will you give me my gun? (LANA doesn’t answer him.) Alright, then listen here. I’m calling my reinforcements. We have our mine-sweeping unit, they’ll take their armored shields and throw a grenade at you, and you’re fucked, see? Your meat will stick to the wall in crumbles.

LANA: It’ll break your gun.

ARTYOM: I don’t give a fuck. I’ll tell them it was broken in combat. So, shall I call them?

LANA: Go ahead, I’ll train my accuracy.

ARTYOM: You won’t hit them, I told you, they’d have their shields and fucking blow you to shit.

LANA: I’ve asked you not to swear!

ARTYOM: You’ll be teaching your granny! When your comrades die in front of you, d’you think you could do without swearing? We don’t have other words anymore!

LANA: Comrades? So your comrades died, didn’t they? My sister was blown by the shell! Right before my eyes! You bastards, you animals, you brutes, I hate you! and her daughter, Annie, was wounded almost to her death! She’s only six, what did she do to you? Six years old! So that’s how you liberated my sister, eh? You liberated Annie like this? You want to liberate everyone just by killing them?

ARTYOM: Did I shoot your sister myself? Your own Nazis kick the fucking shit out of your own city! They bomb it every which way, butchering people, and blame us for that!

LANA: Just look at him justifying himself! You know what? It doesn’t really matter who killed my sister, your bunch or ours. Ours could’ve made a mistake. No, it does matter, I don’t say it right but that’s what I mean—if you didn’t come nothing would’ve happened, nothing at all! Everyone would’ve been alive!

ARTYOM: Yeah, right. Or the Banderites would’ve buried you all here!

LANA: What Banderites? I’ve never seen one here, they’re all in the west but you had to come to us!

ARTYOM: If we didn’t, they’d’ve hung you all on streetlamps tomorrow! To reach the west, we need to secure the east! Can’t you get it? (A pause.) It’s your call now. Will you give the gun back or I call for my reinforcements? (A pause.) What’s your name?

LANA: Oh, a guy suddenly is a real fucking gentleman!

ARTYOM: Here you go, swearing yourself. Alright then. We’ve screamed and shouted enough, one can understand the nerves, it’s a war after all—

LANA: You’ll be jailed for that word. It’s not ‘a war’, it’s ‘the special operation.’

ARTYOM: Being sarcy again?— So? Peace on Earth? You can’t really be a Banderite, you’re Russian like myself.

LANA: So what? A maniac catches me in the street and says, I’m Russian, you’re Russian, don’t struggle, let me rape you in an orderly way. Is that it? On the national solidarity principle, right?

ARTYOM: You’re being funny again, you’re good. Mine’s Artyom, and the last name is simple and nice, Gromov. Be mutually polite, tell me your name.

LANA: Go away!

She sticks the gun barrel out and shoots.

ARTYOM: Stop it, stupid! The concrete walls are all around, you may be hit by a ricochet yourself! There must be a reason in what the people say that all of you are zombies here— For how long are we going to stand here like that? You’ll peek out sooner or later, and that’d be the end of you.

LANA: You, too. You’ll hide until you starve. And if you get out, I’ll shoot you. (A pause.) I told you, get out.

ARTYOM: Some logic you have. You told me yourself you’d shoot me if I get out.

LANA: As if I care. I won’t touch you if you go away.

ARTYOM: Alright. You don’t leave me much choice. (He takes his phone out, brings it to his ear.) Nikita? Hello? I can’t hear you! Not a f— I don’t understand you, where are you? Hello? Didn’t get it, come again? Which side? Hello? Can’t hear you! (Bringing the phone down. A pause.) Agreed, I’m leaving. But don’t you even try— I’ll bury you if you only stick out!

Saying this, ARTYOM retreats covered by the pillar, having his pistol at the ready. He reaches the opposite wall and prepares to dash out. There is a whistling howl of an approaching shell, and a deafening roar of an explosion. Everything falls apart. It’s a complete darkness.

The silence is long and ringing.

There is a cough. It’s LANA.

LANA switches her torch on. She hangs it on wire hook and slowly approaches ARTYOM who just lies there half-buried in rubble. She nudges him with the barrel of her gun, ARTYOM raises himself, crawls away, and sits up with his back against the wall. He points his pistol at LANA. She ducks behind the pillar.

ARTYOM (reaching for his leg): Damn—

LANA: Were you hit?

ARTYOM: Got scratched by something— to the bone, it looks like.

LANA: And your face—

ARTYOM: What?

LANA: There’s blood there. (ARTYOM feels his face and looks at his fingers.) I have some bandages, some disinfectant, and painkillers. You need it?

ARTYOM: I do.

LANA steps from behind the pillar but quickly jumps back.)

LANA: Won’t you shoot me?

ARTYOM: Am I stupid?

LANA: Then take your pistol away.

ARTYOM (putting the pistol down nearby): And you take away the gun.

LANA: Oh how slicky you are. You’re a soldier, you can handle guns. You’ll grab it, but I won’t have time. Give it to me, throw it.

ARTYOM: Like hell.

LANA: Then you won’t get anything.

ARTYOM: I’ll do without.

LANA: Push it further from you, at least.

ARTYOM: And you put the gun away.

LANA: I won’t. I don’t trust you.

ARTYOM thinks a little and pushes his pistol away.

LANA goes to the wall watching ARTYOM all the while. She pulls off a sheet of plastic revealing boxes, bags, packages, and a heap of other stuff, including packets of food. LANA rummages in one bag, finds some bandage, a bottle of water, and some pills and puts them in a separate plastic bag. Then she goes back and throws it to ARTYOM. She approaches the wall and picks up a second torch. The one on the hook highlights ARTYOM, and LANA goes with hers to the exit blocked with rubble. Meanwhile ARTYOM bandages his leg, wipes his face, and drinks some water.

LANA: We’re buried here. No way out.

ARTYOM: They’ll dig us out.

LANA: Who will?

ARTYOM: Our guys.

LANA: Like they care about you. They won’t be here soon, our guys will kick them out.

ARTYOM: Who do you call ‘ours guys’? The Nazis?

LANA: My sister’s husband defends the city, he’s not a Nazi. He revenges his wife.

ARTYOM: His revenge is up the wrong tree. (He winces.) Shit— (He takes out a package of pills.) Aspirin. Like ours.

LANA: Aspirin is Aspirin even in Africa. (She circles the basement, looking at ARTYOM now and then.) Buried completely. There was only one door.

ARTYOM: You look capable, as I see it. Do you live here or what?

LANA: I’ve been living here almost for a week.

ARTYOM: Why didn’t you leave?

LANA: Didn’t have enough time.

ARTYOM (wincing): Do you have anything else, apart from the Aspirin? Like. More serious? (LANA rummages in her things, finding a syringe in a box. She comes to ARTYOM and throws it to him.) What’s that?

LANA: You asked for something serious.

ARTYOM: It’s not in Russian. It can be a poison.

LANA: Like, yes, as if they’d keep poison here. One stab and the lights out.

ARTYOM takes the syringe out, inspects and even smells it. He sticks the needle into his thigh and pushes the plunger. He feels better almost immediately.

ARTYOM: Feels like it helps. (He takes his phone and tries to put a call through. No luck.) Does your phone get the network?

LANA: It may.

ARTYOM: Check it, will you?

LANA (taking her phone out, checking it): No signal.

A pause.

ARTYOM: So what’s your name?

LANA: Lana.

ARTYOM: What’s your full name?

LANA: It’s full, Lana. (After a pause.) I used to be Svetlana but everyone called me Lana. When I changed my passport, I registered it as Lana.

LANA goes to the wall where there are come electronic devices, a laptop, a router box, some batteries, etc. LANA takes an LCD TV from a cardboard box and puts it on an old kitchen table. She opens her laptop and waits for it to load.

ARTYOM: I see you have all conveniences here. What does it work on?

LANA: The batteries. (She turns a lamp on the wall near her, and we can see her face for the first time.)

ARTYOM: You’re a looker, it turns out. Even a beauty.

LANA: I know.

ARTYOM: And so young. Are you a student?

LANA: It’s the lighting. I’m 28.

ARTYOM: I’m a bit older, 33. Well, what’s up? Do we have the internet access?

LANA: Nope, something’s— (She inspects wires on all devices.) Something got hit and broken.

ARTYOM: Let me see, I know something about it.

LANA: Me too.

A pause. ARTYOM listens.

ARTYOM: It’s so silent— Not a sound. How many floors are there in the building?

LANA: Nine.

ARTYOM stands up, holding on to the wall. LANA picks the submachine gun up.

ARTYOM: Enough of this crap already! Well, if you shoot me, will you sit here with a dead body and die?

LANA: Why die? I’ll live.

ARTYOM: Look. We’re buried good here. I think all nine floors are on us. There’s no air intake. Have you noticed it’s now harder to breathe?

LANA: It’s always been like that. We’re in a cellar.

ARTYOM: We won’t have any more air in a couple of days. We’ll suffocate, see? Both of us. I doubt they would dig us out; they have other things to do. What’s the bottom-line then? We have to dig ourselves out, look for some exit. There should be some vents in the foundation, we must find them. In short, if you wanna live, let’s get to work. Together. If you’re afraid, here, look. (He takes a large fragment of debris and puts it on his pistol. Then he steps from it.) That’s it. I’m disarmed now. Do you remember where the vents were?

LANA: It seemed to be over there, a hole in the wall. A cat went through it.

ARTYOM goes there and starts removing stones and rubble.

LANA joins him after her unsuccessful attempts to set up the communication. At first, she works further away, clearing the space with one hand, and holding the gun with the other. Then she puts the gun away.

Both focus on their work.

ARTYOM pulls out a long piece of an electric cable and inspects it. Suddenly, he attacks LANA, tying her up with the cable. There is a fight, with indistinct sounds. ARTYOM wins, tying LANA’s hands and feet up. With one end of the cable, he ties her to some piece of metal that sticks out from the wall.

Then he sits apart from her, inspecting his leg. The blood seeps from the bandage. ARTYOM stands up and limps to the spot where he had been before. He bandages his leg over the old bandage, then takes his pistol from under the fragment and pushes it into his holster. He picks the submachine gun, carries it away, takes the magazine out and hides it in the rubble.

LANA: So, what’s next?

ARTYOM: I’ll dig myself out and hand you in as a terrorist.

LANA: They’ll give you a reward.

ARTYOM: No, they won’t, not for you. Don’t fret, I won’t hand you in. I just don’t like it when someone breathes down my neck. You’re clearly a looney, you might shoot just for fun. So have some rest there. It’ll be more reliable for me. I might just as well look what you have here. (ARTYOM goes to LANA’s devices, fumbles with them when he sees some food.) Mind if I take a bite?

LANA: It’s all yours now, pig out.

ARTYOM: Thank you just the same.

He munches some bread, gnaws on some hard sausage, crunches on a cucumber, washing it down with some soda water. All those sounds seem very loud in the silent basement. He fumbles on with the devices. The TV monitor lights up.

ARTYOM: What channels do you have here?

LANA: No channels.

ARTYOM: Used it just to watch movies, right? (He uses the remote to link up the laptop and the TV, and then he opens folders seen on the laptop desktop. A collection of films is in one of them. ARTYOM selects one and starts watching[2].) I used to like it, too. (He turns the movie off and looks in other folders. In one, he finds the recording of the concert rally at the Luzhniki Stadium in Moscow, on March 18, 2022. He watches it with pleasure.) Someone right must’ve taped it. It means not all of you are Nazies. So powerful, eh? Look how many people! Mighty! Handsome! The entire nation is with us and for us! Your Banderites should’ve thought who they are getting mixed with! The great fucking nation offered you a helping hand so that you could become great together with us! So that the punky West couldn’t even think about raising a hand against us! (Singing along to one of the songs.)

LANA: Turn it off! Together with yourself!

ARTYOM (pumping the volume up): Enjoy it, you fool! I wonder who could’ve twisted your brains.

LANA: The brute! The fascist!

ARTYOM: You could’ve gotten it good for calling me a fascist if you weren’t tied up. And lying down. I don’t hit lying girls. I do other things to them. And they like it! Doesn’t it turn you on? Eh? (He turns the volume to the max and goes to LANA. He starts dancing in front of her, awkwardly but energetically. Then he leans of his wounded leg, grabs it and limps to the wall. He starts clearing the debris there.) It’s nicer to work with the music! And if someone hears it from the outside, it’s a bonus!

LANA: Turn it off, please! It drives me insane!

The song is over. The stands are enraptured. Someone starts a speech. Then there comes another song. LANA rolls on the floor helplessly. ARTYOM chuckles, picks up the remote, and switches the sound off. Now we see only the silent pictures of the celebration on screen. ARTYOM approaches LANA and squats in front of her.

ARTYOM: So tell me, why are you against your own people?

LANA: What my people, what are you talking about?

ARTYOM: The Russians, your motherland.

LANA: Why are you?

ARTYOM: I what?

LANA: Why are you against the Russians and the motherland?

ARTYOM: Whoops, what an interesting turn!

LANA: Here’s whoops for you. The Russians and the motherland will only have it worse because of what you’re doing here.

ARTYOM: Maybe. For a while. When we conquered Fascism in the Great Patriotic War, we lived in hardships, too. But we saved the world.

LANA: Did you pick it up from your TV?

ARTYOM: Where did you? From the State Department?

LANA: You make me sick. Like I’m on a frigging talk-show. All right, I’ll explain, Mr. Anchor Wanker. No, the question first. What is the purpose of any war?

ARTYOM: Don’t call me names, that’s the first thing. The purpose is simple, to triumph over the enemy.

LANA: What does it mean, to triumph over the enemy?

ARTYOM: Why are you showing off, it’s clear enough!

LANA: Not to me, I’m stupid this way.

ARTYOM: Well— To disarm them. To harm them to the hilt, so that they didn’t even jerk.

LANA: Excellent! Then I should inform you, Mr. Anchor, that the national traitors are not we but you and your masters! Traitors and enemies! For you have already triumphed over your own country because you had harmed it to the hilt! So that it can’t even jerk! There was the worst possible way to destroy and humiliate the country, and you chose it!

ARTYOM: Quite a roll you’re on! I feel you’re not of simple folk. What’s your job, smartass?

LANA: I’m an educator. A teacher.

ARTYOM: Are you? and what do you teach your kids? That there are no moms and dads now but there are parent one and parent two? (LANA wants to contradict him but he raises his hand.) Shush, it’s my turn now.

LANA: You’re watching the Time program!

ARTYOM: My head works without programs. My mom, she had her higher education, by the way, she’s a process engineer at a factory, so she says, We used to live a little meagerly in the USSR, that’s true, but we had our friendship. We had our joy, full of soul. We used to live morally. And the West corrupted us.

LANA: That’s true.

ARTYOM: Do you really agree with it?

LANA: Of course. They spread that democracy, when every shithead wants to feel human! Now they want their elections, equal rights, freedom of speech, what a boorish lot!

ARTYOM: Oh, I see, you stung me to death! Now that’s what I want to tell you. Here’s the war. But we don’t have the war only now, if you haven’t got it into your leaky cauldron yet, we’ve always had it. Here it goes. An attack, a battle, there’s no way to conduct them without a commander. So here it starts, let’s elect this one guy, let’s argue about it, but first you feed us all with Sneakers or we won’t go into battle at all, and my sexual orientation is different, I don’t want to go to war at all! Do you catch my drift? Everyone fights us, but why? We’re building our own world, and it gets on your fucking nerves! We’ve got the territory, the resources, we’ve got everything, and so your West is chokes down with its own spit. Vladimir Vladimirovich asked them nicely not to expand the NATO but they did, the cunts! We didn’t attack you, we made a preemptive strike!

LANA: Alright. You want to live the way you want to live. Right?

ARTYOM: Yeah.

LANA: And Ukraine wants to live the way she wants to live. Can’t she do it?

ARTYOM: Not the way she wants it but the way she’s forced to!

LANA: So now you’re going to force it, right?

ARTYOM: Why don’t we. Here’s another example from the military life for you. I have soldiers under my command. They’re not angels, there are different kinds. If a soldier has a brain I’ll explain everything to him, and he understands. But if he’s lazy or retarded, if you tell him and he doesn’t get it, if he doesn’t serve right and is not friendly with his comrades, I have to explain it to him physically. So that he is reformed. It’s called coercion to goodness.

LANA: Does it mean that Russia is like the barracks, they can’t live without coercion? This is why they killed all opposition off, or jailed it? (ARTYOM wants to protest but LANA warns him off.) It’s my turn now. Have you seen the lists of those who support the war and who oppose it?

ARTYOM: I’m not interested in this shit.

LANA: But I did, and I studied them. You won’t like the conclusion. Almost everyone who has brains and talent, those who are honest, they are against the war. Those who are dumb and obedient, those who are dull or corrupt, they all are for it!

ARTYOM: Do you mean the intellectuals? They are all traitors! Most people support it, right? I’ve asked you a question.

LANA: Right.

ARTYOM: So where are your intellectuals now? They’ve parted ways with the people! They deserted the nation!

LANA: Ok. I admit it. This happened before as well. Goebbels, if you remember who that was, was also pissed that the German intellectuals don’t want to stand with the united Fascist people that follows their beloved Fascist Fuhrer! And this war of yours, Mr. TV, is not with Ukraine of the West, it’s the war that the leader of all stupid, talentless dull and corrupted unleashed against all those who are honest and talented. And for his victory he’s prepared to blow the entire world to smithereens, that is why everyone is praying morning to night for him to kick the bucket at last!

ARTYOM (standing up, he kicks LANA): Shut up, you bitch! For these words I’ll— No, I see it! You don’t like that he doesn’t give a fuck about all the world? He just fucks it, no? No? You can’t say anything. We’re stupid for her, see? 75 per cent support it, are they all stupid? Is the whole nation stupid? I’ve come here to risk my life, am I stupid?

LANA: Of course.

ARTYOM: You’re— Just so that you knew, I’ve done tests, my IQ is close to 140, I’m practically a genius!

LANA: Psychos can be geniuses.

ARTYOM: D’you mean to say that whole Russia has gone mad?

LANA: It also happened before. Remember what happened under Stalin, will you? Or Fascist Germany for that matter, before the war—

ARTYOM: Shut up, you slut! If you compare us to Fascists again—

LANA: I won’t even dream of it! They at least had discipline, and you have a mess. Their generals never stole from their troops. They were brave, even though they were beasts of course. And what about you? Take you, let’s say, hiding behind that pillar, pissing himself with fright. Of whom? A girls can’t shoot straight, you can run right onto her gun, she’d miss you, but no. Your precious ass is more valuable to you, oh moral one! You’re just a pisspants, get it? Like your president who had also hid himself, shaking with fear! In all his twenty plus years, has he met anyone who is against him, face to face? When there were elections, did he come out to a debate, just once? No! Because he’s yellow, like a snotty kid, because any reasonable man will crush him with his argument! No, he may only hold forth from his rostrum, from afar, reaching from behind others’ backs, drowning everything in his loo with other people’s hands!

ARTYOM (taking out his pistol): Either you shut up—or I’ll shut you up! I won’t allow anyone to speak about my president disrespectfully, see?

LANA: Oh, you won’t believe me but I have some respect for him. I hate him but I respect him. Because he’s just as good as his word. But you— You tell me now that we’re your enemies, but you don’t believe it yourself! They destroy enemies, they don’t see them as human, for you’re on the right side, no? and if you’re on the right side, go for it! Kill everyone you see, rape all women! But no, you don’t do it. Is it because you’re kind? You take pity on us? No! It’s because you don’t believe in your truth yourselves! And, of course, you’re afraid that there would be a retaliation. I see how you lick me all over with your eyes, wishing you could screw me! Why not, I’m your plunder, your trophy, for you’re the winner! Dare you do it? You’re a shithead, not a winner, you’re a nerd with shoulder straps. Some fucking warriors you are! I saw Putin declaring to your warriors, that security council of yours, that he’s starting the war! They just shat themselves! They sat there like dead. All grown-up men, not all of them agreed to it but they all kept mum! Not even one raised an objection, not a squeak. Shameful, stinking rot! And they are for the fucking truth! Do you want me to tell you why you wage war so fucking disgracefully? It’s all because you, comrade captain, don’t think about how to be victorious—you just think how to survive yourself, and how to lie to your bosses elegantly, to some colonel! You’re scared of the colonel, the colonel is scared of his general, the general is scared of your commander-in-chief who’s not a military commander a bit, he can only put fires in barns out, and the commander is scared of Putin. That’s all your might and truth, captain. You’re not afraid of the Ukrainians, nor the Nazis, nor the Banderites. You’re afraid of each other!

A pause.

ARTYOM: Is that it?

LANA: Enough for you.

ARTYOM: So you’re provoking me, right? They’d warned us before that the Nazis would expose themselves like you do here, so that to tell everyone later that they are destroyed. Just bear in mind, beautу— (A phone rings. ARTYOM runs to the pile of devices, limping, fumbles for the phone.) Yes? Hello? Damn— (He walks around the basement, looking for a spot to catch the signal. He looks around.) The signal came through, it means there’s a hole somewhere. Is it yours? (LANA doesn’t answer. ARTYOM puts the phone down and notices a purse. He picks it up, rummages in it, producing some documents, including the passport. He opens it, looks at LANA. He approaches her with the passport and the purse in his hands.) What an interesting turn! You’re not only Russian, you’re also from Moscow. Lana Zakharova. Aren’t you related by any chance—

LANA: We don’t even share the last name.

ARTYOM: So why the hell did you have to pose as a local? What are you doing here at all?

LANA: I visited my sister.

ARTYOM (producing another document): A teacher, hey?

LANA: By training, yes. But I’m a working journalist. So what?

ARTYOM: So this is why you’re so good with your tongue. A Russian journalist infiltrated Ukraine—why? To send false information?

LANA: A journalist can’t simply come visit her relatives?

ARTYOM: Why are you so embarrassed all of a sudden? You’ve even grown pale. Are you scared, you poor thing? So who is pisspants now, eh? It means you’ve come here to spy against your own country, no? That was why you grabbed the gun? You were afraid to get caught and revealed? You wanted to hide here, right? Answer me when you’re asked a question! (He strikes LANA on the cheek with her passport.) Do you know where you’re right? That we take pity on you. We are humane with you. But you— Have you seen your Nazis torturing our war prisoners? Killing them, humiliating them, shooting them in the feet? Have you? (He grabs the phone, finds a video in it, and shows it to LANA. We see this on the TV monitor, too. The footage is horrifying indeed, with prone prisoners who are being shot at, screaming—) Watch it, don’t turn your mug away! Watch, I say! (The video is over.) Are they not the beasts? And they film it without shame. Boasting it, to demonstrate how they work for America!

LANA: They don’t work for America. They work for the war. And Putin.

ARTYOM: Are you fucking insane?

LANA: There was a wise man who said that the war is an epidemic, a contagion. Everyone is sick. But the guilty party is the one that was the first to infect the rest. Intentionally.

ARTYOM: You were the ones who spread the infection! (Looking LANA all over.) You’re beautiful all the same. Maybe I should screw you indeed. You were the first to suggest it.

LANA: Listen—

ARTYOM: Enough listening! My pals are dying there because of the ones like you. You were right to say it, to kill and to rape. Alright. Let’s go for it.

He untwists the cable from LANA’s feet and pulls the jeans from her.

LANA: No logic, Artyom. You screw me, and I’ll enjoy it. And this is wrong, to satisfy your enemy.

ARTYOM: No worries, I’ll try to make it painful.

LANA: Please do.

ARTYOM unzips his pants but suddenly hears something.

ARTYOM: Did you hear it?

LANA: No.

Both listen in. There’s a sound of explosion somewhere on the surface, and the plaster and dust fall from the ceiling. At one side, there appears a hole in the foundation wall, and a thin ray of light bursts in, shining right into ARTYOM’s eyes. He zips his pants hastily again and comes to the source of the light. He climbs the heap of rubble, removing some stones. Something caves in, and the ray of light disappears. ARTYOM falls on his back, screaming with pain. He’s upside down on the heap of rubble, with his head down the slope, and his leg jammed at the top.

ARTYOM: Motherfucking hell, you bitch! The same leg! (He jerks, trying to free it.) I’m fucked, it’s dead stuck. It hurts as fuck! (A pause.) Will you help me?

LANA: How? I’m tied.

ARTYOM: Try to free yourself.

LANA pulls at the cable with all her body. Then she rolls over and sets her feet against the wall.

LANA: Can’t do it.

ARTYOM: Can you untie your hands?

LANA: No.

ARTYOM: Come a bit closer to me. (LANA moves as close as she can, the cable permitting. ARTYOM stretches his arms to her, reaching out.) Just a little bit more. Shift closer, will you?

LANA: I can’t!

ARTYOM: Dammit! Try to bite through the cable.

LANA: Are you serious?

ARTYOM: Then we’ll die here, both of us! (LANA bites the cable and shakes her head.) That’s right, try to break it. It’s aluminum inside, it’ll break, and you’ll tear the isolation with your teeth. Well?

LANA: I can’t! It’s too thick!

ARTYOM: Rest a bit and try again. (A pause.) Looks like my leg’s broken. And I’m bleeding. I’ll bleed to my fucking death here.

LANA: Aren’t you tired of swearing? I’m already sick of it.

ARTYOM: All right, I’ll stop.

LANA: I’m serious. Let’s not use any more swear words. While we’re alive.

ARTYOM: Do you think we’re screwed? It’s not a swear word.

A pause.

LANA: Where are you from? Where were you born?

ARTYOM: Near Voronezh. I went to the military college after school.

LANA: Did you want to ne a soldier?

ARTYOM: That, too— My mother raised me alone, the dad— it doesn’t matter. Then my kid sister was born, but she turned out to be sick. In the college, everything was GI, that was a plus. When I started my service, the pay started to come, and they paid extra for assignments— It was enough for Olya’s medicines. My sister’s name is Olya. Ollie— You know, it’s a pity for she’s so beautiful. Her face is like model’s. She’s even more beautiful than you are. But the rest of her is sick, she usually stays half a day in bed— Such a nice girl— almost a woman now, she looks like a princess but— And she doesn’t have a boyfriend— We’ve been waiting for her surgery for two years, our turn will come soon. It’s not free, of course.

LANA: Does it mean you fight the war for her? Like, making money?

ARTYOM: Among other things. The combat pay. The filed pay, it all turns out OK.

LANA: If they don’t kill you.

ARTYOM: There’s risk in everything.

LANA: Are you married?

ARTYOM: Divorced.

LANA: Why’s that?

ARTYOM: Well— it’s complicated. You?

LANA: Was in a relationship. It’s complicated.

They laugh, and ARTYOM shouts out in pain. He reaches down with his hand.

ARTYOM: Such an idiot I am! (He takes his pistol out.)

LANA: First me then yourself? Not to suffer much? I don’t agree to that. Do yourself first then me.

ARTYOM: Don’t make me laugh. Don’t move. (He takes aim.) I’ll try to break the cable with the bullet. Hold it tight.

LANA pulls the cable taut, ARTYOM aims and fires. He misses. Then he fires again and hits the cable.

ARTYOM: Yank it. (LANA does that and the cable breaks.) Gotcha! Come here, I’ll untie you. (LANA moves closer and ARTYOM untwists the cable. Her hands are free now, she throws the cable on the floor and grabs the pistol ARTYOM had put down when he untied her.) Don’t touch it! (LANA picks her jeans up, puts them on, sticks the pistol into her pocket and goes to her supplies. She takes two bottles of water, drinks from one and takes the other one to ARTYOM. He gulps the water avidly.) I wish I could have another shot. It went well the last time. (LANA goes to fetch the syringe and puts it close to ARTYOM without approaching. ARTYOM tears the package, takes the syringe out and shoots himself with the med.) Now look for a stick or some piece of metal, the metal’s better, you’ll make a lever. Then stick it in and try to lift it. There’s a beam there or something.

LANA: We’ll have time for that. You showed me how they torture your people. Now watch this.

She comes up to the TV, turns it on and shows him the footage of bombings, devastation, killed people, weeping mothers and children.

ARTYOM: I got it, enough! Well, have your revenge, kill me! Go on, what are you waiting for! (LANA turns the TV off, goes around the basement looking, and finds a rusty angle bar. She comes up to ARTYOM, stands still and looks at him.) What’s the matter? Enjoying my suffering?

LANA: It’s funny. Some dreams come true.

ARTYOM: What dreams?

LANA: I have a recurrent dream. From real life. I’ve tried to get to Putin’s press conference, twice. No dice, they let only their people there. Or those clowns who pose as an opposition. And no-one asks him anything serious, of course, the real questions, see? So, I wanted to get there so badly that I started dreaming about it, that I’m there. And they give me a mike so I can say whatever I like. But I just stand there like dumb and don’t say anything. In my dream, I scream to myself, go on, ask him! But no. As if I’m suddenly mute.

ARTYOM: You’ll tell me your dreams later, OK? I need to go to the bathroom.

LANA: You’ll have time for that, Vladimir Vladimirovich. You endure it for five hours at your press conferences, and that always made me wonder. Do you wear Pampers or what?

ARTYOM: Are you f— are you completely nuts? I’m not your—

LANA: But you’re here for him, right. So you must answer.

ARTYOM: No, I won’t!

LANA: As you wish. By the way, bathroom would be nice.

She retreats behind the partition. Some time later, she reappears.

ARTYOM: OK, ask away. Make it quick though.

LANA stands in front of him, silent. She stands like that for a long time.

LANA: Damn— That dream again. A million questions but I want something— Most important— (Suddenly, she moves to the front of the stage and addresses the audience.) Will you help me out here? No, the show will go on, the story’s not over yet— even more so because it’s almost the real-life story. But we’ll have a kinda interruption. There are things concerning everybody. And everyone has their own opinion of them. Imagine there’s Putin in front of you. You may ask any question. Or not. It’s clear that there would be no decent answer, even if Putin himself were here. Remember, he always evaded questions. Let’s do it this way. What do you think is the greatest Putin’s guilt? Towards Ukraine. Towards Russia. Towards the entire world. Or, maybe, someone doesn’t think he’s guilty at all? Maybe there was no other way? Who’s gonna try it? (She sees some raised hands.) Please, go ahead!

One by one, members of the audience stand up and put forward their accusations. Or they may find justifications to his actions. (It is possible that at this time, the TV monitor features Putin’s face—or they prepare a collection of his typical elusive answers that could fit the questions.) Five or ten minutes later, LANA raises her hands.

LANA: Thank you! It’s all fair. It’s all like this. But you know, I have an idea. I mean, the author has an idea, and I’ll just say it aloud. The idea is this. How nice it is to feel right and righteous! It’s nice for you, and it’s dangerous for others. For the main thing that man had— it’s weird to call him a man but yes, he was the man, too— The main thing was his worship of himself and his rightness. His rightness was total, indestructible, made of the reinforced concrete! He was ready to do anything to prove that rightness of his! His terrible readiness. His joy with the humiliation of those who were not right his way. His anger at them, to the degree of wanting to murder them. So, I do not want to offend anyone here but each of us has a little Putin inside. The one who enjoys his rightness. I’m not trying to discredit anything you’ve just said. You said right things. But just think of what I said. I thought I was just an actress (she says her real name). I thought of many things. Like, what is the most terrible thing in this world. (And the actress herself speaks of those things she considers the most terrible in the world. After a pause:) But— we’ll continue.

She returns to ARTYOM, and at that very moment, there sounds the artillery shell whine, with maximally admissible volume.

An explosion.

A total darkness.

[1] It is not necessary to divide the performance into acts.

[2] The film selection may be determined by the director.