After returning home, I sat by the fireplace. For a long time, my gaze was fixed on the flames until the fire began to induce hallucinations. It felt as if I were trapped inside a glass bell, much like the paperweight with a tiny castle inside that my father had once given me.
I was just over ten then, newly discharged from the hospital after a near-fatal operation for a ruptured appendix. Recovery was a long, arduous process, leaving me terrifyingly thin.
Mother decided that the brisk air of Kyrgyzstan would aid my healing. Soon, we were traveling to join my father in the small town of Cholpon-Ata, on the shores of Lake Issyk-Kul.
When I arrived at his yard early that morning, my father was watching us from the window. He did not seem particularly happy about the meeting. A wild, neglected garden surrounded the house - a vast space where one could easily get lost.
In one of the rooms, the window was made of stained glass, through which the world appeared refracted in brilliant hues. Hours were spent there, admiring ruby trees, pale green flowers, and orange clouds.
Poems were composed and plans for the future were made by that window. A commitment to caring for orphaned children took root then, while the idea of having my own children remained distant and unreal.
Jealousy toward my father took hold of me because of his new partner, Olga. She seemed miniature, like a child with thin little arms and matchstick legs. Although she was officially engaged to him, a feeling persisted that nothing would come of it; he treated her so coldly. My intuition did not deceive me: a year later, they broke up.
But soon father grew tired of us. A made-up business trip became his excuse to run away and desert us once again. When he announced his nighttime departure, I clung to his jacket and screamed:
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“Don’t leave us, Papa! Don’t leave us!”
His reply was dry:
“Daughter, what can be done? Such is life, accept it!” - and then he was gone.
A little later, during our move to Almaty, my father met us at the station. He helped us find a temporary apartment and settle in.
That evening, a long conversation took place in the kitchen of the rented flat. The man before me felt like a complete stranger. His attire was the height of chic: a gray, flannel striped shirt, short hair styled with gel, a subtle scent of grapes, and an expensive watch. None of this disturbed me, but his tone did. He felt fake.
Father spoke often of Vera, his new flame. He had recently met her and claimed to be madly in love, adding that she was wealthy.
I have always disliked it when someone, masking their own gain, tries to convince society that they are the ones performing a selfless act.
So my father, instead of saying, “I am in love with her wealth, and I will do everything to keep it,” builds a long apology based on practical interests: that a man cannot live alone.
My expectations for our meeting were broad, but they certainly did not include social chitchat. In a word, our family ties gradually weakened.
A deep love for my mother remains—for her humanity, kindness, and life energy. Alexander asks, “You are somewhat quiet. Are you falling ill?” I simply smile to myself, rejoicing in the fullness of my current life.
The shelf is packed with books for which there is no time: Margaret Atwood, Dmitry Esten, Stephen King, a little book by Cheryl Strayed, and many others. It may seem that I am becoming like Anzhelica, with her divine disregard for details—the dresses, the earrings—but no, it is not quite like that. In the wardrobes, a magnificent Japanese order reigns; everything is in its place. Yet this order, subordinated to something higher, recedes into the background at other moments. Dresses may end up crumpled on the bed, a neat hairstyle scattered by the wind, and earrings or hairpins left strewn about, with high heels broken.
The big picture is never lost. A flawless dress is created to be worn, to be torn, to be soaked in the rain, and to be stained and wrinkled.
In conversations with Alexander, a feeling began to grow that the time was coming when we would both understand everything. His masculinity and my femininity strive for union - to unite truly, rather than to prevail in a struggle.
The only way to understand Anzhelica was to adopt her madness.
