A Dream-Woven Tale.
Английская версия эссе Памяти Владислава Крапивина, написанная для публикации Medium.
It happened long ago—or perhaps it never happened at all.
Fragments of memory tangle in my mind, and piecing them into a clear, finished picture isn’t easy. What lingers is the feel of a fine summer evening. I’m just beyond the city, at the summer house, but it’s time to head home—duties call. I bid goodbye to Grandma, leash the dog, and off we go, the two of us, toward the little railway halt.
I recall that those duties, the ones “that wouldn’t wait,” didn’t stir annoyance back then. They didn’t feel like nonsense or absurdity, as they so often do now, I’ll admit. There was a quiet calm, a warmth in walking with my dog along that familiar country road from childhood; sunlight spilled gently through the poplar leaves, the way was empty, and we met no one on our Path.
Time quickened its pace, events began to shuffle and jumble like cards in a deck. The train ride slips my mind almost entirely; next comes the city station platform, then a small buffet—or was it a tiny restaurant?—where I stepped in, likely for a coffee… I asked the waitress about something on the menu, she explained at length, loudly, with a hint of offense, and I nodded absently, catching only half her words. People were all around, heedless of me. The light dimmed somehow, dusk settled in, and a cozy glow flickered on: it wasn’t a buffet anymore, more like a bar. I settled in, sinking into a soft chair, almost reclining. Then—it hit me, sharp and burning.
The dog. Where was he? We’d been together, hadn’t we? I glanced around frantically, peering under neighbors’ tables, knowing how foolish I must look.
I scrambled to remember. Tied him up outside? No, nonsense—utter rubbish. Even in a nightmare, I’d never do such a thing; I wouldn’t even take him into a grocery store… I couldn’t fathom leaving him alone on a busy street, even for a moment. Or had I gone back, brought him home to the house, deciding against taking him to the city?
Absurd as it sounded, I turned that thought over and over for a few minutes. Something weighed on me, a block in my memory… I felt it, running up against it again and again, agonizing and terrifying: as if someone held me tight, refusing to let me recall. Then, unbidden, came a thought—strangely tinged, brazen and flippant, not my own—that this was exactly how it happened, no doubt about it. Time to stop panicking, pay the waitress, shrug off these reflections, and head home: the dog, surely, stayed at the summer house—where else could he be? I forgot, it happens. I’d return next weekend, and he’d be waiting.
That bewildering self-torment lasted mere seconds before I stood and made for the door. My Road led back, to where I’d just come from; devil knows what’s wrong with me, but I had to be sure the dog was safe. Don’t ask why I didn’t pull a phone from my pocket or hunt for a payphone—I don’t know. Perhaps in that dream, or that world I’m trying to tell of, its own laws ruled me then.
Suddenly—again!—I was pierced, sharp as a needle. Pain and relief came at once: I couldn’t have lost my dog anywhere—my dog had died that early December, and I didn’t even put up a Christmas tree that bleakest New Year. And Grandma’s been gone for years upon years.
Bright morning pounded through the window, whispering insistently, nudging me like an old friend met by chance on the street. I was waking, as if plunging into a crack of light, trying right away, smugly, to recall sleep-phase classifications, bemused by the vividness of what I’d seen and felt. Yet, as I’d come to realize clearly by that stretch of my life, something in that dream wasn’t a dream at all.
A dog’s gaze. Calm and warm: sun in it, a gentle hello, and—forgiveness. But not farewell. That gaze, I think, tied to a bright joy, as if from childhood, and an impression of light beyond words. I’ll say it plain: those eyes weren’t new to me by then; this wasn’t wholly unfamiliar. Let me try, briefly: when Such Things happen, you rarely doubt who’s looking at you—it’s clear… wordlessly, simply so.
About that “forgiveness.” The dog lived fifteen years, and for the last two, I walked that street—where I’d found him as a half-year pup, abandoned and bewildered—with a quiet dread. It was hard for us both: I clung to hopes, as is often the case—“a pointer might make seventeen, eighteen; arthritis isn’t fatal, so another year or two, maybe more”—shoving what unfolded right before me into some dark, far corner of my mind. And the dog… oh, what do I know of his thoughts, his feelings? But it was heavier for him than me, that much was clear. Psychologists assert that guilt shadows you when you recall a departed friend, no matter how sound your reasons; the true source lies elsewhere. Maybe so. What difference does it make, when you’re climbing the Lunar Road together, lost in that talk—the one, I suspect, we all share… “But tell me, it didn’t happen, did it?”—“Of course not, it only seemed so to you.”—“That’s all I need!”
Do manuscripts burn or not—it matters not a whit; what counts is that their authors will never forget a single line of the worlds they built. Tell me, haven’t you ever wondered: you’ve known the twists of a thrilling tale by heart for years—why return to that old book again and again? Look closer—might it be the Writer himself, squinting teasingly, peering at you between the lines? It’s not the adventures of bold ten-year-old Vikings that nudge you, with a sheepish grunt, to pull that treasured book from the shelf once more, but a quiet, dreamlike chat with their Author—his inimitable smile, his charm. To catch, to hold, to keep even a fleeting gist of that dialogue between you—that would be truly wonderful.
This little reflection the author dedicates to the memory of Vladislav Petrovich Krapivin, the Greatest Children’s Writer Who Wrote Books for Adults.* Commander, you gave me so much that I’m forever in your debt, and you may claim any part of it back whenever you wish. Anything, save one: I’ll never join the fight for Russian Sevastopol now, though I first saw and loved that city through you; it’s shrouded now in a devilish, bloody haze you once, in your time, overlooked. I can’t blame you, though—you’re a living human, and thus entitled to err.
*Vladislav Krapivin (1938–2020) was a Soviet and Russian writer, author of over two hundred books cherished by children and adults alike, who saw the Protection of Childhood as his mission as both a writer and a person. Translated into dozens of languages, he remains a hidden gem for English-speaking readers. His works, such as The Boy with a Rapier and The Getaway of the Horned Vikings, along with his leadership of the youth group “Caravel,” have made him a cult figure in Russia.