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IN THE mornings Alexei Petrovich’s mama yawns loud and long: hurrah, onward, a new morning gushes in through the window; the cactuses shine, the curtains quiver; the gates of the night-time realm have slammed shut; dragons, mushrooms, and frightening dwarfs have plunged below the earth once again, life triumphs, the heralds blow their horns: a new day! a new day! Da-da-da da da-daa!

Mamochka combs her thinning hair oh so quickly with her hands, throws her bluish legs over the high bed frame—let them hang for a moment and think: all day they’ll have to drag around the 135 kilos that Mamochka has accumulated in the course of eighty years.

Alexei Petrovich opened his eyes: sleep slips serenely from his body; everything is forgotten, the last crow flies off into the gloom; the nocturnal guests, gathering their ghostly, ambiguous props, have interrupted the play until next time. A breeze sweetly fans Alexei Petrovich’s bald spot, the newly grown bristle on his cheeks pricks his palm. Isn’t it time to get up? Mamochka will give the order. Mamochka is so big, loud, and spacious, and Alexei Petrovich is so little. Mamochka knows everything, can do everything, gets in everywhere. Mamochka is all powerful. Whatever she says, goes. And he—is a late child, a little bundle, nature’s blunder, a soap sliver, a weed intended for burning that accidentally wormed its way in among its healthy brethren when the Sower generously scattered the full-blooded seeds of life about the earth.

Can I get up already, or is it early? Don’t squawk. Mamochka is carrying out her morning ritual: She honks into a handkerchief, pulls her stockings, sticking and prickling, onto the columns of her legs, fastens them under her swollen knees with little rings of white rubber. She hoists a linen frame with fifteen buttons onto her monstrous breast; buttoning it in the back is probably hard. The gray chignon is reattached at Mamochka’s zenith; shaken from a clean night-time glass, her freshened teeth flutter. Mamochka’s facade will be concealed under a white, pleated dickey, and, hiding the seams on the back, the insides out, napes, back stairs, and emergency exits—a sturdy dark blue jacket will cover the whole majestic building. The palace has been erected.

Everything you do is good, Mamochka. Everything’s right.

Everyone is already awake in the apartment, everyone’s stirring, all the Men and Women have started talking. They slam doors, burble water, jingle on the other side of the wall. The morning ship has left the slip, it cuts through the blue water, the sails fill with wind, the well-dressed travelers, laughing, exchange remarks with one another on the deck. What shores lie ahead? Mamochka is at the wheel, Mamochka is on the captain’s bridge, from the crow’s nest Mamochka looks onto the shining ripples.

“Alexei, get up! Shave, brush your teeth, wash your ears. Take a clean towel. Put the cap back on the toothpaste. Don’t forget to flush. And don’t touch anything in there, you hear me?”

All right, all right, Mamochka. How right everything you say is. How much sense everything immediately makes, how open the horizons become, how reliable a voyage with an experienced pilot. The old colored maps are unrolled, the route is drawn in with a red dotted line, all the dangers are marked with bright, clear pictures: there’s the dread lion, and on this shore—a rhinoceros; here a whale spouts a toylike fountain, and over there—is the most dangerous creature, the big-eyed, big-tailed Sea Girl, slippery, malicious, alluring.

Alexei Petrovich will wash up, put himself together; Mamochka will come and check whether he messed anything, or else the neighbors will yell again; and then it’s food time. What did Mamochka make today? To get to the bathroom you have to go through the kitchen. Old ladies grumble at the hot stove, they’re stewing poison in pots, they add the roots of terrible plants, follow Alexei Petrovich with bad looks. Mamochka! don’t let them hurt me!

Dripped a little on the floor. Oh no.

There’s already a crowd in the hallway: the Men and Women are leaving, noisily checking for their keys, coin purses.

The corner door with opaque glass is wide open; on the threshold stands that brazen Sea Girl, smirking. She winks at Alexei Petrovich; she’s all tilted; she puffs Tobacco, her Leg is stuck out, her nets laid—don’t you want to be caught, eh? But Mamochka’s to the rescue, she’s already racing like a locomotive, her red wheels pound, she whistles, out of the way!

“Shameless hussy! Get out of here, I say! Not enough for you . . . have to have a sick man as well! . . .”

“Ga-ga-ga!” The Sea Girl isn’t afraid.

Dart—and into the room. Saved. Yu-u-ck. Women—are terrifying. It isn’t clear what they’re here for, but they’re very unsettling. They walk by—smelling like they do . . . and they have—Legs. There are lots of them on the street, and in every house, in this one, and that one, and that one, behind every door, they’ve hidden, they’re doing something, bending, rummaging around, giggling into their fists; they know something and they won’t tell Alexei Petrovich. He’ll sit down at the table and think about Women. Once Mamochka took him with her out of town, to the beach; there were lots of them there. There was one . . . a wavy sort of fairy . . . like a little dog . . . Alexei Petrovich liked her. He went up close and looked at her.

“Well, what are you staring at?” shouted the fairy. “Get out of here, you retard!”

Mamochka came in with a bubbling pot. He looked in. There were the pink weenies of sausages. He was glad. Mamochka sets the table, moves, wipes up. The knife pops out of his fingers, strikes the oilcloth somewhere to the side.

“In your hands, take the sausage in your hands.”

Ah, Mamochka, guiding star! Heart of gold! You’ll fix everything. Wise, you’ll unravel all the tangles, you’ll destroy all the back alleys, all the labyrinths of this incomprehensible, unnavigable world with your powerful hand, you’ll sweep away all the walls—here’s an even, leveled plaza. Boldly take one more step. Farther on—wind-fallen trees.

Alexei Petrovich has his own world—in his head, the real one. Everything’s allowed there. But this one, outside—is bad, wrong. And it’s very hard to remember what’s good and what’s bad. They’ve set up and agreed upon written Rules that are awfully complicated. They’ve learned them, their memory is good. But it’s hard for him to live by someone else’s Rules.

Mamochka poured coffee. Coffee has a Smell. You drink it—and the smell goes over to you. Why aren’t you allowed to make your lips into a tube, cross your eyes to look at your mouth, and smell yourself? Let Mamochka turn her back.

“Alexei, behave yourself!”

After breakfast they cleaned the table, set out the glue, cardboard, scissors, tied a napkin around Alexei Petrovich: he’s going to glue boxes. When he’s done a hundred of them—they’ll take them to the pharmacy. They’ll get some money. Alexei Petrovich loves these boxes, he doesn’t like to part with them. He wants to hide them on the sly, save at least some for himself, but Mamochka watches carefully and takes them away.

And then other people carry them out of the pharmacy, eat little white balls from them, and they tear up the boxes and throw them away. They throw them right in the trash bin, even worse, in their apartments, in the kitchen, in the trash he saw a ripped-up, dirtied box with a cigarette butt inside. A fearful black rage then filled Alexei Petrovich, his eyes flashed, he foamed at the mouth, forgot words, fiery spots flashed in front of his eyes, he could have strangled, torn them to pieces. Who did this? Who dared do this? Come on out, why don’t you! He rolled up his sleeves: Where is he? Mamochka ran over, calmed him down, led the enraged Alexei Petrovich off, took away the knife, tore the hammer from his convulsed fingers. The Men and Women were afraid and sat quietly, hidden in their rooms.

The sun has moved to another window. Alexei Petrovich has finished his work. Mamochka fell asleep in the chair, she’s snoring, her cheeks gurgle, she whistles: pssshhew-ew-ew . . . Alexei Petrovich oh so quietly takes two boxes, ca-arefully, on tip-tip-tippy-toes—goes to his bed, ca-aarefully, carefully puts them under his pillow. At night he’ll take them out and sniff them. How the glue smells! Soft, sour, muffled, like the letter F.

Mamochka woke up, it’s time to take a walk. Down the stairs, only not in the elevator—you can’t close Alexei Petrovich up in the elevator: he’ll begin to flail and squeal like a rabbit; why don’t you understand?—they’re pulling, pulling on my legs, dragging them down.

Mamochka floats ahead, nods at acquaintances. Today we’ll deliver the boxes: unpleasant. Alexei Petrovich deliberately drags his feet: he doesn’t want to go to the pharmacy.

“Alexei, don’t stick out your tongue!”

The dawn has fallen behind the tall buildings. The gold windowpanes burn right under the roof. Special people live there, not the same kind as us: they fly like white doves, flitting from balcony to balcony. A smooth, feathery breast, human face—if a bird like that roosts on your railings, tilts its head and starts to coo and bill—you’ll look into its eyes, forget human speech, and start clucking in bird language, you’ll jump along the iron poles with fuzzy little legs.

Under the horizon, under the bowl of the earth, giant wheels have started turning, monstrous conveyer belts are winding, toothed gears are pulling the sun down and the moon up. The day is tired, it has folded its white wings, flies westward, big, in loose clothes, it waves a sleeve, releases stars, blesses the people walking on the chilling earth: good-bye, good-bye, I’ll come again tomorrow.

They’re selling ice cream on the corner. He’d really like some ice cream. Men and Women—but especially Women—stick money into the square window and get a frosty, crunchy goblet. They laugh; they throw the round, sticky papers on the ground or stick them on the wall, they open their mouths wide, lick the sweet, needlelike cold with red tongues.

“Mamochka, ice cream!”

“You’re not allowed. You have a sore throat.”

If he mustn’t, he mustn’t. But he really, really wants some. It’s awful how much he wants some. If he had one of those monies, like other Men and Women have, one of the silvery, shiny ones; or a little yellow piece of paper that smells like bread—they also take those at the square windows. Ooh, ooh, ooh, how he wants ice cream, they’re all allowed, they all get ice cream.

“Alexei, don’t twist your head around!”

Mamochka knows best. I’m going to listen to Mamochka. Only she knows the safe path through the thickets of the world. But if Mamochka turned away . . . Pushkin Square.

“Mamochka, Pushkin—is he a writer?”

“A writer.”

“I’m going to be a writer too.”

“Of course you will. If you want to—you will.”

And why not? He wants to, so he will be. He’ll get some paper, a pencil, and he’ll be a writer. There, that’s decided. He’ll be a writer. That’s fine.

In the evenings Mamochka sits in a spacious armchair, pushes her glasses down on her nose, and reads thickly:

“A pall the storm casts on the sky,
And whirls the twisting snow,
First like a beast she’ll howl and cry,
Then like a child sob soft and low.”

Alexei Petrovich really loves this. He laughs heartily, baring his yellow teeth; happy, he stamps his foot.

“First like a beast she’ll howl and cry,
Then like a child sob soft and low.”

The words get to the end—and turn around, get to the end again—and turn around again.

“Apall thus tormcas tson thus ky,
An dwhirls thet wistings no!
First likab eastsheel howland cry,
Then likach ild sobs off tandlow!”

Very good. This is how she’ll howl: oo-oooooo!

Shhh, sshhh, Alexei, calm down!

The sky is all sprinkled with stars. Alexei Petrovich knows them: little shining beads, hanging all by themselves in the black emptiness. When Alexei Petrovich lies in bed and wants to go to sleep, his legs start growing on their own, down, down, and his head grows up, up, to the black dome, up, and sways like the top of a tree in a storm, while the stars scrape his skull like sand. And the second Alexei Petrovich, inside, keeps shrinking and shrinking, compressing, he disappears in a poppy seed, in a sharp needle tip, in a microbe, in nothingness, and if he’s not stopped, he’ll vanish there completely. But the outside, giant Alexei Petrovich sways like a pine log mast, grows, scratches his bald spot against the night dome, doesn’t allow the little one to disappear into a dot. And these two Alexei Petroviches are one and the same. And this makes sense, this is right.

At home Mamochka undresses, demolishes her daytime corpus, puts on a red robe, becomes simpler, warmer, more comprehensible. Alexei Petrovich wants Mamochka to pick him up. What nonsense! Mamochka goes out into the kitchen. It seems like she’s been gone an awful long time. Alexei Petrovich checked whether the boxes were still there, sniffed the oilcloth, took a chance, and went out into the hall. The corner door, where the guests of the Sea Girl giggle at night, was cracked open. A white bed was visible. Where’s Mamochka? Maybe she’s in there? Alexei Petrovich peeped in the crack cautiously. No one. Maybe Mamochka hid in the closet? Should he go in? The room is empty. On the Sea Girl’s table—an open tin can, bread, a nibbled pickle. And—a little piece of yellow paper and silver circles. Money! Take the money, run downstairs along the dark staircase, into the labyrinth of streets, look for the square window, and they’ll give him a sweet cold cup.

Alexei Petrovich grabs, jingles, knocks things over, runs, slams the door, breathes loud and fast, trips. The street. It’s dark. Which way? That way? Or this way? What’s in his fist? Money! Someone else’s money! The money shows through his hairy fist. Stick his hand in his pocket. No, it’ll show through anyway. Someone else’s money! He took someone else’s money! Passersby turn around, whisper to one another: “He took someone else’s money!” People press to the windows, shoving each other: Let me look. Where is he? There he is! He has money! Aha! You took it, did you? Alexei Petrovich runs in the dark. Clink clink clink clink—the coins in his pocket. The whole city has spilled out onto the street. The shutters are thrown open. Hands point from every window, eyes shine, long red tongues stick out: “He took the money!” Let out the dogs. The fire engines blare, the hoses uncoil: Where is he? Over there! After him! Crazed, Alexei Petrovich rushes about. Throw it away, tear it from his hands, away, away, there it is, there it is! With his foot! Stamp on it with his foot! Traaaammmpple it! That’s it. . . . There. . . . It’s not breathing. It’s quiet. It’s died out. He wiped his face. There. Now where? Night. There’s a smell. Where’s Mamochka? Night. In the entryways wolves stand in black columns: they’re waiting. I’ll walk backward. I’ll trick them. Good. It’s stifling. I’ll unbutton. I’ll unbutton everything. Good. Now? Women with Legs walked by. They turned around. Snorted. So that’s the way it is? Whaaaat? Me? I’m a wolf! I walk backward!!! Aha, scared are you? I’ll catch up with you, I’ll pounce, we’ll see just what these Legs of yours are! He rushed at them. A cry. A-a-a-a! A blow. Don’t hit! A blow. Men smell of Tobacco, they hit you in the stomach, the teeth! Don’t! Forget it, leave him alone—don’t you see? . . . Let’s go.

Alexei Petrovich leans against a drainpipe, spits something black, whines. Little one, so little, alone, you got lost on the street, you came into this world by mistake. Get out of here, it’s not for you! Alexei Petrovich cries with a loud howl, raising his disfigured face to the stars.

Mamochka, Mamochka, where are you? Mamochka, the road is black, the voices are silent, the paths lead into a deep swamp. Mamochka, your child is crying, dying, your only one, beloved, long-awaited, long-suffered. . . .

Mamochka is running, Mamochka is gasping, she stretches out her hands, shouts, grabs, presses him to her breast, feels him all over, kisses him. Mamochka is sobbing—she’s found him, found him!

Mamochka leads Alexei Petrovich by the reins into a warm den, into a soft nest, under a white wing.

The swollen face is washed. Alexei Petrovich snuffles at the table, a napkin tied round him.

“Do you want a soft-boiled egg? Soft-boiled, a runny one?”

Alexei Petrovich nods his head: Yes, I want one. The grandfather clock ticks. It’s peaceful. Delicious hot milk, soft, like the letter N. Something clears inside his head. That’s right, he wanted to be . . .

“Mamochka, give me paper and a pencil! Quick! I’m going to be a writer!”

“Lord almighty! My poor baby! Why on earth . . . Well, now, don’t cry, calm down, I’ll give you some; just wait, you have to blow your nose.”

White paper, a sharp pencil. Quickly, quickly, while he hasn’t forgotten! He knows everything, he has understood the world, understood the Rules, grasped the laws of connection of millions of snatches and of odd bits and pieces! Lightning strikes Alexei Petrovich’s brain! He frets, he grumbles, grabs a piece of paper, pushes the glasses aside with his elbow, and, surprised at his own joyful renewal, hurriedly writes the newly acquired truth in big letters: “Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night . . .”