I would always find an abandoned object. A dirty toy, a dusty glass, a yellowed photo, an old magazine. People inevitably leave things behind no matter how carefully they pack. But it was these things which still carried a vestige of life to the ripped up rooms, reminding me they had been part of a home until recently. I would spend hours wandering around the empty houses, reconstructing my memories of when people lived there: of their interiors and me in it. Houses of working class people, but that’s what we all were. Small houses, mostly tidy with old-fashioned furniture, some glass decorations, matryoshki, ceramics, artificial flowers, worn hand-made rugs. The houses had preserved the spirit of the time they were built, and of their original owners, now someone’s grandparents. Once in a while, their grandchild would invite me into the shaded rooms or garden.
But it wasn’t only the children. A young woman, Maria, who lived across the street with her parents, liked having me too. Their house was different. Two-storey, with narrow stairs leading to the second floor, where we always sat in a room with huge windows. Maria had some fascinating objects: an old globe, a Russian doll with the size of a small girl, a porcelain box in the shape of a swan full of jewelry: necklaces made of transparent beads imitating precious stones. The sun’s rays would pierce them, make their colours shine, make them magic. Sometimes Maria would turn the globe and put her finger on America. She would whisper: ‘You must learn English and go to the States, a country of freedom.’ I didn’t understand why she would ask me to do that; weren’t we free as well? Leaving this space, her space, of exhilarating light and unusual calm was always difficult. Continue reading “Things left behind”
