Dreams of Asya Cegelban
Anatolii Myhailenko
Anastasia Kegelban or simply
Asya is the best of the memories of my student youth. Almost half of the young
men of our course, the future geniuses of architecture, were in love with her.
Do not know how to explain
such an attitude towards her by boys and men. Do not know, maybe this was an
amazing result of mixing two types of blood in her: the Austrian on the
paternal side and the Ukrainian — on the maternal line? But it was this
circumstance that determined her beautiful appearance and character, which
combining sober judgment with the sensory perception of the surrounding. She
knew what she was doing and why, at the same time, she looked at the world with
wide eyes the child, taking all the best from life.
“Who may be a person to
forbid the enjoyment of what pleases his eye and warms the soul?” She spoke
naively, disarming the interlocutor an innocent smile.
Asya moved this positive
attitude towards life to studying at the institute. Ignoring the so-called social
sciences, she thoroughly engaged in architectural graphics, descriptive
geometry, drawing. That is, she gives preference to those disciplines that were
directly related to our future profession of architect. Her term papers had
been just beautiful, which caused some fellow students to pathological envy.
“Just think, Kegelban has
created another masterpiece!” Sveta Korsakova, Asy’s best friend and rival, was
indignant.
I, playing on counterpoints,
unobtrusively, but sincerely praised these works, and this earned its location.
And over time and friendship.
Asya is the Odessa woman and adored her city. To those who used to walk with her on old streets, she
generously revealed its secrets. Showed the best of what remains to us in the
inheritance after the masters of the pre-revolutionary era. And such walks, if
they did not become for someone at school of a future profession, then, in any
case, brought up good taste.
“Just think, Kegelban has
created another masterpiece!” Sveta Korsakova, Asy’s best friend and rival,
were too indignantly.
I, playing on counterpoints,
unobtrusively, but sincerely praised these works Asya's and earned her respect.
And over time and her friendship. Asya was the Odessa woman and adored her
city. To those who walk with her on old streets, she generously revealed secrets
to some houses, which remaining us of the inheritance after the masters of the
pre-revolutionary era. And these walks if did not become for someone school of
a profession, then will, in any case, brought up good taste.
She was always and
everywhere interested in how certain things created by people fit into the
interior or into the urban landscape. Once, when we were walking along one of
the seaside parks, Asya said:
“Do you want me to show you
a little-known masterpiece?” And, without asking consent, pulled me off the
sanatorium. It belongs to the military department. There, in the depths of the
park, alone stood a three-story mansion of darkened from the time of red brick.
Approaching the house, Asya showed me marvelous majolica that decorated its
facade.
All that insulted her
aesthetic taste, especially unsuccessful public and residential buildings, she
betrayed merciless criticism. The new building of the Musical Comedy Theater,
in which eclecticism coexisted simply with bad taste, got from her. Asya was one
of the first to notice on roof theater unsuccessful decorations, resembling
“gilded coffins” from afar. "Really, they stood there in a row, as in the
cantor of ceremonial service for general viewing," stressed she. “The environment can elevate or humiliate a person. Therefore, architects and
builders are responsible for the mental health of society, perhaps more than
doctors and politicians…”
Architecture, painting, just
read books were constant topics of our conversations during walks around the
city. If it was autumn, and a piercing Northeast was blowing from the bay, we,
after churning, went to one of the nearest cafés, ordered a cup of black coffee
and a glass of chartreuse. If you add a little liquor in the coffee, the drink
gets an unusual soft taste. I called him “The Kiss of Anastasia”, not admitting
to her herself.
Architecture, painting, just
already read books were constant topics of our conversations during walks
around the city. If it was autumn, and a piercing Northeast wind was blowing
from the bay, we are going to one of the nearest cafés, ordered a cup of black
coffee and a glass of chartreuse. If you add a little liquor in the coffee, the
drink gets an unusual soft taste. I called him “The Kiss of Anastasia”, without
telling her about it.
Warm for indoor, she is
taking off her the raincoat, and the unique, heady aroma of lavender, coming to
be of her clothes and young body, mixing with the smells of coffee and liqueur.
And for me, there was no greater pleasure than sitting with Asya at table
shoulder to shoulder bathing and in these smells and listening to her
revelations. “I want to love and be loved,” Asya said quietly on one of these
autumn days, pressing even closer to my shoulder. And these words, simple at
first glance, sounded to me as a challenge and as a promise.
We liked the quiet streets
of the previously fashionable “Otrada” micro-district, where street names
sounded like poems. We walked around the whole French Boulevard, where the
elegant mansions of a long-gone era survived, taking exciting journeys by tram
the tram to Arcadia and the Great Fountain. It was especially good there in
spring, in the second half of May, when the Persian lilac blossomed, filling
the neighborhood with an intoxicating scent. Comfortably seated in the thick
grass under a fragrant bush, one could be long look at the sea, covered with a
light translucent haze. When a white liner appeared on the sea, going on a
cruise on the Black Sea to the Crimea and further to the promised shores of the
Caucasus, we tried to guess its name. “Ukraine,” Asya said confidently, looking
at the subtle outlines of the ship. "Adjurya," I contradicted the
girl, recognizing the familiar lines of the hull and superstructure of the
vessel…
The next summer vacation, in
order to earn some money, I had to spend with the institute building squad. In
the remote taiga village of Agyrish of the Khanty-Mansiysk Autonomous Okrug,
somewhere near the Arctic Circle, we erected wooden houses for loggers on pile
foundations. We worked all day long until the sun was setting behind the
jagged outline of the taiga, and after supper, we were poisoned to sleep. But
the short white nights, which at first enchanted us Southerners, eventually
became our curse. They were more suitable for romantic walks than for rest
after a hard day’s work.
I yearned for my beloved.
Perhaps that is why almost the same dream visited me every night. Asya and I
are sitting on the quay, reflecting in ultramarine seawater. At the whim of the
waves, our faces either collide or diverge in different directions. At the
crucial moment, when the waves reduce our faces and lips for a kiss, Asya with
her graceful leg for some reason tries to erase this idyllic reflection. But
each time, not reaching him, slowly slips into the water, dipping his head…
I returned to Odessa only at
the end of August, at the height of the velvet season. The city was overwhelmed
by the atmosphere of sensuality, freedom, and lightness of being. Counters in
the bazaars burst with southern fruits and vegetables, attracting holidaymakers
with variety and cheapness. Everyone on the go chewed something; others were
only going to bite off their own piece of the pie of life.
The next day after returning
from the taiga, I hurried to visit Asia. I was uncomfortable coming to her
empty-handed after a long separation. And I went to the “House of the Book” to
get a gift for her. This time there was nothing interesting on the shelves. But
in the commitment department, I was caught by Leonid Martynov’s compilation
Pervorodstvo. And opening it at random, I read:
I love you! Therefore
I create the whole world again...
After paying, I went out
into the street and headed in the direction of the Two Charles. Nearby was the
house in which Asya lived. I saw the first payphone, and I dialed its number.
‘Hello!” A bored her voice
was heard on the phone.
“Would you like to go where
the mill turns?” I asked, somewhat twisting the line from a poem by a famous
Odessa poet.
“Oh, want!” She happily
responded, recognizing my voice. “What do you suggest specifically?”
After wandering a bit around
the city, we went to Pushkinskay Street, turned left at the Krasnaya Hotel,
walked past the former stock exchange — the brainchild of Alexander Bernardazzi
— and, going down to the Polish one, drove the trolley bus to the maritime
station.
At its birth, there was a
passenger ship, handsome Ivan Franko, with a white superstructure and black
sides. The vessel was preparing for the next voyage; happy passengers climbed
the ladder aboard, expecting a festive, almost European holiday. On the quay
far from us, cargo ships were unloaded with a grab of Cuban raw sugar golden in
the setting sun.
Having observed the life of
the port, we climbed to the third floor of a glass building. There was a cozy
bar, where we used to drop by the company to celebrate someone’s birthdays or
big holidays. We were lucky; there were few visitors at this hour. And we got a
far corner table, sitting at which you can contemplate the perspective of the
Odessa Bay.
Having got hungry, we
ordered sandwiches with Moscow smoked sausage and red caviar, and for dessert
fruit and “Soviet champagne” of the Odessa bottling. Having received a substantial amount of a letter of credit equal to fifty ordinary student
scholarships, I was pleased to treat my girlfriend with something tasty.
“I missed you,” I squeezed
out when the waiter had left to fulfill our orders. “I didn’t have enough of
you either,” Asya answered, for some reason, covering her eyes with slightly
trembling eyelids.
Slowly sip a sparkling drink;
we talked about the upcoming work on the graduation projects. Rather, Asya
said, and I just listened and assented.
“I want to use in my project
structural elements made of reinforced concrete, metal, glass and composite
materials,” She said. “This will allow achieving the easiest and the expressiveness of each element with sufficient stability and strength of the
entire structure.”
According to her, it will be
a complex of semi-circular buildings resembling a sailboat. The main decoration
of the multi-tiered facade will be large windows and loggias, each of which will
give shade to the terrace on the lower floor.
“I would like to design and
build in such a way that it would not be a shame when a sign with my name and
initials is placed on the front of the building,” Asya continued with a sly the smile on her face. And her eyes shimmered with shades of blue and green, like a
wave of the sea.
Inspired by her, she
intensively gesticulated, creating in the space the outlines of the future
structure. At the same time her thin, beautiful hands touched my hands. Our
knees now and then collided under the table.
“Like this girl means a lot
to me,” I thought, watching Asya. “And what do I mean to her?”
We returned to the city,
climbing the Richelieu stairs. Overcoming her one hundred and ninety-two steps
have usually not difficult. But after pretty drunk champagne, the staircase
seemed to us, like Everest. And we stopped at each site, sat on the parapet and,
resting, watched the stars roll down from the sky, leaving behind an inversion
trace in the atmosphere.
Finally, we climbed to the
“peak”, where, as usual, we were met by a monument to Duke DE Richelieu, the
French counter-revolutionary, who became the Novorossiysk governor and the
Odessa city governor.
“It this is a mystery,” I
thought, glancing briefly at the monument, “The Bolsheviks demolished the
monument to Catherine the Second, but for some reason, they spared this
Frenchman...”
“You at the look,” She said
indignantly, becoming in the pose of the offended schoolgirl. “He did not even
look in my direction!”
“So it's bronze,” I said,
defending Richelieu indifferent to the female beauty.
“But he is a man, finally a
prince!” She was indignant.
“You want me to challenge
him to a duel,” I said.
“Want!” She said, excited,
she. “However, you do not belong to the nobility and cannot fight in duels.”
“Then I will beat him like
that, in a simple way!” I said drunk. And, taking off his shoes, hit them on
the pedestal of the monument to Richelieu...
“It's too late, why should
you go to your apartment,” Asya said in a low voice when we stopped at the front
door of her house. “Stay with me. Parents today in the country and no one will
disturb us. We are sited with you on the balcony with sun loungers and all
night we will contemplate the starry sky...
In the morning I woke up
from the cool air that had penetrated from the open balcony door. Off the
crumpled pillow beside me, the intoxicating aroma of lavender still emanated. I
looked at the balcony, where insanely was kiss the pigeons when in room entered
Asya in a short blue robe.
Get up! It is time to have
breakfast. By the way, today it is my turn to invite you for a walk.” Said she.
And how the bluebird flew into the kitchen
After breakfast, we go to
the station, and get on an electric train "Odessa -
Belgorod-Dniesterovskiy". And already sitting in the half-empty car, we
with Asya finally continue our conversation which started yesterday. Asya
was not indifferent to creativity Antonio Gaudi. Therefore, again and again,
she remembered his “House of Bones”, “Belésguard Tower”. And especially the
Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, which, under the guidance of a master, erected
for about thirty-five years, but so is not being completed. The dream of the
master will complete his students.
Asya was no indifference to
the creations of Antonio Gaudi. She, again and again, remembered his “House of
Bones”, “Belésguard Tower”. And especially the “Sagrada Family in Barcelona”, this
project, which cannot finish off the master. And descendants will be finished
this big genius project of Gauge for a long time yet…
It was her strong point.
Moreover, I knew that she herself wants to design and build something so
significant that it would make experts and ordinary people talk about it.
Therefore, I did not want to stop her from expressing her thoughts. For my
part, it would even criminal.
“Yes, every Gaudi should
have his Guell,” I said only in a low voice. But Asya, fortunately, did not pay
any attention to my comment.
We got off at the
Karolina-Bugaz station and, bypassing the cottages and gardens of the railway
workers, the shallow lakes in which the little Black Sea turtles swam, went out
to a deserted also the beach. The day was warm, the air is clear, what is he
and to be should in the south in late August-early September. A light breeze
blew grains of sand from the crests of the dunes. There was complete calm on
the sea, small waves lazily splashing on the edge of the shore, as if inviting
plunging into their transparent coolness.
As Asya the entering the
sea, it seemed to open in front of her, letting her into her lone; When Asua
was coming ashore, the seawater was not letting her go, she was following the
girl step in step. And the jets of moisture flowed along the grid, the stomach,
the legs with pure liquid silver, drilling in the rays of the sun. She, naked,
stopped in front of me, raised her hands to correct her whipped hairstyle. And
all her pristine young beauty opened up to me. And I thought:
Having gone, we set up a
small tourist tent on the shore. Having loosened my backpack, I took out edible
supplies from it, a long bottle of Bulgarian Riesling, prepared by Asia in the evening,
and we, had sat down on a bedspread, and began the meal.
“For us, young and
inexperienced!” Asya had spoken her toast and had raised an enameled soldier's
mug at the level of the eyes shining with emeralds.
“For you, so beautiful,
intelligent and spontaneous,” I replied without guile and kissed her slightly
blue and salty lips from the recent bathing.
We were well together, two
on this sandy spit that separates the Black Sea from the Dniester estuary. We
rejoiced at the high clear sky, the sun, the light wave rolling on flat sand of
the beach. And most of all that what we too can communicate with each other, we
the thinking of nothing for the future and not knowing nothing about him now.
-----------------------------------------
P.S. “Two Charles” — a wine
cellar in Odessa, located on the corner of the streets that bore the old names
before the return of them, the names of Karl Marx and Karl Liebknecht; Antonio
Guillem Gaudi-i-Cornet - famous Spanish architect; Eusebia Güell-i-Bacigalupi -
Catalan industrialist, politician, and philanthropist who supported all the
undertakings of Antonio Gaudi
