The Professor Lorenz effect

 Asya Kegelban, as it seemed to me, half of the young men of our course, the future geniuses of architecture, had secretly in love. Moreover, the nature of her feminine charm was such that even the rigorous institute teachers, despite their academic degrees and solid age, could not resist him. Sometimes one of them stopped in the corridor, letting the girl pass first, and then looked after her with a feeling of deep longing for the past irrevocably youth. I do not know how to explain such an attitude towards her by boys and men. Maybe this had been an amazing result of mixing two types of blood in her: the Austrian on the paternal side and the Ukrainian – on the maternal line. She knew what she was doing and why, at the same time, she was looking at the world with wide eyes, taking all the best from life. “Is it possible for a person to forbid the enjoyment of what pleases his eye and warms the soul?” She was talking naively, disarming the interlocutor with an innocent smile. Asya moved this positive attitude towards life to study at the institute. Without accord with the so-called social sciences, she thoroughly was engaged in architectural graphics, descriptive geometry, and drawing. That is, she gave preference to those disciplines that were directly, related to our future profession of architecture. Her term papers were just wonderful, if not beautiful. Of course, it caused some fellow students to pathological envy. Sveta Korsakova, Asya's best friend, and rival was indignant: “Just think Kegelban has created another masterpiece!” I, playing on counterpoints, unobtrusively, but sincerely praised Asya's works, and earned her location. Moreover, over time we began of friendship. Asya, like a real Odessa woman, adored her city. To those who used to walk with her in old Odessa, she generously revealed secrets of it city and showed the best of what remains to us in the inheritance after the masters of the pre-revolutionary era. Such walks, if they did not be-come for someone for us at school of a future profession, then, in any case, brought up good taste. Asya was always, and everywhere, interested in how certain things created by people fit into the interior of the urban landscape. Once, when we were walking along one of the sea-side parks, she said: “Do you want me to show you a little-known masтer piece?” And, without asking my consent, taking me by the hand, she pulled me on the territory of the sanatorium, which be-longed to the military department. There, in the depths of the park, alone stood a three-story mansion, of red bricks, which darkened by time. When we got to the house closer, Asya showed me the marvelous majolica on its façade, and proudly said: "Look how these flowers decorate and, I would say, spiritualize the house." She spoke about majolica with such enthusiasm that one would think, not she created this beauty with her own hands? We walked around the city, talked about architecture, about reading books or about painting. All that insulted her aesthetic taste, especially unsuccessful public and residential buildings, she betrayed merciless criticism. On the roof of the Theatre Music Comedy stood some strange rectangles. Seen their Asya said ironically: "They resemble me “gilded coffins” at the funeral service office...” And after thinking a little, she continued: «Yes, urban envronment can elevate or belittle a person. There-fore, architects and builders are responsible for the mental health of society, per-haps more than doctors and politicians…” We liked the quiet streets of the previously fashionable “Otrada” microdistrict. Name street names sounded there like poems: Quiet Street, Cozy Street, Gratifying Street, and Sea Street. We together walked around the whole French Boulevard, where the elegant mansions of a long-gone era still survived, and was go by tram to Arcadia and also the Great Fountain. It was es-pecially good there in spring, in the second half of May, when the Persian lilac blossoms, filling the neighborhood with an intoxicating scent. Comfortably seated in the thick grass under a fragrant bush, one could endlessly watch from the high shore into the sea distance, covered with a light translucent haze. Sometimes, 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 Cau-casus, we tried to guess its name. "Ukraine!" Asya said confidently, looking at the subtle outlines of the ship. "Adjaria!" I contradicted the girl, recognizing the familiar lines of the hull and superstructure of the vessel…

It seemed to me that half of the young men in our year—the future geniuses of architecture—were secretly in love with Asya Kegelban. Her feminine charm was such that even the most rigorous institute professors, despite their academic degrees and venerable age, could not resist it. Occasionally, one of them would stop in the corridor to let her pass, only to gaze after her with a sense of deep longing for an irrevocably lost youth. I cannot quite explain why boys and men alike felt this way. Perhaps it was the striking result of her heritage: a blend of Austrian blood from her father and Ukrainian from her mother. She knew exactly what she was doing and why; yet, at the same time, she looked at the world with wide eyes, drinking in the best that life had to offer.

“Is it possible to forbid someone from enjoying what pleases the eye and warms the soul?” she would ask naively, disarming her listener with an innocent smile.

Asya brought this same zest for life to her studies. Having no taste for the so-called "social sciences," she instead devoted herself entirely to architectural graphics, descriptive geometry, and drawing—the disciplines directly related to our future profession. Her term papers were wonderful, if not truly beautiful, which naturally sparked pathological envy in some of our peers. Sveta Korsakova, Asya’s best friend and rival, would grumble indignantly: “Just look at that, Kegelban has produced another ‘masterpiece’!”

I, playing on counterpoints, offered Asya quiet but sincere praise, thereby earning her favor. Over time, we became friends. Asya, a true Odessan, adored her city. To those who walked with her through the streets of Old Odessa, she generously revealed its secrets, showing off the finest remnants of the pre-revolutionary masters’ inheritance. If these walks didn't serve as a practical school for our future profession, they certainly cultivated good taste.

Asya was always fascinated by how man-made objects fit into the urban landscape. Once, while walking through a seaside park, she said, “Do you want me to show you a little-known masterpiece?” Without waiting for my consent, she took me by the hand and led me onto the grounds of a military sanatorium. Deep in the park stood a solitary three-story mansion of red brick, darkened by time. As we drew closer, Asya pointed out the marvelous majolica on its façade.

"Look how these flowers decorate and—I would say—spiritualize the house," she said proudly. She spoke of the majolica with such enthusiasm that one might think she had created that beauty with her own hands.

We wandered the city, talking about architecture, books, and painting. Anything that offended her aesthetic taste—especially failed public or residential buildings—was met with her merciless criticism. Seeing some strange rectangles on the roof of the Theater of Musical Comedy, Asya remarked ironically: "They remind me of the ‘gilded coffins’ at a funeral parlor." After a moment’s thought, she added: "Yes, the urban environment can either elevate or belittle a person. Therefore, architects and builders are responsible for the mental health of society—perhaps even more than doctors and politicians."

We loved the quiet streets of the once-fashionable Otrada district. The street names there sounded like poetry: Uyutnaya (Cozy), Ottradnaya (Gratifying), Morskaya (Marine). We walked the length of French Boulevard, where elegant mansions of a bygone era still survived, and took the tram to Arcadia and the Great Fountain. It was especially beautiful there in May, when the Persian lilacs bloomed, filling the air with an intoxicating scent. Nestled in the thick grass under a fragrant bush, one could stare endlessly from the high shore into the hazy sea distance. Sometimes, when a white liner appeared on the horizon, heading for Crimea or the "promised shores" of the Caucasus, we tried to guess its name.

"Ukraine!" Asya would say confidently, tracing the ship’s subtle outlines.

"Adjaria!" I would counter, recognizing the familiar lines of the hull and superstructure...

If it was autumn or winter, and a piercing northeasterly wind blew from the Odessa Bay, we would seek shelter, chilled, in "The Golden Goose" café. We would order a cup of black coffee and a glass of Chartreuse. When you add a little of that liqueur to coffee, the drink acquires an unusually soft flavor and aroma. Once warmed, Asya would take off her raincoat, and the unique, heady scent of lavender—coming from her clothes and her young body—would mingle with the smell of coffee and liqueur. I called it "Anastasia’s Kiss," though I never admitted it to her. For me, there was no greater pleasure than sitting with Asya at the table, shoulder to shoulder, bathed in those scents, listening to her revelations.

“I want to love and be loved,” Asya said quietly on one of those autumn days, pressing even closer to my shoulder. These words, simple at first glance, sounded from her lips like both a challenge and a promise.

The following summer, wanting to earn some money, I joined the institute’s student construction brigade. In the remote taiga village of Agirish, in the Khanty-Mansi District near the Arctic Circle, we built wooden houses on pile foundations for loggers. We worked all day until the sun finally dipped behind the jagged silhouette of the taiga. The short "white nights," which had initially enchanted us Southerners, eventually became our curse. They were more suited for romantic walks than for resting after a day of backbreaking labor. Moreover, we couldn't get used to the horseflies, mosquitoes, and midges that mercilessly stung us, biting and drinking our blood.

I missed her terribly, and almost every night I had the same dream. Asya and I are sitting on a concrete pier; our reflections on the sea’s surface drift toward each other and then apart. Suddenly, she reaches out with her graceful foot toward this idyllic picture, as if trying to erase it, and slips off the pier into the sea. a passing wave covers her head. I jump in after her, diving deep, but I cannot find her. I surface, but Asya is nowhere to be seen. I would wake up covered in a cold sweat, my face itching from the bites of bloodthirsty mosquitoes.

Our detachment returned to Odessa at the end of August, at the peak of the "velvet season." The city was saturated with an atmosphere of freedom, sensuality, and a lightness of being. The very next day, I hurried to see Asya. On the way, I stopped at the "House of Books" on Grecheskaya Square to buy her a gift—Asya loved poetry. There was nothing interesting on the main shelves that day, but in the secondhand department, I came across a volume by Leonid Martynov titled Birthright. Opening it at random, I read: “I love you! Therefore, I create the whole world anew...”

Having paid, I stepped out and headed toward "The Two Carls," the famous wine cellar. Opposite it stood the house where my girlfriend lived. Seeing a payphone along the way, I stopped and dialed her number.

"Hello? Who is this?" I heard her surprised voice in the receiver.

"Wouldn't you like to walk 'to where the mill revolves'?" I asked, slightly twisting the lines of a famous Odessa poet.

"Oh, I’d love to!" she replied happily, recognizing my voice. "But what exactly are you suggesting?"

After wandering through the city for a while, we walked down Pushkinskaya Street, turned left at the "Krasnaya" Hotel, passed the former Stock Exchange—the brainchild of Alexander Bernardazzi—and walked down Polskaya Street to catch the number four trolleybus to the sea terminal. At the pier stood a passenger ship, the handsome Ivan Franko, with its white superstructure and black hull. The vessel was preparing for a cruise; happy passengers climbed the gangway, anticipating a vacation that felt almost European. Not far from us, a crane was unloading a grab of Cuban raw sugar from a cargo ship. In the rays of the setting sun, it looked like golden sand.

After observing the bustling port, we climbed to the third floor of the glass sea terminal. There was a cozy bar where our group often gathered to celebrate birthdays or holidays. We were lucky; there were few visitors at that hour, and we secured a corner table that offered a perfect view of the Odessa Bay. Having worked up an appetite, we ordered sandwiches with smoked sausage and red caviar, and for dessert—fruit and "Soviet Champagne," bottled right here in Odessa. I had just received my payment for the summer—a sum equal to fifty student scholarships—and I wanted to treat my girlfriend to something special.

“I missed you,” I said, as soon as the waiter left to fulfill our order.

“I missed you too,” Asya replied, her eyelids trembling slightly as she looked away.

We slowly sipped the sparkling wine and talked about our upcoming graduation projects. Or rather, Asya talked, and I simply listened and agreed.

“I want to use structural elements of reinforced concrete, metal, glass, and composites,” she continued. “It will allow for lightness and expressiveness in every detail, while maintaining the stability of the entire structure.”

According to her vision, it would be a complex of semicircular buildings resembling a sailboat. The multi-tiered façade would be adorned with large windows and loggias, each casting a cool shade onto the terrace below.

“I want to design something I wouldn't be ashamed of when they put a plaque with my name on the front,” Asya added with a sly smile.

Her eyes shimmered with shades of blue and green, like the sea itself. Caught up in her inspiration, she gesticulated vividly, sketching the outlines of the future building in the air. Her thin, beautiful hands occasionally brushed mine. Our knees touched under the table. “How I love this girl,” I thought, watching her. “But what do I mean to her?”

We returned to the city by climbing the Potemkin Stairs. Usually, its one hundred and ninety-two steps weren't a challenge. However, after the champagne, the staircase felt like Everest. We stopped at every landing, sitting on the parapet to catch our breath and watch the stars streaking across the sky, leaving silver trails in the black atmosphere.

Finally, we reached the "summit," where, as always, we were met by the monument to the Duke de Richelieu—the French aristocrat who became the Governor of Novorossiya and Odessa.

“It’s a mystery,” I thought, glancing at the statue. “The Bolsheviks tore down the monument to Catherine the Great, yet for some reason, they spared this Frenchman.”

“Look at him!” Asya said indignantly, striking the pose of an offended schoolgirl. “He didn't even glance in my direction!”

“But he's made of bronze,” I said, defending the Duke’s indifference to female beauty.

“So what? He’s a man! A Prince!” she countered.

“Do you want me to challenge him to a duel?” I asked.

“Yes, I do!” she cried excitedly. “Though, you don’t belong to the nobility, so you can’t fight duels.”

“Then I’ll just beat him up, plain and simple!” I declared, emboldened by the wine. I took off my shoe and struck the pedestal of the Richelieu monument...

“It’s late, why go all the way home?” Asya said in a low voice as we reached her front door. “Stay with me. My parents are in the village, and no one will disturb us. We’ll sit on the balcony and watch the stars all night...”

In the morning, I was woken by the cool air drifting in through the open balcony door. I was still savoring the intoxicating scent of lavender lingering on the crumpled pillow beside me when Asya, wearing a short blue robe, glided gracefully into the room. Giving me a wet kiss, she said: “Get up, sleepyhead! It’s time for breakfast. And by the way, today it’s my turn to take you for a walk.” Then, like a bluebird, she flew off into the kitchen.

After breakfast, we headed to the station and caught the train from Odessa to Belgorod-Dniesterovsky. Sitting in the half-empty carriage, Asya and I continued the conversation we had started the night before. She was deeply moved by the work of Antoni Gaudí. She spoke repeatedly of his “House of Bones” (Casa Batlló) and the “House of Stone” (Casa Milà). But her greatest fascination was the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, which had been under the master’s guidance for thirty-five years and yet remained unfinished—a dream he left for his students to complete.

I knew she longed to design something so significant that it would be admired by both experts and ordinary people alike. This was her passion. To interrupt such a sincere, ambitious girl’s monologue would have been unethical—criminal, even. So, I only muttered under my breath: “Yes, every Gaudí needs his Güell.” Fortunately, Asya paid no attention to my comment.

We got off at the Karolino-Bugaz station. Passing by the cottages of the railway workers and the shallow lakes where small Black Sea turtles swam, we reached a deserted beach. It was a clear, warm, sunny day—the kind you only find in the south in late August or early September. A light breeze brushed grains of sand from the crests of the dunes. The sea was perfectly calm; small waves lapped lazily at the shore, as if inviting us to plunge into their transparent coolness.

Asya accepted the invitation. As she entered the water, it seemed as if the sea parted before her, welcoming her into its depths; when she emerged, it seemed loath to let her go. Bitter-salty droplets rolled down her elegant, tanned body, scattering in a myriad of sparkling sprays under the sun. Raising her arms with a smooth motion to wring out her wet, rye-colored hair, Asya stood before me in all her vulnerable, lovely nudity. I looked at her and couldn't turn away, remembering the saying that the beauty of the soul is reflected in the beauty of the body.

After our swim, we set up a small tent on the shore. I opened my backpack and pulled out a long bottle of Bulgarian Riesling that Asya had prepared the evening before.

“To us—so young and inexperienced!” Asya offered her toast, raising an enameled soldier’s mug to the level of her emerald-shining eyes.

“To you, Asya —so beautiful, intelligent, and spontaneous,” I replied sincerely, kissing her lips, still salty and slightly blue from the cold water.

We were alone on that sandy spit that separates the Black Sea from the Dniester Estuary. We rejoiced in the high clear sky, the sun, and the waves rolling onto the flat sand. Most of all, we rejoiced in our connection, not thinking of the future and knowing nothing of what it held.

The future caught up with us nine months later, as we were preparing to defend our diplomas. In truth, things had begun shifting out of my favor long before that. By the fifth year, all our female classmates except Asya and Sveta Korsakova had married. This weighed on Asya. Unobtrusively but with enviable persistence, she began reminding me that our relationship needed a logical conclusion. I, like a foolish boy, kept avoiding a direct answer.

This continued until the graduation party at the "Zhemchuzhina" restaurant in Arcadia. Amidst the chaos of the dancing, Asya led me aside to be alone. I reached out to pull her toward me, but she dodged my kiss.

“You know, Rudolf," she said, calling me by my full name for the first time. “I'm getting married! And I want you to be at my wedding.”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned her back on me and walked to the other end of the hall, where our dean sat at the same table as her mother and father. The crisis that had been brewing in our relationship for so long had finally reached its predictable conclusion.

In the days remaining before the wedding, I was lost. I was drowning in sadness, trying to numb the mental pain with alcohol, presumptuously thinking there was still time to fix everything. And yet, I took no steps to do so.

Asya's wedding took place in that same restaurant, the Zhemchuzhina. From our year, only I and Asya's old friend, Sveta Korsakova, were present. I sat at a far table near the emergency exit, watching the scene unfold. The bride, in her white dress and airy veil that half-hid her face, looked like an image of immaculate purity. The groom—a tall brunette in a black suit—reminded me of the Hollywood heroes Asya had always admired. Looking at him, I thought that this was exactly how the husband of "my" girl should look.

Suddenly, Sveta came up to me and pulled me away from the table, leading me outside for a smoke.

“Asya treated you unfairly,” she said, exhaling tobacco smoke as she stared at the sea darkening across the road. She took another drag and added: “No, Astashkin, she simply betrayed you.”

With those words, Sveta spat, flicked her cigarette butt like a firefly into the night, and walked away.

Left alone, I thought that Sveta had her reasons to say so. But she was wrong. It wasn't Asya who had betrayed me; I had betrayed her. I couldn't bring a beautiful young wife into the cramped room of the communal apartment I rented. That miserable dwelling would have become for us the "pigeon cage" described by Professor Lorenz in his book.

Still not knowing why, I descended the wooden steps, crossed the "Health Path," and walked out onto the sandy beach. Reaching the water's edge, I took off my shoes, my jacket, trousers, tie, and my white shirt, folding them neatly on a coastal boulder slick with black algae. I did this all automatically, without a single thought.

Indifferently, I entered the water. After a few steps, pushing aside the seagrass with my hands, I noticed the watch on my left wrist. I returned to the shore, took off the chronometer, and placed it on top of my clothes, dial-up, not even glancing at the time.

Then, I entered the water again. I swam without looking back—first the crawl, then the breaststroke. When I grew tired, I turned onto my back and kept swimming. Finally, a powerful current caught me, carrying me further and further out to sea. My eyes stung from the salt and were heavy with exhaustion. Falling into a semi-conscious state, I repeated to myself:

“I will enter your tender womb,

And dive into the depths hopelessly yours...”