*** *** ***
The Russian
Federation, Saint Petersburg, Vasileostrovsky District.
Historic Leningrad
Communist University, Sredny Prospekt. August, 1999. 8:00pm.
*** *** ***
Dr. Goncharova stood
on tiptoes to pull open one of the double doors to the rear entrance
of what used to be the Leningrad Communist University. The handles
and knobs for standard height doors dangled just above her wispy head
of curly hair. At first glance it would be easy to mistake her for a
toddler, but upon closer inspection her mature jawline, broad
forehead, wide hips, and perky proportionate breasts quickly do away
with any such illusions. Once she had the door opened, she held it
ajar with her hip and grabbed her rolling luggage bag before
shuffling inside to make her way to the classroom down the hall.
There were still a
few stragglers from the previous group meeting chatting over stale
powdered donuts and burnt coffee. She was early, having made good
time on her walk from Saint Petersburg State University where she
taught in the Social Work Department. It wasn’t a long walk for a
“normal” person (for lack of a better term), less than a mile,
but she already felt the strain in her hips and knees. She was
sympathetic to the Transit Workers’ Union demands, of course. Many
of them hadn’t been paid in months and expecting a paycheck for
one’s labor was hardly unreasonable. Still, she relied on the
Tramway and Trolleybus to get around the city.
“Evening, Comrade
Doctor,” an elderly bearded gentleman in a flatcap said as she
waddled past.
“Evening, Ivan
Fyodorovich. Before you leave, could you help me set up, maybe prop
the door open? Most of our group members can’t open doors on their
own.”
“Of course,
Comrade Doctor,” Ivan replied with a smile and a salute. His pock
marked face and bulbous nose were flush with a rosy hue. The strong
scent of vodka pervaded his sweat and breath. He grabbed the
cinderblock from the corner and made his way to the back entrance.
Shortly thereafter he returned, pulled out a folding table from
behind a cabinet, and placed it towards the back of the room with the
legs on their shortest setting, putting the table height around 48cm
(just over a foot and a half).
“Thank you, Ivan.
How was your study group?”
“The young people
don’t turn up like they used to,” he lamented. “It’s mostly
just us old timers nowadays, sitting around with our Party ID Cards
for a Party that doesn’t officially exist anymore, yearning for the
good old days when the Sino/Soviet split seemed like the worst of our
worries. As builders of Communism we shouldn’t be living in the
past, we should be organizing in the moment for revolutionary
regroupment… but it’s so hard to have hope these days.”
“Yeah, we’re all
living through a collective trauma right now,” Dr. Gonchorova
empathized. “Even though the dissolution was almost a decade ago,
in many ways we’re still waiting for the dust to settle. So much
is still up in the air right now, everything that once was certain is
now thrown in to question. The support systems we worked so hard to
build are being dismantled before our very eyes. But it is in such
times of acute capitalist crisis that the workers are more easily
radicalized, eh comrade?”
“True enough,”
he said with half-hearted hope. “Capitalism will sow the seeds of
its own destruction.”
“The last
capitalist will sell us the rope we hang him with,” the good Doctor
squeaked in what was an attempt at boisterous confidence. She raised
a fist into the air and they both shared a hearty laugh.
“No pasaran,” he
said with a smile, raising his left fist into the air.
“Before you go,
comrade, would you mind putting these signs up on the door and in the
hallway?”
“Of course,
Comrade Doctor. Oh, before I forget again, here.” He produced a
set of keys from his coat pocket. “In case your meeting runs late
again, just be sure that you lock up and leave these in the lock box
by the front entrance on your way out.”
“Thank you, Ivan.
You’re always such a help.”
By now the others
had trickled out of the room and it was just the two of them. As she
started to open her bag, Ivan interceded.
“Please, Comrade
Doctor, you look tired. Sit, I will set up the table.”
“You’re the
best, Comrade Fyodorovich.” The child sized seat was only 30cm
(about a foot for you decadent Westerners) off the ground, but she
still had to do a bit of climbing to hop into the chair. Once seated
her feet dangled half way to the floor. She produced a handkerchief
and wiped the pooling sweat beads from her brow. “I hope the
Transit Workers Union settles the strike soon. I can’t keep doing
all this walking.”
“For your sake and
theirs, I hope so too.” He opened her bag and began placing an
assortment of confectioneries in the middle of the table. Soon it
was covered with her home made kartoshka cakes and toffee squares cut
into various sizes. “You can of course help yourselves to the left
over donuts, they’ll only be thrown out tomorrow.”
“I will make sure
everyone has some.” She began to arrange sweets meticulously on
saucers, with smaller cut squares towards the edge and a pyramid of
the larger toffee squares in the center. On another such plate she
placed some Rot Front candies, taking a few of them out of the paper
wrappers before setting them down. Malyenkiye don’t eat much
relative to a full sized human, but proportionally they must eat a
greater amount of their body weight in order to stay healthy.
“I also took the
liberty of putting on a fresh pot of coffee for you,” he said while
unplugging the hot carafe, removing it from the half-sized book shelf
it was perched atop, and placing it onto the small folding table. He
then poured some fresh coffee into a small espresso cup. “And
there is tea in the samovar for those who prefer something less
bitter.”
“We all appreciate
it so much.” She reached in her pocket and produced a number of
small drinking cups. Some 1:6 and 1:12 scale doll cups but also
thimbles for those with an aversion to toy cups. Some Malyenkiye
view it as demeaning to use doll accessories. She placed erasers,
spools, pin cushions (without pins), and hackey sacks over half of
the table to serve as seating. For the other half, she gathered an
assortment of books from a nearby shelf and arranged the dog-eared
tomes of Pushkin, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Gogol, Lermentov, and
Pasternak into riser style bleacher seating.
“Well, looks like
you are all set, Comrade Doctor.” Ivan stood with a grunt. “These
old bones should be getting home. Take care.”
“Stay safe, Vanya.
I will see you next week.”
Shortly after the
elderly communist party organizer left towards the setting sun, group
members began trickling in. Lyubov the Pixie and Anatoly the Sprite
arrived carrying a statuette of a sitting Domovoi (like a garden
gnome or a house elf) with his arms wrapped around his knees.
Anatoly was a tad taller than 30cm (about 1 foot tall) and Lyubov was
just under. The stone figure they each held by the base was around
their size, but would be almost twice as big as them were it standing
upright.
“Damn this fat
fuck is heavy,” Anatoly growled through gritted teeth. He wore a
well tailored and unbuttoned suit with rolled up sleeves. His
flamingo pink skin was covered in Bratva tattoos that stood out all
the more because they partially obscured his natural luminous glow.
Savvy eyes could make out the markings of a skilled thief.
“He’s made of
stone, Tolya,” the green skinned Pixie retorted.
“Even when he
isn’t, he is still a fat fuck.”
“Do you think he
can hear us when he’s stone?”
“I don’t care if
he can, I’ll say it to his face. Oi! Sasha! You are a fat fuck!
I fucking hate you, you fucking piece of shit!” They set the stone
figure down on the floor by the table.
“Get that out of
your system, Anatoly,” Dr. Goncharova scolded, her mousy voice
booming to their small pointed ears. “I know he can be difficult,
but he’s still one of us. We all share the same struggles for
inclusion and satisfaction as a community, we need to be there for
each other even if we don’t always like each other. Everyone in
attendance at these meetings is actively trying to better themselves,
and we’re all at different places on the journey.”
“He just better
appreciate that Lyuba and I go out of our way every week to lug his
dead weight here,” he grumbled, reaching into his suit pocket to
produce a pack of 1:6 scale factory rolled cigarettes. “He doesn’t
even live in the city, we fly miles out of our way to the countryside
to grab him from some fucking dacha. Does he ever thank us?” He
pursed a cigarette between his lips and flicked open a stainless
steel lighter engraved with a winged dagger. “No, he just spouts
reactionary garbage at us. I’ve had it up to here with his
bullshit, I’m serious!” He held his hand high above his head to
illustrate the point before lighting his cigarette.
“Don’t let him
get to you,” Lyubov said softly, fluttering over to his side and
placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her green skin was the color
of bay leaves and antennae poked out from bangs of shoulder length
lavender hair which perpetually blew in the breeze of her flapping
wings. “Be the bigger man.”
“Easy for you to
say, Lyuba. He likes you.” His opaque dragonfly wings fluttered
so fast they were a blur as he pulled away from her touch and flew to
the tabletop. His shoes, shined to perfection, touched down with a
clack, casting his reflection in their flawless polish as his wings
quickly flattened themselves against his back. He wedged the lighter
into his suit pants pocket which hugged tightly against his skin.
Lyubov landed much
more gently on the table and approached the coffee with desire in her
eyes. She grabbed a mug for herself and Anatoly, scooped some fresh
coffee from the espresso cup on the table, then made her way to the
books to be seated. “How was your week, Dr. Goncharova?”
“Long,” she
answered, pouring herself a cup of coffee from the carafe. “Classes
start up again in a few weeks, our department’s budget has been cut
significantly and we still need to provide the same level of
education with a fraction of the resources.”
“Same story
everywhere,” Lyubov sighed.
There came a tapping
at the window. They all glanced up to see a small Faerie in
parachute pants and a striped sailor’s tanktop carrying an even
smaller Borrower in her arms. Anatoly’s wings became ghostly
buzzing blurs as he floated up to the window and undid the latch
before they all fluttered down to the table together. The Faery
stood 15cm tall (about 6 inches), the top of her head coming to just
below Anatoly’s hips. Long raven hair tumbled out from under a
knitted gray wool beanie and two feelers jutted out from behind the
beanie’s cuff. Her black shiny compound eyes gleamed in the
fluorescent lights, though her most distinguishing feature by far was
probably the sleek blueish exoskeleton that covered most of her body
like armor plating. Her beetle like wings folded and scrunched,
tucking themselves safely under shiny plating which almost resembled
a backpack. If you were small enough, or had eyes sharp enough,
you’d notice she doesn’t possess a nose or lips, but instead an
insectoid mandibular “mouth” of sorts. She gently released the
little Borrower, whose feet had yet to touch ground, from her grasp
and her frazzled passenger looked relieved to be back on terra firma.
“I’ll never get
used to that, I don’t know how you flying folks just flit about
like that all the time,” the Borrower wheezed out, trying to catch
her breath.
“It’s just
convenient. Like, even in accessibility compliant buildings, you can
either climb a bunch of ladders and navigate a complex maze of stairs
and catwalks or you just fly.” She grabbed a square of toffee
about the size of her head from a plate. “It’s way more tiring
than it looks though. Really works up an appetite.” With that,
she dove face first into the toffee and began gnashing away at it.
“Deep breaths,
Nadyenka,” Dr. Goncharova cooed in her most soothing voice at the
shaking Borrower. “You’re okay.”
“Good evening, Dr.
Goncharova,” Nadyenka waved back sheepishly. Her thick mop of hair
was a tangled gravity defying mass of brown frizz that bobbed to and
fro as she moved. She wore a skirt made of what used to be the
inside lining of a leather wallet and a blouse cut from an old
handkerchief. “Ready for classes to start?”
“Not quite yet,
but we’re getting there. And how are you, Vasilisa? Enjoying the
toffee?”
“Yesh, fank you!”
she choked out between bites. The cube which had been the size of
her head was now half gone.
“Evening lads,”
came a thick Irish voice from the front door. The group’s
attention shifted back to the entrance where Cillian the leprechaun
stood smoking an oversized cigar. “Looks like the gang’s all
here.” His wrinkled face flashed a warm smile of stained teeth
flanked by scraggly orange mutton chops that bled into his receding
hairline. A wispy tuft of hair swooped up from the center of his
head but was clearly losing ground to fleshy cranium. Two big bushy
eyebrows loomed above a narrow pair of emerald eyes. He made his way
to the table and poured himself a cup as the last vestiges of
twilight abated and night fell at last.
Suddenly the
lifeless statue began to tremble. His eyes glowed with a bright
light and from those eyes cracks began to form outward. Chips and
chunks of concrete flecked away as his face turned to flesh,
scrunching and unscrunching itself to shake free any still clinging
pebbles. He stretched his arms into the air and unfurled his fingers
shaking loose still more stone debris standing to his full height of
64cm (just over 2’) making him slightly taller than Cillian but
still more than a head shorter than Dr. Goncharova.
“Is it already
Tuesday,” asked the bearded Domovoi, shaking loose gravel from his
pointy ears. He let out a mighty cough which also sent specks of
rock flying from his mouth. “Time flies.” He ran his hands
through his long wiry beard, loosing more motes of gray debris from
its hairs. “Do I smell coffee,” he asked, removing his pointed
felt cap to shake off the last remnants of his transformation.
“Your nose does
not deceive you, Sasha,” Dr. Gonchorova smiled warmly. “And as
soon as you sweep up your mess, you can have some.” She sipped
loudly, staring him down through the steam rising from her cup. The
Domovoi furrowed his brow and grumbled something unintelligible as he
went to grab a dustpan and hand broom.
Sasha swept up his
mess and Cillian poured both of them a cup of coffee. Anatoly
produced a new pack of cigarettes, opened it up and in Eastern
European tradition (a tradition which, I understand, has spread to
mainland Europe now) it was passed around the room and anyone who
wanted one was able to take one. The Borrower and the Pixie
abstained, along with Dr. Goncharova. As Sasha drew what to him was
a half-sized cigarette from Anatoly’s pack, the Sprite made eye
contact with him as if to say “Don’t start with me today.”
The Domovoi’s thick bushy brows softened as his scowl turned to a
somewhat acquiescent “No promises.”
Before Dr.
Goncharova could call the meeting to order, the sound of squeaky
sneakers in the hall heralded a growing shadow approaching the open
door. Celina ducked her head beneath the doorframe, stopping just
past the threshold.
“Hello, I’m
looking for the Malyenkiye People’s Support Group,” Celina said
meekly in a soft but deep voice.
Their heads turned
in relative unison and their eyes widened as they gazed upon the
tallest human any of them had ever seen. With all eyes on her,
Celina could feel the anxiety creep up her spine climbing with her
heart rate. The diminutive passenger felt her hand grow cold and
clammy in her jacket pocket as she awkwardly shifted her weight. “I
guess I found it.”
“Yes, it would
seem you have,” Dr. Goncharova replied. “I appreciate your
interest, comrade, but… how to put it… this is a closed
meeting... for Malyenkiye.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,
I know I’m not--I mean, obviously that’s not me,” she laughed
awkwardly. “But, you see, I have a…” she wasn’t sure how to
put it. What were they after all this time? “Someone I love very
much is… perhaps it would be easier to--I should just...”
Her long slender
fingers wrapped around the tiny torso of her pocket passenger and
slowly pulled him forth into the light. She crept towards the coffee
table with small deliberate steps and knelt before it. Even kneeling
and slouching, Celina was almost twice the height of the next tallest
person in the room. With a steady hand and utmost care, she set her
upright palm and the tiny passenger aboard it down near the edge of
the tabletop.
A small mustachioed
man about 20cm (8 inches) tall stood warily before the group. Tawny
brown skin protruded from an old faded telogreika (WWII
era Red Army winter uniform) tucked into a pair of equally weathered
valenki (wool boots). Messy strands of stringy
chestnut bangs poked out from under an old wool lined ushanka
(trapper hat w/earflaps) adorned with the red star crest. Piercing
almond eyes over deep swollen bags flanked a large nose with a narrow
bridge sloping down to a wide, round tip.
“Uhm… hello,”
he said sheepishly, eyeing the colorful crew that stared back slack
jawed as he stepped lightly from Celina’s hand to the table.
Lyubov and Vasilisa
quickly flew to the stranger, circling him in a whirlwind of
curiosity. Lina could barely contain her delight at watching them
flit about, her inner child positively beaming through her Baltic
blue eyes.
“His ears are
round like a Borrower’s, but he’s much too tall,” said the
pixie, who would tower over him even if she weren’t fluttering
above the ground.
Vasilisa landed
before him, her compound eyes level with his chest. She closely
examined his clothing. “These threads are so fine…” she
grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, “the material so soft. These
aren’t Malyenkiye clothes…”
Lyubov added, “The
Red Army didn’t let Malyenkiye serve in combat roles.”
“Were you--”
Before she could
finish her question, Anatoly swooped in, picking Vasilisa up by the
back of her tanktop with one hand and shoving Lyubov back with the
other. “Oi! Don’t crowd ‘im, give the man some fucking space!
You’ll scare ‘im off damn it,” he barked, cigarette still
pursed between his lips, standing almost twice the height of the
newcomer as he shooed the inquisitive winged women away and returned
to the book steppes.
“Well hello there,
young man,” Dr. Gonchorova said, trying and failing to mask her
bewilderment. She had never seen anything quite like him before.
“My name is Gretchen, I’m the facilitator of this solidarity
group. Welcome.” She offered a squat stubby hand with her index
finger extended. The little man palmed her fingertip in his hand and
shook it.
“Mikhail. Friends
call me Mishka. This is Celina, she’s my… uh…” he hesitated,
unsure of quite what to call her. He settled on, “a very dear
friend of mine.”
“I am here for
moral support,” Celina said, still looming over the table. She
placed a reassuring hand forward and caressed Mishka’s back with
the knuckle of her index finger. “He is shy.”
“Thank you for
coming. We were just about to start the meeting when you walked in.
I hope you’ll share a little more about yourself when we get to the
group sharing portion.”
With everyone
finally settled and in attendance, the 3rd August meeting
of the Malyenkiye People’s Solidarity Group began.