''Procyon ! Procyon !''

By Igor A. Bagrov

Procyon! Procyon! is a life story of a man born in a Communist country, the story of his struggle for his rights, the story of searching for his social, sexual and spiritual identity.
It is about any human being challenged by the rigid rules and regulations of society; it is about friendship, betrayal, love, hope

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 12, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462828999

Igor A. Bagrov

Mr. HuiChun Chen, a successful businessman, proud father, and happy husband, finds fulfilment in writing poetry. Mr. Stan Xiao is a talented English-speaking Chinese translator who lives in Taiwan. Mr. Alyosha Chen applied his many skills—translator, editor, and designer—to this project. Dr. Igor A. Bagrov, an ambitious American educator in Taiwan, is currently working on his Bilingual Books Library (BBL).

Book preview

1

THE BIRTH OF A CANCERIAN

He had the misfortune of being born in a Communist country gasping for freedom; in an overpopulated city gasping for clean air; in a shabby flat gasping for space; with the poor parents, one of whom was a nightmarish bull of an alcoholic, the other, a post-war flapper, who had as much family responsibility as a cuckoo after its mating season. They deserve just to be mentioned in passing because very soon they will disappear without any visible trace, both from our story and from the life of our protagonist. But not from his heart: for the rest of his life, he would keep a deep-rooted antipathy to and distrust in anyone, who, at least, physically, resembled an adult.

He came into this world easily and naturally, without the much anticipated agony (both mental and physical) on the part of his mother; without the ever-present cheerful chorus of the innumerable well-wishing relatives, who would normally, bursting with enthusiasm, cuddle the newly-born to extinction; without the almost inevitable supply of toys, large enough to keep a hundred toddlers busy at least for a decade.

The times were rough, the toys scarce.

When Nicky (we shall leave behind the scenes the bloody feud among the relatives over the name for the poor, unsuspecting boy) announced his arrival in this turbulent and, even without him, noisy and pretty much overpopulated world, the only comment he could hear (but, of course, not keep in his little brain) was that of his mother’s, Oh, a boy! Ugly but clean! Had he been able to understand this not very complimentary remark, he would have probably demanded the return ticket without delay. But, naïve and oblivious of the treachery in the world of adults, he just squeaked his first, totally undecipherable Hello to the world and was carried away by the charming, but uncompromising nurse. Interestingly enough, in his later years, he was inexplicably drawn, both physically and sensually, to nurses—whenever and wherever he could find one in his immediate surrounding.

But in those blessed days he could not, of course, imagine that Providence (or whatever the appropriate term one could find) would put him to trial right away. When the happy young mother was finally discharged from the Maternity Home (a big name for a squalid dump of a place) and very briefly instructed how to handle a baby, she realized, in a couple of days, that her offspring, though showing a very convincing sucking reflex, was losing weight and growing weaker and weaker. In panic, she rushed to a doctor and brought him home. To his horror, she placed before him the already breathless child. Nicky’s fingernails grew bluish, his stare was now fixed. And, as a final gruesome gesture of farewell to this world, he emptied his bowels with the decisive finality.

There was nothing to be done. The child was no longer alive.

There appeared a nun to read the prayer over the deceased (of course, the country and all its ideologically mature citizens were atheists, but the religious opium for people was so very difficult to uproot; besides, the forbidden fruit is the sweetest, isn’t it? And still, there was some compassion in the then, not so darkened with consumerism and greed, hearts of people; so when all convents were closed down by the caring authorities, and the nuns were left with no shelter or any means of survival, many were just saved by simple people, who would take this or that nun home and feed her out of their meagre budget.) So, while Theodora (that was the name of the nun in our story) was solemnly reading, asking the Almighty to accept the departed soul of the innocent baby Nicholas, the latter’s eyes blinked, his tiny legs jerked, he breathed and… returned to life. Talk about miracles after this!

Don’t you forget that those were the times of complete and impenetrable ignorance, as far as the child breeding was concerned? Forget about young mothers’ counseling or enlightenment through more or less comprehensible medical literature. Forget about those delicious mixtures for babies; forget about vitamin and mineral supplements. The above luxuries were just either non-existent or beyond any possible reach of common people (and still are—because of the soaring prices—in the presumably post-Communist era countries, as the die-hard pessimist, nestling cozily in my heart, suggests).

Breast-feeding was the one and only source of nutrition for the future builders of Communism, and, if a mother had no milk, a child was in trouble. Nicky’s mother had none, not a drop, but in her most charming, but unforgivable naiveté, she did not even consider this possibility: her sonny sucked her breast most energetically, at the right intervals, prescribed by the doctor. What was there to worry about? Of course, she noticed that from hour to hour he got weaker, his bassy demands for the next meal became more and more feeble, finally diminishing to a mouseling’s squeak. Of course, she was concerned, but what could one do?

The times were rough, food scarce.

Besides, there was a long-standing tradition in that country to regard Death as a savior of the poor (indeed, what future could a child from a poor family expect?), putting an end to the suffering and other slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune. Of course, under Communism, the slings and arrows awaited only those stubborn and hostile elements, who refused to believe in the total and complete victory of the Marx-Lenin-Stalin-Mao teachings (can you possibly think of a more gruesome and unimaginably mismatched bunch of names? Yet, in History, they march along hand-in-hand).

By the time of our narration, all the hostile inner enemies of the State (most obviously, spies and provocateurs from the decaying West) were comfortably done away with, but the slings and arrows were kept in place, still at the ready, just in case… Getting back to our miraculously saved hero: after returning to life, he demanded food! The only edible substance at hand was pure, fresh, absolutely unpasteurized cow milk, which his elated parents had begged from the neighbours, who kept a cow (the blessed times! A cow, in a city!) And the precious milk was fed to the poor Nicky (after all, one dies only once!) Another miracle, the boy not only survived this barbaric diet, but seemed to enjoy it, thus, putting to shame all modern medical science.

In short, Nicky scrambled out of his first trouble, miraculously unscathed, with all his faculties intact.

But more grievances were in store for him. In a few short years (which seemed eternity to the little boy) he got infected with malaria (how and when, still remains a mystery), the disease considered defeated long time ago, at least in Europe. Anyway, poor Nicky was running high temperature, the merciless fever draining life out of him every evening. Quinine, the world most popular panacea against this affliction was, of course, nowhere to be found in the country, or, at least, it was reserved for the Party elite and not for the rank-and-file builders of Communism. (Even the simple medicine was distributed according to one’s hierarchic contribution to the Great Cause). So, the poor child was treated with the unspeakably harmful, if not murderous, chemical concoction, which, within a relatively short period of time, made his liver look like that of a hopeless alcoholic.

At that time he started having very strange dreams. Of course, the easiest explanation was his feverish condition and high temperature…

2

SWEET DREAMS, BABY

He could not wait for the night to come. Like in a bad dream, he dutifully fulfilled his daily routine prescribed by the adults: the ordeal of getting up, brushing his teeth (but why bother? They are falling out, all the same, and, as the adults say, the new ones will grow to be even better and stronger and whiter); the inevitable cereals, toast and tea (he would unwaveringly swap them all for another hour of sleep); the moralizing talk from his Granny (she’d better skip this part and start reading aloud his favourite Robinson Crusoe right away); finally, the reading itself,—the long-awaited treat—mesmerizing and captivating (he wondered, if living on a desert island all by himself was fun or torture. What would he do had he been in Robinson’s shoes? Or should he say, boots?), challenging his mind and heart, promising the unthinkable adventures in his own life…

Then followed a couple of visits from the relatives (Oh, Nina, things get from bad to worse… Prices soar… My brats get out of hand… You are lucky to have such a quiet boy… Any word from his mother?). The last remark would invariably be presented in a dramatic whisper, too theatrical to conceal, too emotional to be sincere. The boy just cringed in his corner, pretending, as much as he could, to be preoccupied with building a castle out of wooden painted blocks.

Then there came lunchtime with its tasteless soup and unchewable (especially with his old baby teeth) steak with spaghetti. His Granny was not much of a cook, and their budget did not leave them much choice.

Then the torture would start. First, the never-ending fight against an afternoon nap, on which his Granny invariably insisted (out of sheer stubbornness, as the boy reckoned). He would cry, yell, kick away the cover his Granny would hold at the ready to envelope him into submissiveness. The result was always one and the same: the boy would lose the battle and would finally succumb to the old lady’s persuasion (a queer mixture of threats and flattery) and would drift away into the realm of his dreams. But funny, they were so different from his night visions, or, rather, encounters, and when he woke up, he never remembered them. They did not matter, after all. He was just patiently (as far as his patience could stretch) waiting for the night to come.

After his nap he was supposed to brace up and expect the worst in the day—his drunk father’s visit. The man never cared to remember he had a son, when he was sober, but his affection for his offspring grew proportionally to the amount of strong spirits consumed. Then he would barge into his mother-in-law’s little flat, grab the boy unceremoniously, kiss him with vodka-and-tobacco-reeking kisses, hug him with a bone-crushing hug, and demand—if he were able to pronounce words distinctly enough—the love vows from the boy. Casting a sideways glance at his almost paralyzed with fear Granny, the boy would mumble the required passwords, writhing with rage and despair, hating his little and weak body, and would be released. Sometimes, his torturer would not be convinced by the lukewarm words of love from his one and only son, and the rage of the drunken bully would turn to the old woman, hitting her verbally and, sometimes, physically.

Then, as usual, fed up with the noise and shouts, there would come the people next door, threaten the drunkard with the Police or just kick him out into the street, if there were enough strong men around. The boy was eternally thankful to the neighbours, but also humiliated beyond words: it was his duty to protect his home from the drunken gate-crasher; it was his duty to stand tall and strong to defend his Granny, whose agony he helplessly witnessed and which only added to his suffering.

But today he seemed to be spared… Night was falling, his beloved night, his time of the treasured encounters, of the heavenly quiet and cheering talks. Talks? But not a single word was uttered… And was there much to remember? He could not tell, when the strange (to the adults, should they get to know about it), and unspeakably heart-warming (for him) visitations (though, he was not sure, whether it was the correct word to describe his experience) started. A few days ago (or was it a few weeks?) he had a very unusual dream, or what he thought was a dream. There appeared several people around his bed, men and women, seemingly, in blood and flesh, but at the same time, kind of transparent. They leaned over his bed and smiled at him the way no one smiled before. Their smiles said love, their smiles said peace, their smiles said, Be strong! We are with you and we shall be with you till the end of time. What you think to be life is but a dream, a nasty dream; the real life is now, with us. And it is yours forever. When you wake up into your bad dream again, do not forget us. Our love will always be with you, while you are there. But then, one day, we shall unite and be together. Strange enough, he did not hear them utter any words; he just knew they said them. He felt so happy and relieved, as if all his tears, all his troubles, all his unhappy childhood dissolved in the sea of LOVE, in which he was now carefully immersed by the strange people.

After that first night, he refused to believe in the reality of what had happened; he just dismissed it as a happy dream. Of course, he never told a living soul about it. For some reason, he knew, he should keep it secret. Why? He could not explain it; he just knew it should be that way.

The second time transparent people came to him a few nights after. The same feeling of heavenly quiet and security came over him. He breathed deeply, and the air never seemed so fresh and fragrant. The people again stood leaning over his little bed, smiling, sending him their love, so tangible, so real that he already believed: everything in his life would be all right. Their love let him soar as if on strong wings above all sorrows and misfortunes, above all daily routine petty squabbles, fights, misunderstandings, above poverty and needs, above boredom and loneliness. And he knew they knew his life, though he never said a word about his divorced parents (of his mother seeking happiness with another man, and of his father, drowning his dignity and decency in wine), about his Granny, who tried her utmost to raise the boy, but who knew nothing of how to do it, about books he adored and friends he could only dream of. They knew it all!

On the third night, he was so confident as to ask them questions. And again, they were the unuttered questions; they came just right from his heart, and the transparent people somehow knew them already. They answered in the same way: the boy just got to know the answers. He never asked stupid questions, like who are you? or where do you come from? He instinctively felt, it was immaterial. What really mattered was how to get back to his monotonous reality after knowing them, talking to them, and should he really get back? What was the purpose of his returning to his bad dream life?

The next time he saw them, he told them openly that he did not want to get back to his daily routine; he just saw no point in it, so why couldn’t they take him with them now. The people just smiled and he understood that his time did not come yet. Patience, my dear, patience…

All right, he would be patient, he would do all little things prescribed by the adults, no matter, how ridiculous or absurd they might be, and he would just wait, wait for every precious night, for every priceless moment he would spend with those wonderful transparent people, who nourished him with love, understanding, comfort…

Are you all right, dear? his Granny asked him yesterday.

Fit as a fiddle, he smiled, showing his already incomplete set of baby teeth.

Too quiet… this is unusual, mused the old lady, shaking her head suspiciously.

Her grandson stopped quarrelling with her over food and afternoon naps. But the most surprising thing was, when his father came to visit them last time, blind drunk, as always, the boy did not try to seek shelter in a faraway corner, but stepped toward his tormentor, looked him right in the eye and… smiled. There was something so unusual, even frightening in that unblinking stare and the smile of resentful understanding that the drunkard seemed to have sobered up instantly; he just muttered something and retreated! Granny was impressed beyond words and thanked God for this unexpected resolution. The boy just resumed playing with his toy cars and trucks, without a word, without any comment, as if nothing had happened.

Today was a good day: no fights, no squabbles, no boring moralizing lectures. The boy lay in his bed with his eyes closed, waiting for his miracle to show up. But he could not sleep for some reason. Then, all of a sudden, he thought—and that was a hair-raising half-realization and half-question—what if his transparent people would NEVER come again? Why did this thought appear in his mind? What happened? He felt he was changing; he could not tell exactly what it was, but he felt different. He sat up in his bed, trying to shoo away the premonition. How could he live without them now? What is his life, but a bad dream, as they said? So, why should he carry on this absurd routine? For whose sake?

The answers came almost immediately, and again, not in clear and distinct words, but as a revelation, as a flash in his brain:

If you have learnt something, pass it on to others.

But I am just a little boy, I can’t… who will listen to me?

Just do it. Whether they will listen or not is none of your responsibility. Just do what you can.

But I am weak, my knowledge is so little, I can’t…

No, you can, and you must. This is what your bad dream is about: about teaching and learning, about bearing each other’s burdens, about compassion and—if you grow strong enough—love. Now you know what love is, don’t you?

"But didn’t you promise me the real life after I wake