# Weekend in Peredelkino

Ольга Слободкина

Olga Slobodkina-von Bromssen


THE WRITERS' HOME


And only now

do I appreciate those years

when writers came to stay here...


We got together in the dining-hall

to scatter later all around our rooms.


Those evenings in the dining-hall...,

for which you had to dress

(not to the nines - no evening dresses,

morning suites and all - no, not at all.

They were creative people -

that strange community of writers),


I mean to dress at least to feel so smart.


I thought I did not need them,

those Soviet writers,

those Sovietiques,

Homo Sovieticus...


But now that they are gone,

this mystic place,

this former Writers' Home

becoming so commercial and eerie,


I see the difference...


The dining-hall is all about three tables,

a fancy restaurant on the terrace

where the rich

or nearly the rich

are celebrating their age.


And here the TV's yelling in your ear

about all the problems

you yearned to leave behind so much,

for which you paid a lot of money.


Nobody talks about literature or arts.

Nobody looks at you.

Nobody tells you are talented,

but arrogant,

derisive,

selfish,


that you ignore their company,

that you should urgently give them away

the rare copies of your rare book -

hand-written, book of an artist,

just because they want it.


Now gloomy people eat

without even saying "Hello",

without even smiling at each other,

without even talking.


And when they do disperse around their rooms

I feel they're doing anything, but writing...


That writing of those writers of the past

inspired me, although they couldn't imagine.


Now... I am missing them,

that time,

the past...


and actually only three years ago...

but they have made the change.


Oct.13, 2005


* * *


And yet

these lonely alleys with dry leaves and lanterns

both festive and mysterious,

fresh air,

October chills

getting you ready for colds

and stars - so high above, higher than trees,

and Mozart playing in my head...


Oct. 13, 2005


* * *


`t was raining the whole of last night...

I woke up to listen

to those rhythmic pours,

intensive like opera choirs.


And in the morning

sunshine came by

`s if summer is back

and I'm little again

and those who are gone

have returned...


The Magic is here.


Or maybe I've died

to wake up for the New

More Perfect and Beautiful Life...


Oct.14,2005