Among red carnations

      It was a rainy day — it had been drizzling since the night before. The platform was almost empty — no one wanted to get out of bed on a Saturday morning to get wet under the rain in search of adventure. I was sitting under the awning, waiting for the train that was about to arrive and take me away from the dusty, noisy city to the winter sea. The drops were falling loudly on the metal above my head and I listened, fascinated. It smelled of wet dust and greenery. There was almost no wind, but the cold damp air got under my jacket and sent shivers down my spine. I was too tired to walk, and the weather was too damp to sit.       Finally, barely audible buzzing, the train approached the platform. Its white, smooth flanks were wet and now reflected the surrounding world no worse than a mirror. I got up from the damp bench, stretched and headed for the train. The doors politely parted when they saw me. As soon as I entered, warm air enveloped my face, and then my body. I sat at the end of the carriage, by the window, and threw my backpack on the seat nearby. Apart from me, there were only three people in the carriage at the moment — a small, proudly ruffled, like a bullfinch, middle-aged woman in a voluminous jacket, a boy of about ten, constantly fidgeting and chirping, and a tall man in glasses, somewhat reminiscent of a heron. The glasses were constantly sliding down his long, hooked nose, and the man was constantly adjusting them. For some time I watched this bird family, but soon the remaining passengers began to enter the carriage. I glanced at them quickly, but they were all somehow gray and boring, like numerous wet pebbles on the rails.       Three minutes before departure, a young woman fluttered into the carriage, clicking her heels. In tune with all the other passengers, who seemed to be pulling things out of the closet at hazard, she was dressed in dark brown, perfectly pressed trousers and a knitted vest of the same color, over a yellowish shirt with a burgundy tie. Her damp, barely reaching the beige coat, hair curled, framing a tired, serious face with a pair of gray eyes. After a quick look around, she sat down diagonally from me, took a laptop out of her bag and immediately began to actively do something. I propped my head up with the hand — the only silent spectator, although it seemed that the other passengers had also become a little bit more quiet.       Sometimes, in bed, when I couldn’t sleep, I thought about the Perfect Woman. At first, I imagined what she was like? Tall or not that much? Maybe she had cloud-like curly hair that she wore in dreadlocks or hundreds of little braids. Or maybe long and golden, spilling over her shoulders. It was quite possible that she had brown eyes. But if brown, what kind of eyes? Hazel? Or closer to dark chocolate?              But soon I was getting tired of thinking about the appearance of the Perfect Woman. In general, it didn’t matter to me how much she weighed or whether she wore glasses. It was much more interesting to imagine what she, this ghostly Madonna, did. What songs did she listen to? What did she usually cook for dinner, and did she cook at all? What books were on her shelf? Maybe she cried. Or don’t Ideal Women cry? No, they probably cried, and even more than others. After all, it’s hard to be Ideal. And so I lay there, looking at the ceiling, against which a hazy but strikingly familiar portrait was taking shape. I watched this Ideal Woman buy greens, how she carefully styled her hair, no matter what color it was, how she sang along to the radio while sitting behind the wheel… and suddenly, I stopped feeling so lonely. It was nice to live knowing that somewhere on this ball, floating in cold and cruel space, there lived an Ideal Woman.       And now, unexpectedly, it seemed to me that her image intersected with the image of the woman sitting diagonally from me. I still don’t understand how the notebook ended up in front of me. I thoughtfully twirled the pencil in my hands, figured out how much time I had, and began. Within half an hour, the lined sheet blossomed with sketches. There she was, full-length, sitting, crossing her legs, typing something. Here is her face: lips pursed, hair falling on forehead, brows furrowed. And here she is up to the shoulders: head tiredly thrown back on the headrest. I compared the original with what lay before me and frowned. Undoubtedly, it was the same person. But on the sheet, she appeared as a fleeting snapshot of time, a frozen, lifeless copy. I did not know where the imprint of fatigue on her face came from, and it hung like a lifeless cloud on the sketch. I had no idea what she was doing, and her movements, caught in the drawing, lost their meaning. I saw her, but I could not feel her, and this made my soul feel lousy.       “Do you have a lighter?”       I shuddered. She stood opposite me, holding a cigarette in her thin fingers: her head slightly tilted to the left, her eyebrows raised in a silent question.       “It’s forbidden to smoke here,” I nodded towards the sign burning above the aisle. She followed my nod, sighed, took a shiny black cigarette case out of her pocket and stuck the cigarette inside, “And, in my opinion, you should quit smoking,” I added, “sorry.”       “For what?” the girl stared at me in surprise.       “For unsolicited advice,” I shrugged, “can I justify it with professional habit?”       She chuckled.       “And what is your profession?”       “A doctor. To be more specific, a pediatrician.       “And do you often advise children to quit smoking?”       Now I chuckled.       “Not really, but I often advise parents. Unfortunately, this bad habit causes more problems for a child than for an adult,” I shrugged, “and what about you?”       “I’m studying. To become a lawyer,” she smiled; her whole appearance expressing pride.       “Wow, that’s amazing,” I smiled back.       She glanced out the window with chalk, as if deciding whether to continue talking or leave, and then at the table. Her gaze lingered on the open notebook.       “Can I take a look?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer, took the notebook from the table, “were you the one who drew this?”       She ran her palm over the page and looked up at me with admiration. I smiled and spread my arms.       “Yes. I hope you don’t mind?”       She thought for a second, tapping her heel on the floor, and then shrugged.       “No, not at all. It turned out very beautifully,” she noted honestly.       “I had a very beautiful model,” I noted in response, “if you want, you can take the drawing.”       The girl crossed her arms over her chest, but nevertheless, there was a condescending smile on her face.       “Would you prefer compliments and advice, or will invite me for coffee?”       I laughed.       “Excuse my sluggishness. Would you like to have coffee with me?”

***

      I once wondered what would have happened if she had noticed the “no smoking” sign. Would we ever have met? I don’t think so. Too many cities, trains and roads would have been between us.       When we are sad for no reason, it is because we miss those whom we never met. Once, having chosen to go another way, you may not have run into someone you needed on the subway. Having changed the time of your trip, you must have been late for a meeting with someone important. God has his own plan, but sometimes he allows us to make mistakes in it. And so we don’t meet with those we should. And then, on long evenings we miss, not even knowing who.       When I came into the kitchen, Ellie was already having breakfast. Our schedules barely coincided — on weekdays, she already had classes at eight, and if Ellie stayed at my place, she had to get up at six. She left at seven and returned around nine, if she didn’t stay in the library. I only got up at seven (Ellie categorically rejected my sacrifice if I got up with her) — the clinic where I worked was close to home, so at eight I was already at work. At least we went to bed at about the same time — around midnight. I was drawing, and Ellie was studying. Some times she was falling asleep at the table so I was there to take her to bad. Only when she was sleeping her face took on an expression of some relaxation and ease, and I could notice the strokes of the childish features that still remained in her face. But on weekends, like today, if she didn’t run off to the library, we got up almost together. She sat on a chair, pulling one knee to her chest, and bathed in the rays of the winter, awakening sun, exposing her face to it. In time with the song unfamiliar to me, she tapped her teacup with one hand, and with the other she shook the unburned cigarette. I can’t convince her to quit smoking, so I just hid or threw away all the matches and lighter.       “Good morning,” I greeted. Ellie turned her gaze to me and nodded in response, “will you eat?”       “If you do”, she narrowed her eyes slyly. I shook my head.       “Do I have a choice?”       Ellie shrugged.       “Would you like some pancakes?” I asked, leaning on the kitchen table.       “With pleasure”, she answered with a cat-like contented smile.       Sometimes Ellie seemed like a star to me. You could see it, look how it shines — stretch out your hand and it’s in your palm: bright, hot, sparkling. And so I reach out, and it’s millions of light years away, and no matter how you run, no matter how you scream — you can’t touch it. That’s what Ellie was. With her, I seemed to be extremly understandable — an ordinary life, drawings, boring routine. Ellie strove for more, wanted to change the world, was the best in everything she did. And for some reason, she still was staying with me. Although I wouldn’t say that we lived together — I had half of her things, but she never moved out completely. She said that her one-room apartment was closer to the university, and sometimes she would not come home for several days. All those two years we spent together, I couldn’t even say for sure whether we were dating or not — we went out, slept in the same bed, but nevertheless, neither of us ever talked about a serious relationships. I once asked her if she wanted to marry me — Ellie looked at me with surprise, thoughtfully shook her head and said that maybe, but only when she graduated from university and started working. But that never happened. A few months before finishing her master’s degree, she suddenly disappeared. While I was at work, she packed her things, left a short note that she love someone else, and left. I called, looking for an explanation, but the number was unavailable. It was not so much offensive as disgusting. I did not understand why Ellie did not tell me personally, but left me like that, without an explanation. I would never have thought that it would be hard for me to live alone. The thought flashed through my mind that Ellie should have been more attentive to the damned signs on the trains, so as not to ruin the lives of passengers.

***

      I heard about her again only two and a half years later. My eye caught the news that the promising lawyer Eleanor Morgan died of brain cancer at the age of twenty-six. During her short career, she earned a good reputation and, they say, was preparing to open a firm with a partner to defend women in divorce. But her progressing illness did not allow her to do this. There, in the newspaper, was a photo of Ellie at a defense: straight posture, a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a black vest and trousers. She radiated confidence and pride in what she does. But I noticed the imprint of impending death on her face — a certain gloom that many would take for fatigue or seriousness. I cut out the photo and put it in a drawer — Ellie took all the our photos, except for those that I saved on my phone. I noticed with some shameful malice that nothing was mentioned about marriage — which means that nothing worked out with the guy to whom she so hastily ran away from me. I wondered — what is he like? And where is he now? Surely he also read the article and is now sitting and thinking about Ellie. Did he call her that too, or did he come up with another nickname? But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t provide one. Ellie never really talked about her family, and she kept quiet about her ex-partners. So I couldn’t imagine who she ran off to. If he was like me, then why did Ellie choose him? I wasn’t very handsome, but I had a pleasant appearance. Like many doctors, I took care of myself, didn’t have any bad habits, cooked well, and kept the house clean. I was kind to her and truly loved her. And if he was completely different, this new man of hers, then why was Ellie with me at all? Maybe she just didn’t think we were dating. But then she wouldn’t have disappeared so suddenly — she would have just said that she was now in a relationship and moved out with a clear conscience.       The questions were tormenting me for a couple more days, and then the fog cleared. On Tuesday, closer to evening, an elderly woman called and quietly introduced herself as Ellie’s mother. She said she was sorry she hadn’t called earlier, but she just couldn’t — she didn’t have the strength to talk about her daughter’s death again. I said something routine about how sorry I was and what a wonderful daughter she had. She said something even more routine and I felt awkward. It all felt like a circus, some kind of farce, and I couldn’t figure out why her mother was calling me.       “We were sorting through her things and found a box on which she wrote that it should be given to you after her death,” the woman finally explained, her voice shaking, “when would be convenient for you to pick it up?”       “Can I come right now?” I jumped up, glancing at my watch. I heard how women sighed.       “Yes, of course,” she agreed.       Half an hour later, I was standing hesitantly outside the apartment. All the zeal and desire to get the last thing left of Ellie was evaporating with every second. I wasn’t sure before ringing the bell, suppressing the desire to drop everything and run away, to block Ellie’s mother, to cross out everything that connected us once and for all. I don’t care what her family thinks. I have every right to disappear the same way she did.       But deep inside, a small curious child impatiently demanded to press the bell, take the box and open it right there. And I, gathering my strength, rang the bell.       The box contained everything I least expected: all our joint photos, postcards, cute little things made with my own hands… Ellie carefully put them in the box, covering it with a short letter. She did not apologize — she thought she was doing the best. Having learned about the illness and that there was no chance, Ellie decided that it would be better this way. She was afraid — afraid of dying soon, afraid of not having time to do anything worthwhile in life, afraid of things being left unfinished. But most of all, Ellie was afraid of hurting me, so instead of letting me watch her die slowly, Ellie decided to hurt me just once. She wanted me to hate her. And she didn’t apologize for it.       Drops were running down her face. It was a rainy day.