CRUTCHES

Sergei Volchenko

CRUTCHES

A STORY

"But I have to give these crutches back, I got them from our neighbour," my father said.

"What? Where are ours then?" I asked.

"I let someone have them."

"Who?"

"I let them have them a long time ago."

"Well, you have to take them back, you didn't give them away, did you?"

"No."

"Well then, you have to take them back . . ."

"Right, but they'll be taking your plaster cast off soon anyway . . ."

"In the first place, it won't be soon, and in the second place, why don't you want to take the crutches back? Who did you lend them to?"

"Sonya."

"Sonya Tauber?"

"Yes, her husband broke his leg."

"I don't understand how on earth you could borrow crutches from our neighbour instead of taking ours back from Tauber! I just don't understand that!"

"But our neighbour doesn't need his crutches right now, and Sonya's husband broke his leg . . ."

"But since I've broken mine too, and the crutches are ours, let them get some from somewhere else, not us, if they don't have any crutches and we do, we're not the ones who should get some, they should!"

"Well, what's the difference, if I got some from our neighbour and now everyone has crutches?"

"But we hardly even know that neighbour, do we, he only just moved in, it's awkward to borrow anything from him, but that's not the point, you took them, so okay, what I'm concerned about is something else, I wouldn't have started this conversation if I wasn't concerned about something else . . . do you ever intend to take our crutches back? Either now or later . . . But in principle?"

". . ."

"Right, I can see you've already decided to let them go, haven't you? I don't understand, what's wrong with you taking the crutches back? Well, what? Tell me, what's wrong with that? Not necessarily right now, but some time . . . And later on? What if we need them sometime in the future, anyone else could break a leg, and we'll have no crutches, and nowhere to get any from, they're not on sale . . . do you understand?"

My father doesn't answer. He dries his hands in the bathroom without saying anything. I go into the kitchen to join my grandmother, Granny Lena. She died a long time ago, but right now she's in the kitchen. When she was still alive, she didn't get on very well with my father, they didn't talk, so now, just like when she was alive, she doesn't interfere in the argument. She's humbly doing something in the kitchen. And right now, just like when she was alive, it's as if she has isolated herself from all kinds of hassles at home or at work with some kind of serene, benign auto-tuning.

"Granny Lena," I say forcefully, "tell me, am I right or not that we should take the crutches back?"

"It seems to me," Granny Lena says in a very benign, detached voice, without looking at me, so that I can only discern the back of her head – the hair dyed dark-reddish-brown and the benign, languid slant of the neck. "It seems to me that taking the crutches back right now wouldn't be right, after all," she says very calmly and politely, even timidly, trying not to upset anyone, "but later, when the invalid has recovered and he doesn't need crutches any longer, we can probably take them back, and it seems to me that you're right about that . . ."

"There, you see!" I say, walking back along the corridor to the bathroom. "Did you hear? Granny Lena thinks we should take the crutches back too! Not right now, it doesn't have to be right now, but when Sonya Tauber's husband has recovered! Any idiot can see there's nothing wrong with that! If you didn't give them away, that is . . ."

"No, I didn't give them away . . ."

"Well then, I can't understand what else you need to persuade you!"

However, I have a feeling that's growing clearer and clearer: it's not the crutches that matter to me, but changing my father's mind. Only why is that so important to me? Something about him irritates me, and I want to change it . . . There's something strange about him not wanting to take the crutches back . . . Somehow I find it terribly disconcerting. If he had given them away, there'd be nothing to talk about, only it's clear, isn't it, that he never intended to let them go for ever, but for some reason he doesn't want to take them back . . . why?

"Then you shouldn't have lent them, if you know you have a quirk like this! And if you lent them, you have to take them back, or you should have just given them away . . ."

"Right then, I'll give them away now," my father says in relief.

"But you didn't want to give them away! You wanted to lend the crutches, and then take them back, so take them back, what could be simpler? You just have to figure out quite clearly in your own mind whether they'll be offended if you take the crutches back, or not! No, they won't be offended, on the contrary, they'll be grateful that you helped them out like that. And that's all. Go and take them back, no pressure and no worries. And it's over. First you have to realise it's all right, then set it as your goal and make the effort to achieve it, although there's really nothing here that requires any effort . . ."

"Yes . . ." my father suddenly replies, lowering his eyes and walking out of the bathroom, and I can see that he has reached certainty about some decision. "Yes," he says, "but if you can't 'figure it out quite clearly in your own mind' and you can't 'realise it's all right" and you can't 'set it as your goal' then 'achieving it' and 'making the effort" are excruciatingly difficult and the result is a feeling of overwhelming weakness . . ."

"Oh, God!" I shout. "So you've decided to leave us without crutches forever! Right? Tell me, have you or haven't you? Then let's just give everything away, everything . . ."

But I'm shouting out of sheer inertia now. I don't want those crutches any more, I don't want to convert my father, since he'll have to force himself to do it, and in general to hell with all of it, damn the crutches and everything else in the world, as long as I don't destroy my father's certainty and force him to live and act the way everyone else lives and acts, if that gives him a feeling of weakness. Of course, I want him to feel that he has strength! I can sacrifice everything for that, absolutely everything, let alone some crutches or other . . . Of course, those crutches must remain with Tauber for ever. I never really did need them all that much, why did I insist like that? And suddenly I notice something that looks like crutches in the corner of the hallway . . . I pick them up – they're made of rushes, so of course it's impossible to support yourself on them – in fact there seems to be only one rush crutch, or rather, half of one. But even so I'm pleased that we do have at least half a crutch made out of rushes . . . and the next moment I see Sonya Tauber's husband; his fractures have metamorphosed into sheer horror: his legs and his spinal column are broken, they'll never knit back together – now he's chained to our crutches for ever . . .

—— * ——

Translated from the Russian by Andrew Bromfield