There is a meme, “I am more into humanities.” Now then, I am more into humanities. My relationship with Math turned sour early on. I would memorize the multiplication table unenthusiastically and forget it promptly, I would solve some kinds of equations as I saw fit and finally, in my senior school years, I reached a steady stagnation phase in my Math development. I still do not get why you cannot divide by zero… do not bother trying to explain it to me! I know you cannot, but I, for some reason, still think that you can divide by zero… sometimes.
So, Valentina Feodorovna K. became my fourth grade Math and homeroom teacher. A stately woman, dark-eyed, with dark voluminous curls… She was about fifty years of age by then. No doubt, Valentina Feodorovna immediately became aware of my mathematical ineptitude. But one must do her credit that she instantly discovered my talents in another area: I was adept at arranging the school’s wall-newspaper and doing all kinds of amateur art projects, which I adorned with self-penned verses. We began to swap services with her: anytime our homeroom class held pride of place at various amateur art fests, I would, in turn, receive decent marks in Math.
A Komsomol leader in her youth, in her adult years Valentina Fedorovna also loved to moralize and talk about life’s collisions. She would usually use our homeroom periods to rant on such topics. It happened occasionally that Valentina Feodorovna digressed on unrelated topics during our lessons. I remember how I was once impressed by the story of unlucky love. I should specify: it was her love story. This concise narration was shared with us in the wake of someone’s love note intercepted and made public by our school’s PE teacher:
“You know, children, when I was as young as you are now, I had a fancy for a boy, my next door neighbor. To be more precise, I was quite smitten with him. I really wanted to somehow give him an indication of my feelings. But I dared not do it. After graduation, he left to study somewhere else. He got married and had children. I also got married to a military man, we had children and for a long time I had traveled with my husband to different military posts. And then, seven years ago, when our family had settled back in our hometown, I ran across my first love sitting on a bench in front of the house. He was rocking his grandson in the stroller. Well, it was ancient history, so I came up and said: ‘Did you have any idea that, growing up, I was really smitten with you?’ He almost burst into tears and replied that he also loved me, but was afraid even to come close: he thought I was too good for him. So, children… Be in a hurry to express your sincere feelings while you are still young. Do not put it off. Life is too short.”
It is unlikely someone in our class contemplated the problem of life at the time: everyone began to whisper, excited to get a break from resolving math problems, and I was the only who asked our teacher:
“What happened afterwards with your love?”
To that, Valentina Feodorovna replied:
“Nothing. Life went on.”
I should specify why I was really impressed with her story: beginning in the third grade, I was taken with the son of my mother’s friend, who sometimes visited us and helped me to solve math problems that were too overwhelming for my brain.
When I was in the seventh grade, my parents transferred me to another school, where the level of my math knowledge has become too obvious for all to see. Trailing behind with Ds and Cs, I managed to limp as far as the post-reform tenth grade, when I received a heartfelt assurance from the school administration and my Math teacher that I was not to pass my final exam in the eleventh grade.
Contemplating whether to drop out of school or disappear from society by losing another year, I was strolling pensively along the avenue, looking down.
Someone touched my hand:
“Oksana! How are you doing?”
I lifted my head and saw Valentina Feodorovna’s dark eyes staring at me. Upon finding out that I was not doing too well, she immediately suggested:
“Come visit me. I live alone: my husband died and my children live separately. Write down my address. Come twice a week after 6 pm. Let’s say, on Tuesday and Thursday, can you?”
At the time, tutoring was not so widely popular, but I assumed that Valentina Feodorovna’s zeal had to be compensated by me or my parents, yet, we had no money, so I hesitated to tell her anything.
“I am not going to take any money from you, Oksana. It is my fault: I have been too lenient with you. Come, please. Tomorrow, OK? I will wait for you. We will talk then. I have to go now.”
“OK,” I replied, as if in slow-motion.
Throughout the school year before graduation exams, I came to Valentina Feodorovna’s place. It was the early nineties and food was scarce. She would feed me and give me tea. She would show me the chicks that incubated in her home and their “pasture” inside her bathtub. And between this and that, there was a math lesson. I passed my exam on this wretched subject and received a B.
I passed my exam on this wretched subject and received a B
Almost twenty years have passed since then. I found success in the field of Arts and Humanities. I would occasionally call up Valentina Feodorovna, greeting her with the New Year and Teacher’s Day.
During one such call I asked her:
“May I see you?”
“At my home, yes,” my teacher agreed. “I cannot at any other location.”
“May I stop by tomorrow?”
“All right. The only thing is… if it takes me too long to open the door for you, wait for me: I walk slowly. But, maybe my daughter will be at home at the time, and she will help. But do come, by all means!”
The next day, I was standing by the doors to Valentina Feodorovna’s place for one and a half hours. I heard some rustling sounds inside her flat and sometimes I heard her exclaiming, “Wait for me! For just another moment!”—so I kept waiting for her.
Finally, the door opened, and in front of me appeared my teacher dressed in a snow-white nightgown.
“Oksana! Help me get back to the bed now.”
It turned out that Valentina Feodorovna was bedridden for the last six months. She was bedridden! I learned about it from her daughter later, who was in utter shock from the fact that her mother could have fallen, hit her head, lost consciousness, and so on.
But for now, in bewilderment, I helped my teacher get back to her bed and sat down on the chair nearby. We chatted for an hour. As it turned out, her daughter and a social worker come to see Valentina Feodorovna, she feels quite weak, but she is happy she has retained a working memory.
We reminisced. Then, I suddenly asked her:
“Do you remember, Valentina Feodorovna, when we were in the fourth grade and you shared a story of your first love. You know, that story turned out to be prophetic. I was smitten by one boy at the time. Like you, I was also afraid to tell him that I liked him. But now, I have a husband and children, and he has family, too. It seems that everything is all right, but at times, it seems like something has passed by and the only reason for that is that you have failed to say something really important.”
“Yes… Things happen. He is still alive, my first love, he is still my next door neighbor. Though shakily, he is still walking.”
An hour later Valentina Feodorovna’s daughter came, explained the whole situation about her, wrote down my telephone number, and closed the door after me.
And then, two weeks later, Svetlana called to tell me that her mother had died.
Her funeral did not attract crowds: it had been a long while since Valentina Feodorovna had left the field of school education.
She had a church funeral. The deceased looked really pale and unimaginably thin. Meanwhile, at our last meeting, Valentina Feodorovna seemed even slightly on the heavy side. After the priest offered his eulogy and others also came up to bid farewell to the deceased, an old man with a walking stick approached the coffin. Trying to manage a bout of tremors, he stood there gazing at the face of the deceased, the unruly lock of white hair peeking from under her head scarf, her withered body, then shook his head and left. I heard how one of the old women standing nearby told him with her rattling voice:
“So, do you not recognize your Valentina?”
“No, I do not,” the old man sobbed and shook his head. “I just cannot believe it is her.”
“It is her, for sure! And how much you loved her! Everyone knew about it.”
“Well, now… We will meet up there. Not long now.”
And the old man hobbled away, refusing to come to the cemetery.
Exam
“What is our life? A game!” sang Herman from Tchaikovsky’s opera “The Queen of Spades” (mind you, The Queen… was written by Pushkin). The saying stuck and became an idiom, and even in our days we can often hear people saying that life is but a game… As for me, I think that life is a never-ending exam, or a set of many exams. Some of them are probably the finals, whereas others are midterms.
The majority of the population assumes that exams are limited strictly to schoolchildren and college students. They are code-named these days: “OGE,” “EGE,” “GIA.”1 Moms and dads who trail behind progress are illuminated about the meaning of these three-letter abbreviations at parent-teacher conferences. Last week, I was also a participant of one such meeting in the class of my eldest son Mikhail. Like all ninth-graders, he should also pass OGE, the basic state examination.
The meeting opened like in Gogol’s The Government Inspector: the homeroom teacher Elvira Vladislavovna announced with a mournful expression:
“Dear parents, we are to pass OGE!”
The parents began to feel kind of sick.
Having noticed her announcement had produced the desired effect, Elvira Vladislavovna cheerfully recited the list of students, named the dates and the turnout points. Every exam was supposed to be held at a different school. The parents were to deliver there a supply of bottled water, cups, and black gel pens. No, not blue, and not the ballpoint pens, nothing but black gel pens! Every student was to be given such a pen and God forbid he produced some writing implement of his own! The calculators, where they are allowed, should be removed gradually, without any sharp movements, so that—God forbid!—the exam organizers assumed it was a cell phone. Using a cell phone meant a sentence without parole. It is like carrying a weapon at a place where it is strictly punishable by law. If you need to go to the bathroom, you can only do it under escort. There are surveillance cameras in the classrooms and hallways. All entrances and exits are secured, the unused rooms are sealed. The only way to enter and exit the building is by using the key pass. OGE lasts anywhere between two and four hours, depending on the subject. You cannot have a wrapped candy—God forbid!—what if you wrote down a crib on its wrapper with a chemistry syllabus for the last two years of learning? And yes, it is better not to eat anything before the exam. There were instances of diarrhea among students because of nervousness. So, it is better for them to stay hungry longer. Just for half-a-day. But you, parents, have no reason to worry: we, teachers, were preparing your children for OGE all year long, they did learn at least something…
Vasia Shilov’s mom, who was seated to the right from me during the meeting, sighed and took two pills. Her son, who studied all year long personally with her and with tutors, got an “F” for the last, fourth, mock OGE exam in Russian.
My son received all kinds of results for his mock exams (in other words: it is an exam to show your readiness for the exam). He got a “D” for one exam and an “A” for another. He received an “A” when he chose random answers for the last few questions and they turned out to be correct. Therefore, in the case of my offspring, there was a certain kind of ambiguity.
I got in the shower after I returned home from the parent-teacher conference. It is the best place to do some reflecting. Later on, dressed in a bath robe, with my head wrapped in a towel, I entered my son’s room. He was busy arranging toy soldiers on the table for his younger brother.
“Mishutka, sweetie,” I suddenly addressed my oldest.
Mikhail looked at me quizzically.
“Sunshine,” I continued, “you know, don’t you ever worry about that OGE! It is not the end of the world, after all.”
And, after nestling my face in my son’s shoulder, I added:
“I love you. That is the main thing.”
