No, he was not suffering from amnesia or some memory loss, or even its weakening. On the contrary, he extremely enjoyed sifting through his recollections. Sometimes a small memory from faraway childhood would surface as a result of the exercise, become supplemented with a plot, conversations, people and even feelings he had once experienced, and together serve to restore the past up to the smallest detail in his memory.
But this was something different. In his life, the laws of reality had gotten mixed up, and so in order to remain true to himself and not go crazy he had to cling to all the memories, clearly divide his life and control himself and everything that was happening to him. In time, he managed to do just that, although it was extremely hard to live in this kind of fragmented existence.
Far below, struggling through the jumble of boulders, the Vycha River streamed noisily. This small but turbulent river, this place, held many childhood memories. Some thirty years ago, here, he spent his childhood years in the like company of delinquents.
* * *
“Robert, time to go home!” the stern voice of his mother, who stood where the taxi now idled, calling for her son echoed as a memory in his ears and sent a warm wave to his heart. “How many times do I need to call you?! Hurry up! Let’s go home!”
His mother, a short woman with long, raven hair, dressed in a pink dress and white sandals, stood on top of the hill near the road holding a red bike and waited for her son to collect his belongings and come up to her. The wind ruffled her dark curls, while she vainly tried to cover her eyes from the sun and tame her hair disheveled by the rush of wind.
Robert… Said with the emphasis on the final syllable, as the French would pronounce it. Only his mother called him like that. For others he was simply Robbie or Bobba, which Robert really did not like.
Robert would reluctantly but quickly get ready, go to his mom, and together they would go home, carrying the bike together.
This river was almost the only joy in summer for local kids, where they could do something useful and fun: fishing and swimming in its tumultuous waters. In summer the huge boulders perched on both banks of Vycha became watercolor paintings from the dozens of big and small woolen carpets local villagers laundered, leaving them flat against the stones to dry under the scorching rays of midday sun.