My Mama is still in a sour mood. Although I feel sorry for her, I don’t make any effort to lift her from her depression. Sometimes it’s useful to whine a little and spend some time alone. It’s impossible to feed yourself with nothing but sweets; life would become too saccharine. Bitter tears are a protection against diabetes.
No one interferes with my Mama’s grieving; classes are going on at the university, and during the morning hours the editor’s office is empty. This is the best time to work. Mama has a very important responsibility at the Energy newspaper: secretary in chief. I don’t know what people in this position do at other newspaper editors’ offices, but Mila is a copy editor, typist, layout artist and proofreader. On Wednesdays she has additional responsibilities dumped on her, and she has to hang out all day in the printing shop. This is called being „in charge of the issue.“ Fortunately, the printing shop is in the same building as the regional newspaper, Soviet Siberia. This setup works out well for Mama. On days when the latest issue is being published, she spends her free time in the correspondence department of Soviet Siberia conversing with Zina, the head of the department. Her conversations with her friend help the time go by faster.
Mama continues to be depressed, drawing meaningless circles on her paper. It’s best not to disturb her. Let her get used to the thought that there are two of us, and that we are a unified whole, an indissoluble bond: mother and son. I turn over – I’m not content lying on one side for too long – and like a true man, I assume a comfortable position. Now I can invite her into the conversation.
„Mama, talk to me,“ I ask affectionately, calculating that the brief pause has gone on for too long.
She seems to hear me, and she places her hands on her stomach; I feel the warmth of her hands and gratefully cling to the wall of my pool, enjoying the new sensations. I am in ecstasy; I have never felt so good before. „Mommy, I love you!“ I whisper enthusiastically, reveling in the heavenly pleasure.
The telephone rings shrilly. Mama jerks back her hand, grabs the receiver and raps out her words in a mechanical voice: „Editorial office.“
„Lyudmila Dominicovna, come to the party committee office.“