The Family Tree

****

The terrified, shrill wail of a plump cat—who already fully understood what was about to happen—was filled with despair and hopelessness. A stroll along the top of the old shelving unit had always been mundane and safe. Until tonight. The excessively fat striped body tilted the corner of the dusty bookcase, which, after a moment of hesitation, seemed to sigh, pulling the screaming Mitka down with it.

“Ah, you mangy parasite! You furry bastard, creeping vermin! What have you done, you hairy little hellspawn?!”

The owner, snapping out of his brief shock, jumped angrily over scattered books, trying to catch the animal darting across the apartment. Taking a wild turn, the cat skidded at the corner and disappeared into the dark sanctuary of the kitchen.

Spitting on the culprit for the midnight chaos, the man switched on the light and froze in the middle of the room, gloomily surveying the mess. Groaning and puffing, he set the now-empty shelving unit back in place and, muttering under his breath, began picking up and stacking the former contents of the shelves.

The books were old but solid. The youngest had witnessed the USSR, while their older counterparts had been printed even before the Revolution. Soviet classics, encyclopedias, foreign detective novels, a venereologist’s reference, a stack of Strugatskys, Byron, Greek myths, and old “Lives of the Saints” were methodically restored to their places, stirring equally dusty memories of a distant childhood when this bookcase had been a massive Everest holding marvelous treasures.

A “Beekeeper’s Guide” spilled a few ten-ruble bills with the profile of the Leader. Ah, so Grandma had really made a fuss at Grandpa almost thirty years ago, accusing him of stealing the family stash. *The Adventures of Nils with the Wild Geese*, with a touching inscription on the yellowed cover: “To dear Seryozhenka on his birthday from Grandma and Grandpa.” The dust made his eyes sting slightly.

But an elongated gray book, two palms thick, seemed unfamiliar. Tightly bound in grimy burlap, it evoked disgust, as if it had been dug out of a cesspit rather than Grandpa’s bookshelf. Sergey turned the find in his hands and opened the first page. On the thin, slightly yellowed paper was the handsome profile of a middle-aged man, followed by an image of a newborn frozen in a silent scream, another child, and another. Portraits of two twin women, then a man, and again couples of all ages, oddly dressed as in centuries-old paintings. The artist was clearly the same; all portraits shared style and color. By the middle of the notebook, clothing and headwear became more modern. A young man with a heavy jaw and a wide-brimmed hat looked familiar to Sergey, while the next page revealed a neatly groomed old man in a WWII-era tunic—completely recognizable. Grandpa Petro, the veteran and long-liver, was Sergey’s great-grandfather.

Flipping through, the great-grandson, a retired military officer, was almost certain he would see Grandma and Grandpa next. They smiled faintly, looking at each other from neighboring pages.

And there was his father. As usual, raising one eyebrow, he seemed unreservedly surprised at the grimy corner of the worn cover. Less than a year had passed since his death…

Disobedient fingers struggled to turn the page. The final portrait. Light stubble, a shallow scratch under the left eye, polo shirt. Next to him, a boy of about ten rested his tousled head on his shoulder. On the slightly oversized t-shirt with a maritime anchor, one could read the inscription “Welcome to Crimea”—exactly the same one he had bought his son during a summer vacation.

Fear slowly rose from somewhere in his chest, numbing his limbs and blurring his vision. The notebook slipped from Sergey’s weakening hands. The last thing he remembered was the unpleasant burning near his left eye from hitting the back of the child’s bed.

“Volkonsky, have you been drinking?” A piercing female voice pulled him from his semi-comatose state.

Sunlight poured into the room, illuminating the aftermath of the night’s chaos and Sergey’s still body with the gray book in hand. With a single motion, he rose and scrambled to explain to his wife, visiting from her parents, what her fluffy pet had done and how he had nostalgically lost himself in the old printed volumes.

Sniffing skeptically, his wife calmed down, then immediately panicked again.

“Tyomka hasn’t stopped all the way! You promised him carousels today! Up, up, everyone, come on! Ty-yo-yo-yo-m-ka!”

From the kitchen burst the son, smeared with jelly, joyfully running circles around his still-stunned father.

While the head of the family hurriedly restored the remaining books to the shelves, his wife, equally hurried, ironed fresh shirts for the Sunday trip to the park.

“Here, get dressed!” Polos with the Lacoste logo and the white-and-blue t-shirt calling for sunny Crimea flew onto the couch.

“Marin… we’re not going anywhere!”

Sergey bravely withstood his son’s tears and wife’s shouts, but flatly refused to keep his promise. Citing an upset stomach, he locked himself in the bathroom until evening and stared, entranced, at the final illustration in the worn notebook.

A quiet knock at the door and his wife’s timid voice drew Sergey from his half-comatose state.

“Seryozhenka… please open the door.”

Not understanding what had prompted such a sudden change in her mood, he obediently went to the room and was seated in front of the television.

On the screen, a concerned local news anchor stood against a backdrop of twisted metal, with ambulances arriving one after another.

“Today, at Sverdlov Park, a tragedy occurred. Around 2:00 p.m. local time, the Ferris wheel collapsed, taking down several adjacent rides and crashing into the underground parking floor. Number of casualties…”

Marina, unable to hold back, wept and threw herself into her husband’s arms. Comforting him, Sergey secretly opened the nameless book to the last page. The blank sheet, unevenly yellowed, crunched under his nervous fingers. Only the portrait of his father, as if with relief, gazed at the empty page.