Marble Rubik's Cube

 

Shashka. She read the sign carefully, sipping from a mug that smelled of swill. She always came here, regardless of the season, whether it was windy or hot. There was plenty of room—no one came in. Unless it was when she was at school or university. A Money Laundry—that's what it should be called. But the sign on the door bore the magnificent inscription—BAR and Coca-Cola, as if the two things had anything in common. Well, they don't—as she claimed. It once occurred to her that maybe they weren't closing this BAR just because of her. But did people who had money to launder in Money Laundries use the word "sentiment" in their mental vocabulary? She didn't know. And she sincerely doubted it.

So this sign, strange because strange, appeared somehow. Suddenly. She liked everything that resembled her. And she was also suddenly. "Shashka"—someone had written on the window, beautifully, skillfully, from the inside, but in such a way that it could be read from the street. But not only from the street—sitting on one of the lavish sofas at the Laundromat. Why did the mug she held in her hand, though probably expensive, stink unbearably, like the usual stench of a dishwasher when it's finished, and the kitchen at an orphanage?

Moments passed, like time—naturally. Sometimes an impression proves true if we try to hold on to it. This proved extremely true. For a moment, she didn't even know where she was, and it wouldn't have occurred to her to remember anything about the unusual inscription she'd just noticed. Someone was moving behind—naturally, it was the window of some display. Although she always stayed at the Laundromat for about ten minutes, today she was there for only two. Two full minutes, in which the pensive, busty waitress had managed to serve her tea in a mug that smelled of slop, she had managed to sit where she always sits, lose touch with reality, and then come back to it to notice something incredible. Namely, the inscription "Szashka" on a spotless window. A window that hadn't been there before. Or at least, she hadn't noticed it, even though she always sat in the same place, at the same table, at the same time. It was true that she came here only to lose touch with reality for half an hour. But today, nothing of the sort – reality spoke to her in a booming voice, calling for order. Strangest of all, she gathered herself within a minute, even though it ALWAYS took her at least fifteen minutes. Coat or no coat, try to gather up the two dozen sheets of paper covered with clumsy sketches that loved to spread lazily across the table (150x50), much to the amusement of the busty waitress, who, for lack of anything to say, stared blankly at the faces of people brutally summoned by black pencil onto a white sheet of paper.

Yeah. This time, the cards, like well-behaved children upon hearing of a piece of candy, slipped into their owner's hand and marched with her to the enormous briefcase. The tea also somehow set itself aside, though it usually liked to spill, stain, and get angry at everything around it. She left.

The street was cold. The cold air hit her too, even though it was May. They say there were three gardeners, apparently. She laughed to herself, poor gardeners, their fruit will freeze. And do they have a dog? And so, playing with her own thoughts, she abandoned her Laundry, even though she wasn't attached to it. That day, the waitress cried into her friend's phone, and when a tear fell on the number 0 (she had a rotary phone—an old one, but a good one, the Laundry, which didn't let its employees earn money), she remembered, quite casually, "THE GIRL WHO DRAWS," even though that memory had nothing to do with her tragedies. Well, maybe only that it was tragic too. She didn't look back once that day.

The window was only a few steps away. The sky had turned black. Or maybe it already was? She didn't know, she was too captivated by the inscription. The inscription, the inscription. It was so close she wanted to touch it. She didn't realize she'd never even desired something so strongly. Emotions usually gave her a wide berth. She'd never experienced love, infatuation, tragedy. She was like a sapling in a greenhouse, warm, enclosed, while other saplings struggled to stay alive, she grew in peace. Summer—that was her life. Never intensely hot, never intensely cold. As they say—a gray mass. A complete fabrication of people who mean nothing to the world, and the world means nothing to them. But that day, that changed. How sad—she hadn't noticed this feeling herself, which arose so suddenly and quickly. Maybe, if she didn't notice, she wouldn't remember it later?—the author was terrified. Maybe, maybe...

For now, she stroked the sign on the window with her beautiful hands. Expressive. A little botched. Oh, another feeling. Anger. It wasn't perfect. The sign in the window, which read next to nothing, meaning only the paltry "Shashka," wasn't perfect. It hurts.

She pulled the doorknob, which greeted her with cold. The handle was pale, marble-like. And very hard. When she entered, the bell didn't ring. However, she was pleased that the door offered no resistance. The floor in the room was like the doorknob—marble and cold. Inside, the chill was even greater than outside. This chill was deepened by the fact that it came from within. In the center of the square, Rubik's Cube-shaped room stood a huge mirror. Framed in a gold frame, it waited to see something more than the blind passersby outside the large window. It waited for something warm and pleasant. It could be seen, captured with the heart. But only with one that had never truly felt anything. Like hers.

She looked around. For a moment, she hesitated to look into the mirror's eyes. Yes, for the sake of it, she waited a few small stretches of time. Finally, it happened. She saw herself. Warm, heated cheeks, rosy from the May cold of the Three Gardeners. A red sweater. Why had she forgotten that it was the color of blood, such vibrant, strong, pure blood? Hadn't she seen it when she put it on today? After all, she looked into those green eyes every day. Bored. Not even bored. None. She wasn't one that morning, when she looked at herself in the bathroom like every morning. She hadn't been one until now, for the rest of her life.

A few colors, and it made her dizzy.

Maybe it was the mirror? Maybe, maybe, maybe—it reflected in her head. And the mirror, it wanted to thank her so much. The whole air trembled, so happy was it today that, in addition to the Szaszka inscription that had started it all, it also received her—so real. Because she became real thanks to him.

"How can I help you?" the question echoed throughout the room. Terrified, she watched as the mirror trembled slightly. She looked where she should have been looking. There was someone else in the room. He smiled at her. It wasn't marble at all. Maybe a little faded. She slowly wondered what was happening to her. Why, suddenly, so many feelings, though she'd never expected them, hadn't even known about them, that they could say "I'm here" so intensely. "

What's your name?" the man behind her tried again. Why, why didn't he remind her of what she saw here? And—why on earth—was she asking such difficult questions!! What was that? A name. She didn't have a name. No one told her she had to have one. No one called her. It was always, maybe, "Come here," or "Hmm." Well, most often, "HM." Or, perhaps, EH, or Ahhh. But she didn't have a real name. It could even be Child, or Hopelessness. Only, usually, nothing like this happened.

"AHHH," she said, feeling a trickle of profuse sweat trickle from beneath her red blouse.

"A very beautiful name. But from now on, you'll be called Szaszka. Just like me. Is that okay?" She didn't even notice when he approached her slowly and took her face, plump as an orange, in his rough hands. "These are the hands of a worker," she thought, feeling her heart pounding intensely. As if it were about to burst out, stain the immaculate floor with blood, and then roll towards the mirror, spattering it with red goo. But nothing of the sort happened. He continued to hold her face in his hands, as if it were a precious find, a treasure, something beautiful. "It feels good," she was terrified. She felt a smile spread across her face.

She fled. (The cold, white doorknob swayed for a moment. The window shattered with a loud bang, and the words Szaszka were cut by shards of glass. By the time she reached the tram stop, she couldn't remember anything.)