A Party boss disliked my lampoon and I was driven out of my provincial newspaper. Shortly before that, he called me a wonderful young journalist and praised everything that I published in the leading Russian journals. Now, in my hometown Moscow, I applied for jobs, but hit a wall of unexplained rejections. The Life of The Blind magazine, overlooked by my enemies, hired me as its only correspondent and now, in the fall of 1958, I was going to witness a unique experiment.
Shortly after the war, while the European part of Russia was still in ruins, it was decided to build three exemplary cities for the blind where they would gather from all over the country. The equality of their residents would be determined by the common problems they faced. It sounded like a weird materialization of the Marxist idea which was still smoldering in me: somewhere, away from the Party bosses, people were trying to fulfill mankind’s dream of creating a society of justice, equal opportunity, equal rights, and mutual aid. At least, for the blind.
When a battered bus, rattling over potholes like a giant tambourine, stopped at the edge of the fiery autumn forest, the road dust settled and I saw a sign that read, “Caution: blind pedestrians.” It was nailed directly to a red-headed tree. We drove into Rusinovo.
The city of the blind looked like the only street of a large village, though quite a long one. I glanced in both directions and didn’t see a soul. Across the street stood a gloomy four-story building. Over the black wide gate made out of sheet iron hung a big sign, “The Training and Production Enterprise of the All-Russian Society for the Blind.” The venture was churning out mounting panels for a Moscow plant that two years ago started producing Ruby-brand black-and-white TV sets. The Society was proud of the fact that it participated in the production of such a technological marvel. That plant had some heavily guarded shops, as it did work for the military and space-exploration industry. It was rumored that “our” boards were about to fly off into space. A year earlier, in October 1957, the first Sputnik had been successfully launched into orbit around the Earth.
Next to the factory stood an abandoned kindergarten and two unfinished five-story boxes with gaping windows intended to become homes for the blind, but obviously the money ran out. This gray reality was in stark contrast to the bright roadside fall forest. A stray thought flashed through my mind—well, it’s good that they don’t see it.
In the end, curiosity won out over caution, and the door creaked and opened a crack to the length of the stop chain. I caught an unpleasant odor. An old man, cursing, slammed the door in my face, “You, crook, here again! I remember you! Get out of here, if you don’t want to be shied away with this hammer on your head!” And he hit the fragile door with a heavy object.
On the second floor, without even asking who I was, a toothless pale woman opened the door. Gray strands of hair were sticking out from under her well-worn headscarf. The appearance of a correspondent startled her. “It’s so good of you to come! Please help us to get some medication,” she mumbled.
I began to understand her slurred speech.
The other sister kept smiling.
The sisters laughed. They enjoyed my presence.
I was getting frustrated. I didn’t want to see stripped wallpaper, cobwebs, untidy beds, worn clothes, and deformed faces any longer and left that stinking house. The multicolored forest somewhat comforted me, and I walked by a ruined church with no dome to another five-story building. Man is such a beast, I thought spitefully; it gets used to everything and that is why this wretched house looks a bit more inviting.
From a safe distance, after joining forces with his wife, I persuaded him to let me in. On his only foot he had a patched felt boot, out of season. His little son closely watched my every move. I stroked his head. The kid didn’t mind but still was on guard, ready to defend his parents. At first, the man turned his face to the ceiling and listened to my conversation with his wife. After several minutes he began giving approving nods.
“We came here from faraway places,” she said, “in the hope of settling in the dream city. We were very young and fell in love.” She touched his knee and he smiled. My sad smile could see only their six-year-old son.
“By voice,” he began talking.
“Here our children were born,” she said.
“Tim died,” her husband said.
The boy climbed up on a chair, stood on tiptoe, and opened a narrow window leaf.
I promised. Now they looked relaxed.
Nastya said, “That’s how we got better acquainted,” and she and her son burst out laughing like only the young could do.
We all laughed again. The boy couldn’t stop.
At that point, there was a knock on the door.
“You do,” said the little fellow.
“Have you ever been to Moscow?” I asked him.
The boy looked at his mother.