Words are like furniture: if they stand in their places, you can live. Move them and it’s uncomfortable.
For ten days I’ve lived on Kamenny Island, in a new-build under classical style, with white columns. My husband was called up for some unknown service, a very good one, it seems, judging by how they look after the family. I sent my son away myself, on the first day of the war, just in case. I draw Peter’s oak and dachas. I don’t like it when people say “tenth day of the war”: I prefer the word “operation.” It’s calmer.…
We came several times. We asked why she insisted on her son leaving. We asked whether her husband could have written the little poem about “Russian profanity.” We suspect dissent. Or perhaps she is just bait while the rest are being caught.
We ourselves showed her the YouTube channel when we demonstrated the Kremlin briefcase. And there was her son. Now she watches every day. We carry her easel and stool.
She typed “for the truth” into the browser line. The search engine returned an ad for strawberries. She smiled: instead of truth, strawberries. And yet the stream was coming from exactly there. But she didn’t know it. Tomorrow is the eleventh day, and the empress in Tel Aviv will weave her own thread into the story.