‘Compassion was the most important, perhaps the sole law of
human existence.
~ ‘The Idiot’ by Fyodor Dostoevsky
The realisation he is sleepwalking comes to me abruptly, with a slightly delayed sense of eeriness and confusion. Soon I realise what sort of a sleepwalker he is, and it scares me.
I came to London after the hysteria with Covid, which was not taken seriously in my home country, was replaced with another, this one coloured in yellow and blue. I don't want to sound cynical, I just want you to understand me: I am angry, and I am sick of it all. Because of this I leave my own country, a no-longer-young professor of history and language, left to start over from nothing in a country I deeply respect but am still an alien in. I would love to come here in prosperous times, with a confident smile on my face and friends extending their arms in greeting.
Instead, I arrive alone, depressed, broke, and broken.
I still consider myself lucky when I move into this little room on the first floor. There are four rooms and a shared kitchen. Right on top of me lives a man from Kyiv — Mikola, we call him Nick. We share Russian as our native language, so I am glad to have him around. He also appreciates I know some Ukrainian and greet him saying ‘dobrogo ranku’, which means ‘good morning’, so we get along. Two other rooms are rented by quiet and reserved English guys who work for a construction site nearby, and we rarely see or hear them.
Nick, though, says he is more English than Ukrainian. He settled in London long before the invasion, six years ago, works in a law firm, cut all ties with his homeland, and stays away from the news. ‘What is happening there is horrible, of course,’ he says to me once, ‘but I am no longer a part of that world and I cherish my feeling of being local here; this is why I don’t get mad over the war — I help when I can, I donate some money, but I still treat it as just one of the inevitable things happening in a globalised world.’ I don’t doubt his words, which amplifies my surprise later.
Most of my time is spent either searching for a teaching job or working on my academic writing. I don’t spend much time in my flat to avoid the acute sensation of loneliness, which is always lurking around me. I am just glad I can sleep here for a reasonable price.
The first couple of nights at the new place are quiet — I don’t hear or feel anything because of how tired I am. Then, during my second week here, a strange shuffling noise from above wakes me up; like someone slowly pacing about their room. I glance at my watch: it is one in the morning. I think that maybe Nick has just returned home from somewhere, but then remember saying ‘good night’ to him around three hours ago.
I lie without moving, breathing quietly. The noise doesn’t stop. I think it is all nonsense, but soon I hear steps. I calm myself with the thought that Nick probably just can’t sleep and decide to go downstairs for a cup of tea.
However, as soon as he gets down he starts to go up. I am lying in my bed, all sleep gone, listening to footsteps creaking because my neighbour is going up and down the stairs, up and down, up and down, and then again, up and down. He never pauses. Then I pick up another noise — a steady murmuring.
I am afraid to move — Nick is a friendly and chatty type, but what is happening now is something else, but the Nick just behind my door now is a different man.
It takes him about half an hour to calm down and to return to his room. The noise ceases. I can’t fall asleep for an hour before my tiredness takes over.
In the morning we greet each other like nothing happened — he doesn’t say a word about that night, and I am not confident enough to ask. Next night is calm, and I decide it was a one-time accident enlarged by my frayed nerves. I blame myself for being paranoid and aim to forget it.
But then it happens again. And again. Four weeks in and I am starting to develop insomnia fuelled by the unrest this strange case of sleepwalking is causing. I read Wikipedia about whether it can be dangerous. I start to think I can distinguish words – and these words scare me.
Finally, it all culminates to an even more grotesque encounter.
It is late at night. I try to finish my paper on the Russo-Japanese War — my area of academic interest — and the final point of my argument keeps eluding me. Well after midnight I get up, pick my empty cup and go to the kitchen for some peppermint tea.
It is dark in the corridor and even from afar I see the light is off in the kitchen. However, when I come closer, it becomes obvious someone is inside: soft blue light is sinking from under the shut door, and there is noise, as if someone is watching a TV.
I gently push the door open.
What I see there doesn’t look too grim at first: Nick is sitting at the dinner table, his staring face illuminated by his laptop screen. The sounds the laptop is making are strange, though: it seems he is watching some kind of reportage with shouts, crashes, and something resembling gunshots.
What is even more ominous is that Nick is murmuring something to himself, as if he repeats what he can hear on his laptop. ‘Hey mate’, I say in a low voice.
He pretends he doesn’t see me.
‘Is it alright if I switch the kettle on? Need more tea.’
No answer.
Only then do I pay attention to what Nick is watching, suddenly distinguishing a mix of Ukrainian and Russian in his murmurs. On his screen there is GoPro footage from the camera mounted on a soldier’s helmet. The owner is sitting in a trench, peeking out to shoot automatic fire over his head. Next moment he sees a soldier running towards him and fires at him without taking time to aim. The soldier falls to the ground. The shooter comments on his kill. A dreadful realisation: this is real footage of one man killing another in a war happening right now in Ukraine. The soldier is shouting and swearing, and Nick is glued to the screen watching this ravenous display and repeating all the words he can hear in a half-whisper.
He looks like a zombie.
I glance at him: a glassy stare, his hands hanging low along his sides, he is dressed in his sleepwear. ‘Nick’, I call in a low voice and wave at him. Nothing. He behaves as if I am not there. I become scared. I forget about my tea, rush to the door, and, closing it behind me, lock myself in my room.
When later I hear the stairs creaking, I think my heart is going to blow up right inside my chest. Nick, still swearing and murmuring about recharging arms and fighting the invaders, gets into his room. The rest of that night is black and silent.
When we stumble upon each other again in a few days, I am not brave enough to ask if he knows he is a sleepwalker. Instead, I say:
– Did you start following the news about the war in Ukraine, by the way?
– No. Anything happened in particular?
– Nothing, same stuff, basically.
– I see. As I’ve said before. It is a terrible thing, but I don’t feel I should be too concerned about it — my home is here now, and here we have our own troubles. Thank God my relatives are not there anymore. Why do you ask?
– Ah, nothing, just… wondering when it all ends.
– Man, do as I do: stop reading news, and start thinking about what you actually have influence upon. Worrying about stuff you can’t change never brings any good.
– Yeah, you’re right, one hundred percent.
– There you go! You’ll see you’ll sleep better at night.
I wish him a great day.
He has absolutely no clue.
In a few days I finally manage to get a job as a tutor, and decide to leave that place for a small flat in the outskirts of London, exchanging shorter commutes for the right to cope with my own demons only.
***
After I settle at the new place, my routine of long commutes via the Tube starts. I am used to it, so it doesn’t bother me: most of the time I am just reading without paying attention to what is going on around me.
However, there are encounters that both trouble and resonate with me.
Like this girl with a duffel bag.
She is standing right in front of me, and as soon as I glance at her face I know she is from Ukraine. I can spot a war refugee by the look of their face. She is in her early twenties, dressed in an old hoodie sweatshirt with worn out ‘NASA’ logo, a military-style khaki-green jacket on top of it, sweatpants, and heavy boots. In her hands she holds a small women’s bag, and with her she has just one duffel bag. I can say she is cold, but I can understand why it doesn’t seem to make the top five of the things bothering her right now.
That look on her face, on all of their faces — let me try to describe it. First thing you notice is deep, boundless tiredness. Second is fear, fear of two kinds: of the unknown, and fear for those who are still there. Never for themselves. Third is homesickness. Right from the moment you are forced to leave your home, the longing starts, and with time it only becomes stronger.
Quite unintentionally she glances at a woman sitting across from her, who looks either Russian or Ukrainian, but is very different: she has lush black hair, wears a lot of makeup, a rather exposed dress, and a Gucci bag. The girl only briefly gazes upon her and stares away.
When the train stops, the announcement says it terminates here and won’t be going further. With occasional grumbles, people start to leave. The girl looks around, disoriented, hesitant about what is going on. Train announcements are hard to understand even for those with a good command of English. Finally, when everyone leaves, she also gets to the platform, still trying to figure out what is going on.
When the train starts moving, there is a sudden harsh noise followed by abrupt shouts. The girl screams and kneels down, covering her ears. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened: just an unusually loud crack of train wagons, and two agitated men joking between themselves about it. However, I think I know what is happening with her at the moment. The cracking noise could have reminded her of mortar explosions shattering and smashing in all the windows in a place that was her home. And men shouting… well, it is rarely a good omen.
When the next train arrives, a man gently touches her shoulder and helps her to her feet.
– There you go, it was nothing, just an old train. Here comes the one you need — you can board it.
She is hesitant at first. Slowly, she grabs her belongings. He accompanies her.
– Thank you, — she says with a strong accent. — Thank you very much.
– No worries, there you go.
When the doors close, she realises a pleasant gentleman has not followed her. A feeling of not being alone that illuminated her soul for a fraction of a moment is now gone. Her shy smile gave place to a familiar look of tiredness, fear, and homesickness.
I hurry to leave the platform, feeling sickeningly powerless. It is all unjust. I want to scream.
***
A few weeks later my younger cousin, who at the moment lives in the Netherlands with her husband, comes to London to spend a weekend with me. We have been close friends since the time I visited their family in Kherson when I was just a boy.
Between visiting Hyde Park and Tate we pop in a supermarket. My cousin is a wide-smiling, chatty, and charming type; she manages to make friends everywhere.
– Where are you from? — one of the store clerks asks us. He is an elegant, neatly dressed man in his fifties, wearing glasses with golden rims. He is more polite than curious now.
– I am from Ukraine, — my cousin says, — and this is my brother, he is from Russia.
The man does not look surprised.
– I could say you are from Eastern Europe by your looks. Very beautiful. And a gentleman as well, — he slightly bows to me. His compliment is nothing but respectful. We smile. He adds, — I am sorry for what is happening, — after a nod of acknowledgement from my cousin, he is addressing me, — I have been to Belarus, you know where it is? Minsk?
Of course I know. I say so.
– I studied physics at the Belarusian State University, in the nineties. I am myself from Syria. I have got a PhD in astrophysics there as well, and have been teaching physics to students for fifteen years! Optics, quantum physics, biophysics — you name it. — He looks proud, but most of all — he looks pleased just having an opportunity to remember it and to share it with someone.
– This is serious, — I say. — And very difficult. — I don’t feel it would be right to ask him why he is here, working in a store at a low-paying job. I know it should be a sad story.
– Yes, I guess so, — he smiles. — It has been ten years already since I came here.
We are silent for a moment. My cousin saves us from an awkward pause:
– We are going to Tate! Do you remember how to get there? Should we turn left or right from here?
A former physics professor turned supermarket clerk explains how to find the way to the gallery. I marvel at his patience, and at how he hasn’t lost an ounce of his dignity. I felt we have something in common with him. Was it because this big city and the reasons we are here made us both aliens? A man from Syria with a degree in astrophysics and a Ukrainian with a Russian passport fleeing the reality in which two of my motherlands are sending their sons to be shelled and killed by each other. We are of the similar kind.
The rest of the day we enjoy art, we walk, we laugh, we recall the past.
My cousin says she is glad I am here. She has been to St. Petersburg once, she knows it is much safer there than in Southern Ukraine, but still she feels better knowing I am far from there.
I know we both keep thinking about that man, wondering where we are going to be in ten years after life has banished us from our homes.
She leaves the next day for the Netherlands. When parting she asks me if I follow the recent news. No, I say, I don’t follow it. But I still know.
She nods. We both cry in our souls.
***
When I feel particularly lonely, I come to Holland Park’s Kyoto Garden, a tiny island of contemplation and beauty with its small ponds and a toy waterfall.
I am here now. I would love to say it is lovely weather, but it is not: a grey sky hides any glimpses of sun, and the wind keeps reminding how precious our warm scarves are.
However, I feel better here. Everything and everyone is still. People are slowing down. A stately heron stands right outside the pond overseeing the surroundings.
I sit at the bench. There is a girl not far from me, reading a book. I quickly glance at it and see that it is ‘Idiot’ by Dostoevsky. I also see it is in Russian.
Very soon I cannot restrain myself from approaching her.
– Excuse me, — I say to her in Russian, — I am sorry, I hate to bother you when you’re reading. I… just wanted to say, it is a great book. And I admire people who read it so carefully, with such concentration, as you. I hope it cheers you up.
She smiles and says it is all right.
– I’m reading it for the third time, — she confesses. — It gives me hope in times of despair.
We exchange words about where we come from, but very sparingly. We are always careful when talking to strangers — old habits die too slowly even in the youngest of us. She is from Mariupol, once a beautiful romantic city on the shores of the Black Sea, now lying in ruins after becoming a battlefield for the opposing Ukrainian and Russian forces. She managed to escape it before the siege. She is lucky, although it sounds sacrilegious to use the word ‘lucky’ here. Her home is obliterated, its history and good name wiped out. Google ‘Mariupol’ now and instead of sun-drenched seashores you’ll only see occasional splashes of smoke and fire breaking their way through the dead dark-grey ruins.
She is alone and she is much less welcome here than she would like to be — it is just the way it works. She doesn’t need to say it, I know it. Instead, she says:
– I love this novel because of Prince Myshkin’s character. He is from another world… so different. An outsider. And yet he stays true to his nature and principles. This… life, it doesn’t change him. After everything that he goes through, he is the same: kind, intelligent, sincere. He possesses such a beautiful soul.
She turns to me.
– I’d love to have a beautiful soul.
Our smiles are sad, but we are smiling nevertheless. Soon I leave. While on my way back to the place where I currently live, I feel a pleasant warm light inside. We don’t need much: a couple of kind words and an understanding gaze is enough to grant us hope.
If only more people would notice how beautiful the souls of every one of us are.
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