There’s one thing I remember clearly:
IT WAS NOT a KGB
And my synthesizer along with my distortion pedal are missing.
And all I want is my synthesizer back, as well as the distortion pedal.
“Why can’t we talk about colonizing behaviors in the USSR? We go on about the west all the time, but why not ourselves?”
I remember saying that very clearly that morning, that I remember.
Then, “Out to the hall Biksone” And out to the hall I went with my hands stuffed into the pockets of my uniform’s skirt, and I most certainly wasn’t wearing that stupid apron that went with it.
I remember my teacher coming out to loudly lecture me, then later on after class I went to her office for my contraband, “Nice haircut Cindija, you did it yourself? Look like Uljana Semjonova, just add another 2 metres.” She had said as she lit a cigarette, she always smoked the french ones, “Here, I got you that distortion pedal you wanted, the Japanese model you asked for, eh! Money first!” And I remember handing over 200 rubles, a year’s worth of money I made from shows I did with my friend Vasilisa. I bid her goodbye and went home, I remember that clear as crystal.
The walls felt like cellophane.
And before you ask, IT WAS NOT THE KGB and I want my synth back and distortion pedal too.
I remember leaving my apartment with my synthesizer and the distortion pedal, then taking the red line from Krasnye Vorota to Universitet and meeting with Vasilisa. I remember that the weather wasn’t so cold and the sun had just set. And I swear I remember I had a flask on me, and I specifically remember sharing it on the walk over.
The world smells like ozone, but there has been no thunderstorm.
I remember we were in the basement of someone’s apartment building, a friend of a friend of a friend, I think. We encouraged donations; cops and KGB would be beaten to death on sight with a hockey stick. All cops are bastards, east and west alike. I remember the taste of a girl’s lips so clearly but not her name.
My hands are made of sand and smell like kefir.
The streets were too dry even though it had rained. It was so dark. IT WAS NOT THE KGB, and I WANT MY SYNTH - AND THE DISTORTION PEDAL - GODDAMMIT.
I remember walking back to the metro, the last train was going to leave and we didn’t want to be stranded with pockets full of cash and musical instruments. Vasilisa and I parted, then I remember that car, a black car, IT WAS NOT KGB, I remember running for my life, then being tackled… Now everything falls apart there. I cannot for the life of me remember what happen, all I know is:
IT WAS NOT THE KGB and I WANT MY SYNTH BACK.
And while we’re here, THE DISTORTION PEDAL TOO.
Why the hell do I taste aluminum?
I was told that I was found in a puddle in Lubyanka station, shivering with my lips turned blue and my synth missing along with the distortion pedal. I was returned to my parents, that I somewhat remember. All I want is my synth back and distortion pedal as well. That’s all I want and everything will be ok, I don’t care who kidnapped me. I just want my synth back. And that fucking distortion pedal.
Now as I stand slack jawed here in Lubyanka again three days after I went missing and one day being back in school I cannot fig-
“Господи! Someone’s fallen off the platform!”
“Call the station guard!”
Someone shoves me off the platform and I’m falling towards the tracks, my heart is racing, the world is moving in slow motion and I’m unable to scream.
My face is placid.
I fall through the ceiling to the middle of the platform of Lubyanka and hit that smooth marble floor.
This isn’t Lubyanka. This place is not dull white, the smooth marble is slick, and the tracks are filled with water that is lazily moving along. All sorts of aquatic creatures and plants live in these two rivers, looks more like a terrarium than a station located under a prison. I get up and see a near shapeless figure at the other end of the platform sitting in a water fountain, it notices me too.
“Do you have my synth?” I yell, given my circumstances, I think they might know something.
“Yeah, and the distortion pedal too.” Their voice sounds exactly like my teacher’s, pulling out the case from the pool below her, it’s nice and dry, “Those Americans can be quite pesky, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah, I guess, thanks for keeping it safe.” I remember now, they were Americans.
“Not a problem, comrade.” She points to the exit, I think she’s smiling, but I can’t tell. She smells like the girl I kissed. I wave goodbye and I walk up the escalators to the street where everything is normal again, somewhat. I don’t care that the CIA or whatever kidnapped me. I have my synth, and the distortion pedal back as well and that’s all that matters to me.