The Museum of Abandoned Secrets

anti-banditism operative. “Very pleased to meet you.”
    “Me too,” she blooms, malapropos, not having noticed how much like an idiot I feel. So, that’s why Pavlo Ivanovych took his sweet time shooting the breeze with me—for her sake; he was holding me back for his kid, until her class let out. But she is still too young to appreciate such complexities; she, with the happy enthusiasm of youth, is still filled to the brim with herself exclusively and her urgent need for self-affirmation (little princess, Daddy’s girl, and a late child to boot—Pavlo Ivanovych must’ve been pushing forty). And she springs at the chance to unload on me, all at once, everything she didn’t spill along the way while she raced after me with her booklet all the way from the Conservatory, up the hill from Gorodetsky Street to St. Sofia (and that’s quite a trek, must be what, about thirty minutes, and all uphill, no wonder the plump little thing is drenched!).
    She reminds me, happily, that she has my autograph—in her mind, this must constitute some kind of intimacy between us, a sign of a connection—of course, I remember, the same loving father solicited it for the child the first time he ever laid eyes on me, must be nice to have such a loving dad! A strong, healthy one, not an invalid. A dad you can be proud of instead of swallowing every mention of him, mangled, as quickly as you can—oh yes, I remember the feeling: the last time I had it was at the opening of a fairytale palace, when my dad stood in the glowing crystal foyer in a huddle with other serious men, and they all took turns shaking his hand. I was still little then, but I remember; I know what it’s like.
    Nika’s Ukrainian is natural if a touch too literary, as with all children from Russian-speaking families, without any slang—a Sunday language, starched for going out, not for home use. Although, it could be that she is making a special effort for me, cleaning up her act: I am a different generation, an adult woman, and she is speaking to me the way she would speak to one of her professors at an oral exam. Asking me for her A+, the straight-A girl. A good girl, engaged, diligent.
    Aidy’s right, I have gone all sentimental like on the first day of a period—my eyes mist over as Pavlo Ivanovych’s daughter, and Captain Boozerov’s granddaughter, rattles off the list of the
Diogenes’ Lantern
episodes that made the most indelible impression on her—changed her life, Nika declares a bit too dramatically but with clear-eyed candor. She and her friends discussed these shows; they have a whole fan club going. They even tape me (used to tape; what are they going to tape now?). Of course, these are students, I mentally subtitle Nika’s nourishing babble for my exboss’s benefit, or perhaps for addressing the new owners of the channel—who also act as producers of a sex-industry show—these are students, gentlemen. These are the young people; this is our fucking future, you motherfuckers, young people always need role models—“who’s out there to shoot for,” as a boy taxi driver once said to me, spitting furiously through his rolled-down window. Young people need to have before their eyes not only millionaire gangsters and their Lexus-driving sluts but also—Vadym had a good phrase for it—moral authorities, and that is precisely why my never-heard-of heroes and heroines that hold for you no authority whatsoever are for these children like water for parched land: they gulp them down with a hiss, and beg for more! And what gets me the most, what cuts me to the quick, is that Nika unerringly names all the episodes of
Lantern
that were most important, closest to
my
heart, as though running her fingers over the departed show’s acupuncture points that only I could see, and by doing so, revives the pain I thought I had lulled to sleep. It is incredible how precisely this child is honed in to the same wavelength as me, andthis wave washes me from inside, finally closing around my throat when she brings up my interview with Vladyslava Matusevych—she says she was still in high school then, and it was that interview that cemented her determination to devote herself to art. “Is that so,” I manage to gurgle.
    Yes, even though Daddy tried to convince her that musical performance is a profession without any prospects whatsoever and wanted her to go to law school. But Daddy is musical himself; he has perfect pitch and still sings sometimes in good