ODESSSIADA: “UNCLE SENYA”

Art Design: Huxley.media

The International ODESSSIADA Short Story Competition, organized by Huxley.media in partnership with the World Club of Odesa Citizens, has come to a close. The competition received 102 short stories from authors representing cities across Ukraine and other countries. Particularly meaningful was the fact that, during this challenging time for Ukraine, the competition brought together more than one hundred writers, introduced Odesa to new literary voices, and continued the city’s long-standing tradition of vibrant literary expression.

Today we conclude our publication of the works by the competition laureates. We present the story “Uncle Senya” by third-prize winner Liza Azvalinskaya (Philadelphia, USA). We wholeheartedly congratulate the author on her award and invite our readers to discover her work.

ncle Senya had landed on his feet in grand style in his old age. All his life, he had been devising ways to make money, and sometimes he managed not only to make ends meet but even to create the impression that he was living large. But for something to bring in money and delight the soul at the same time — that had never happened before. It was always one or the other. And only now, when the children had grown up, his wife had died, and he himself had become almost an old man, did it turn out that money could be earned to applause, to full houses, and that you did not even have to be a performer to do it.

Uncle Senya was used to living simply, moving from breakfast to lunch and dealing with problems as they arose. And for a long time now, nothing but problems had been arising. With his kind of luck, being in the right place at the right time was about as likely as being struck by lightning. Yet it was precisely by a happy accident that Uncle Senya became a guide. Not an ordinary guide, though. He showed tourists around Odessa, and these were no ordinary tourists.

Had Uncle Senya understood even the slightest thing about higher matters, he would have known that there are no accidents. The fact that he happened to be at the port that day was only the tip of the iceberg. How many underwater currents had to cross, how many invisible threads had to be tied into a single knot — he could never have guessed.

It all began with Misha Katz.

Misha Katz had once lived in a communal apartment on Pushkinskaya Street. In America, he settled in Brooklyn, spent his first ten years regularly changing jobs and going bust in various businesses, and not long ago opened a pleasant little eatery that showed promise and had not yet managed to fall out with his business partner. It followed from all this that he had finally succeeded. During the same period, his wife Sofa mastered all the intricacies of manicures, started working at an inconspicuous salon, but had already set her sights on a more prestigious one, planned to take her clientele with her, and was looking forward to a new leap in her career. She, too, was on the rise. In light of these new prospects, they both decided it would be nice to catch their breath and, in general, that it was high time they saw the world. Then a brochure caught their eye. The cruise departed from Italy, then continued to Greece, Turkey, and Romania, with a one-day stop in Odessa.

“Ah, Odessa! The Pearl by the Sea,” they sang out in unison (because there is no such thing as a former Odessan), and that settled it. And then the dollar exchange rate soared so dramatically that it seemed as though heaven itself wanted Misha, once he arrived in Odessa, to feel like a great patron of the arts and scatter a million scarlet roses everywhere he went.

And for some reason Uncle Senya had shaved that morning, cleaned up his old Zhiguli the day before, and happened to be at the port at the very hour when tourists were streaming down the gangway of the cruise liner. It was obvious they were foreigners. Something made Uncle Senya take a closer look. If one fisherman can spot another from afar, how could an Odessan fail to recognize a fellow Odessan? To make sure, Uncle Senya moved closer, and finally he heard:

“Misha, we need to find a taxi right away…”

“Why do you need a taxi when you’ve got Uncle Senya?”

And that was how it all began…

For some people, a stop in Odessa was simply an excursion, but for Misha and Sofa Katz, that day was a homecoming. Uncle Senya remembered the old days and forgot about his blood pressure — he had guests to entertain. It was no easy task. Before they had to return to the ship, they needed to pay their respects at the graves, stroll along Deribasovskaya Street, stand for a while outside the school and the house on Pushkinskaya Street, and find that very same dacha on Bolshoi Fontan…

Sofa gazed at the waves as though they recognized her. Outside the school, Misha ran a misty-eyed gaze over the façade, as if he had spotted a plaque reading: “Misha Katz, a C student who later became a great man, studied here.”

When they got hungry, they went into a restaurant. They drank to the reunion and to their new acquaintance. For the first time in many years, Uncle Senya found himself at the center of attention. They looked at him as though he represented all of Odessa. They listened to him with emotion and sighed. By the end of the meal, they had almost become family. They hugged goodbye. Uncle Senya left them his phone number and promised to look after the grave. When they paid him, Uncle Senya nearly whistled. It came to more than three of his monthly pensions. Back home, he tried to understand what exactly had happened. On the one hand, he had been working; on the other, his soul had been having a holiday.

A couple of weeks later, the phone rang. At first Uncle Senya did not understand, then he was surprised, and then his face lit up. Once again, he was heading to the port to meet a new group of tourists. And once again, everything repeated itself: the cemetery, the sea, the streets, the restaurant. Only the route had changed. Instead of Bolshoi Fontan, they visited Arcadia and then wandered around Moldavanka. In one of Moldavanka’s courtyards, Uncle Senya remembered a story:

“Once upon a time, two neighbors, Khaya and Raya, lived right here.

Khaya shouted at the top of her voice through the window:

‘Rayechka, are you all right? A doctor left your place early this morning.’

‘Oh, no need to worry so much. When a military man leaves your place, I don’t shout all over Moldavanka that a war has started.’”

It went down a storm, although, truth be told, Uncle Senya had no idea what had actually happened there. But the story fitted the moment so perfectly that he impressed even himself and decided to add this dish to the menu. To his surprise, he discovered something of an actor and something of a businessman in himself. Now Uncle Senya knew that this was not a hobby but a business. That evening, he paced around the room and sank briefly into thought. For storing his capital, an old sock seemed just right.

The tourists were pleased. And Uncle Senya was happy. At least, almost.

Whenever he thought about the good fortune that had fallen into his lap, feelings would drift in from somewhere and leave no room for thought. He was grateful to life, grateful to chance, because it seemed as though someone up above had finally noticed him and, at the very end, allowed him to make up for something he had missed.

“Better late than never,” his wife used to say.

Uncle Senya remembered those words and smiled dreamily.

For complete happiness, he was missing just one small thing. Just a little feminine affection. He used to push such thoughts away, but now he seemed to have found a second wind.

Uncle Senya grew accustomed to the good life gradually. Out of caution, he kept it to himself and told no one except Dodik. Dodik — a longtime neighbor and a man he could trust — was shaggy, gloomy, and usually silent. He drank rarely, and only for courage. But once fortified, he became eloquent, recalled Socrates, and scattered quotations from Caesar and King Solomon. Uncle Senya listened with half an ear and, slightly tipsy, would conclude:

“Dodik, get married. What do you care about King Solomon?”

And his thoughts would drift away to Marusya.

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Marusya lived in the neighboring courtyard, painted her lips with bright lipstick, and rolled her hips like the sea rolls its waves when it glitters lazily in the sun. Marusya had a philosophy of her own. She believed that a man without money was just a girlfriend. This way of looking at things made Uncle Senya timid, but in his mind he counted his dollars and grew bolder.

The phone calls no longer surprised him; he waited for them. He had found out everything there was to know about cruises and prepared for every meeting the way an actor prepares for a performance. And in summer, at the height of the season, following the logic of a businessman, he improved his service in three areas at once.

First, for a modest fee, he managed to hire musicians. Now tourists arriving at the pier were greeted by a brass band. The foreigners exchanged bewildered glances — they had never seen anything like it; nowhere else had they been welcomed by an orchestra. But those Uncle Senya was looking out for felt a tickle in their throats from emotion, and their eyes began to shine.

Second, it had been noticed that visiting the cemetery took up a great deal of precious time, especially when a grave took a long time to find. But Uncle Senya made arrangements with the cemetery office, and now, with their expertise, the searches became much easier.

And Uncle Senya put particular effort into the lunch break. At strategically important locations, he picked out several restaurants and studied their menus in advance. Only those offering “masterpieces of Odessa cuisine” passed the selection, including the signature dish — fried gobies.

Having settled into his new role, he smartened himself up, shaved every morning, and began visiting the barber more often. After a trip to the barber, Uncle Senya liked the way he looked. His bald head gleamed manfully, while the remnants of hair framing it resembled a well-tended little front garden.

When he saw Marusya now, he no longer lost his nerve. Whenever he had the chance, he would give her a sly wink and say to himself, “Just a little longer, my darling. Just wait a little longer.”

The season ended on a high note. Winter flew by like a respite, though to Uncle Senya it felt more like a running start before a leap. In spring, the cruises resumed. Uncle Senya was in shape and prepared himself for an influx of tourists.

But to his surprise, things did not go as he had expected. For no apparent reason, there was no great rush, as though something inside the tap had shriveled up and, instead of bright streams, only monotonous drops were falling. There were noticeably fewer tourists. It gave the strange impression that everyone who could and wanted to visit Odessa had already done so. But it was not only the quantity that had changed; the quality had changed too. It was as though everyone already knew about the brass band and the restaurants and took it all calmly, without surprise or delight. Some kind of magic had disappeared. Looking at their faces, Uncle Senya kept imagining Misha Katz, ready to kiss Pushkin on Primorsky Boulevard and throw his arms around the Opera House. He missed that feeling, as though it were the taste of some dish remembered from childhood that no recipe could ever reproduce.

Even at the height of the season, the pendulum never began to swing. Uncle Senya tried to keep his spirits up, but in the end he became despondent. The business had turned back into a hobby. The restaurants no longer made an effort for him. The brass band had to be canceled. And by autumn, everything had stopped altogether. Then, when there was nothing left to wait for, an order unexpectedly came in. Uncle Senya perked up. He thought it was a sign.

A newlywed couple, Borya and Zoya, came down the gangway. They introduced themselves. Uncle Senya tossed out some joke, waiting for a reaction — that was how he searched for the right note. But instead of a reaction, he heard:

“We need to go to the cemetery. Bela Lvovna said…”

“And after that?”

“After that? Well, we don’t know… we don’t really care.”

The newlyweds were no longer young. Both had brown eyes; hers were predatory, his indifferent. He was a programmer; what she did was unclear. She had been born in Bobruisk, while he had been taken away from Odessa as a child. Something had brought them together, but certain little details suggested that Cupid had been stingy with his arrows.

“Bela Lvovna wanted there to be flowers…”

From the number of times “Bela Lvovna said” and “Bela Lvovna wanted” came up, it was clear that she was the prima donna here.

At last Uncle Senya put two and two together, and this was the picture that emerged…

Bela Lvovna, Borya’s mother, would gladly have come herself, but having done Cupid’s work, she was now taking a rest and had sent the newlyweds in her place. It was their honeymoon, after all, and while they were there they could visit Aunt Golda too. Let her also rejoice at how successfully they had managed to marry off their educated schlemiel. Yes, not quite as they had hoped… but at least into good hands. Yes, she was no Venus, but Borenka was no Apollo either.

And when, at the restaurant, both of them chose Caesar salad, mineral water, and apple juice from the menu, Uncle Senya thought, “And what would Bela Lvovna say?” And he heard the harsh truth: one could always hope, but why deceive oneself? Bela Lvovna knew what she was talking about.

He took them along Deribasovskaya Street.

“Yes, it’s beautiful…”

“Beautiful? Is that all?”

And there, beside the window of some shop, Uncle Senya suddenly understood everything. What he had taken for happiness had turned out to be nothing more than a fashion. And fashions pass; you cannot hold on to them. And Uncle Senya? What about Uncle Senya?

After noon, the weather turned. The sky became overcast. The air smelled of autumn and melancholy.

In the City Garden, Zoya went off for a walk, while the two men settled on a bench. Both were silent. The programmer was lost in his algorithms; Uncle Senya wanted to ease the awkwardness but did not know what to talk about.

He ran his hand along the bench, trying to remember some joke, and suddenly heard himself ask:

“Do you know, young man, what a shortage is?”

He did not wait for an answer, but by then he could no longer stop.

“A shortage, young man, is not black caviar and not delicacies from overseas. It is a place in the Jewish cemetery, where there are already so many people that there is almost no room left.

But I’ll tell you a story with a happy ending.

Once upon a time, Baba Manya liked to sit on one of these benches. Here, in the City Garden, she learned the latest news about what was happening in the world. She was a worthy woman, respected by everyone. Not because she had had such a wonderful life, but because she knew how to live. And how many men had courted her! But of all men, she loved only her youngest son, her ‘little one.’ That was what she called him.”

And, as though gaining momentum, Uncle Senya went on to explain that Baba Manya also had three daughters. Two of them had left, one for America and the other for Australia, while the third, the middle daughter, had died. Baba Manya had always known how to provide for herself; she had everything she needed for life. And for “after life,” she had a place in the cemetery beside her husband and daughter. She was already over eighty.

And then, unexpectedly, her son dies. It turned out to be appendicitis; they did not realize in time. And Baba Manya had to give him her place so that he could be there… closer to his own. There was nothing she would not sacrifice for her beloved son. And a month later, she herself died. Then came the question of where to bury her. A good question!

And then everything fell into place. Her grandson got involved; at the time, he was a very successful businessman. He paid some fabulous bribe, and Baba Manya was buried where she had wanted. Not far from her husband and the others. As though someone had wanted to give her one last gift. That’s the story.

Uncle Senya sighed and, for some reason, added:

“Only Baba Manya never found out about it. And the grandson lost his business, people began threatening him… So it turns out the only place where he managed to throw money around was the cemetery.”

Having said this, Uncle Senya fell silent. In vain, he tried to understand why everything in this world was so tangled, and he grew more and more amazed at how senselessly life was arranged. First it gives, then it takes away. You find things where you are not looking for them. You lose what you value most.

“So what?” Borya suddenly responded. “What’s the moral?”

Uncle Senya hesitated before answering.

“What moral does life have? It is one long irony.”

More than anything, he wanted to be rid of them as soon as possible. To say goodbye and never think of them again.

Leaves circled through the air as they fell from the trees, rustling as though someone were turning the pages of an invisible book.

Uncle Senya thought that tomorrow he could skip shaving and felt no regret. His soul was filled with an indescribable emptiness. Yet for some reason, it seemed that as soon as he took them back to the port, it would pass.

And what difference did it make who had said it — King Solomon or Dodik.