Olesya despised everyone, most of all her mother. She was convinced that once she grew up and left the orphanage, her mother would inevitably track her down. She had no intention of flinging herself into her mothers arms and shouting, Hello, Mom! Instead, she planned to observe for a while and then exact revengefor the years she had spent sobbing in the shelter while her mother enjoyed a comfortable life.
She never doubted that her mother truly lived that way. Olesya had known only the orphanage; it had been her whole world for as long as she could remember. She was moved from one ward to another because she was constantly fighting, and she didnt care whether the opponent was a boy or a girl. The staff punished her, locked her in isolation, and took away sweets, yet she still loathed the caretakers, the other children, and the world at large.
At fourteen she finally stopped fighting, not because she suddenly loved everyone, but because everyone else was already terrified of her. Boredom set in. She would wander to a farcorner of the playground and sit there, dreaming of the day she would find her mother and take vengeance.
One day she heard an odd melody. She strained to listennothing shed ever heard before. Music had always moved her, and she would freeze whenever something beautiful played. This tune was exquisite, a little sad, almost mournful, yet she could not place its source.
She rose, approached a thicket of acacia bushes, and gently pushed them aside. Well, thats the new janitor, she thought, already mocking him. On what instrument was he playing? She couldnt see, and as she reached out, she inexplicably tumbled into the bushes.
The man stopped playing and turned toward the foliage. Olesya got up, brushed herself off angrily, and was about to leave when he suddenly asked, Do you want to learn?
She was taken aback. Could she, a girl with no musical background, actually play? She stepped closer. The caretaker looked to be about fiftyfive years oldunusual for someone still working as a janitor.
She began visiting him daily. At first he simply demonstrated how to play the flute, which he himself carved. Their little instruments were both quirky and graceful. When Olesyas first true notes emerged, she couldnt help hugging the janitor, and thats when their conversation truly began.
His name was Mykola Petrovych, and he lived in a modest house on the orphanage grounds.
Why? Dont you have family, a home? Olesya asked.
My dear, I once had everythinghome and loved ones. Ten years ago my Kateryna passed away. I thought I couldnt survive without my son Then I married a beautiful but greedy woman, just so shed please my son Sasha. Five years later Sasha died in a car crash, and my apartment was transferred to his name. A nice threeroom flat in the centre. My daughterinlaw packed my suitcase and sent me away in all directions.
Why didnt you fight back?
Theres no point, Olesya. I have no one left. All the people I loved have gone. I just have to endure until my turn comes. I dont need anything else.
At that moment Olesya felt she hated Mykolas daughterinlaw even more than her own mother. She even entertained thoughts of first taking revenge on the daughterinlaw, then on her mother.
When Mykola learned that the fierce, wolflike girl harbored such hatred, he was horrified. How could a poor child manage that level of fury? They talked often, and Mykola sensed Olesyas heart softening. She stopped fighting other children, became gentler, and the urge to prove herself with fists faded.
One day he asked, Olesya, youll leave in a year. Have you decided what youll become?
She looked bewildered. No I havent thought about it. Ive only been planning how to get back at my mother.
Myself, lets suppose you do get revenge. First youll have to find her, even if you dont know where the money will come from. Well let that slide. What then?
She fell silent, left, didnt return for a week, then finally came back and said, I want to build.
They spent a whole year preparing for admission to a construction college. Olesya realized that a university degree might be too long for her, perhaps something for the future. The day she left for another city to study, they sat together on their bench for a long while.
That evening she boarded a train to the new town, tears streaming down her face for the first time in years. Mykola Petrovych, Ill definitely come back. Ill finish my studies, stand on my own, and then well meet again, she promised.
My dear, lets make a pact. I wont disappear, and you must finish school, become stable, and then well see each other again, he replied.
What old man are you, anyway? she teased.
He gave her a flute as a farewell gift.
Nearly fifteen years later Olesya married late, never quite finding someone who truly understood her. At thirty she had a daughter, Katrya, and shortly after she separated from her husband. Her joy lived in the little girl.
Now she could afford many things. When she finally earned the income she wanted, she began searching for her mother. The truth surfaced faster than Olesya expected. Her mother, a poor single woman who had wanted a child for herself, learned two months before giving birth that she was ill. She was battling cancer then, just as Olesyas mother had once (unsuccessfully).
Doctors said her weakened body gave her only a year to live. In the delivery room she made the terrible decision to give up her newborn. No physician condemned her at the time. Olesya later located her mothers grave, where a tall angelic monument now stood.
She often remembered Mykola Petrovych, but when she returned to the city many years later, he was nowhere to be found. The orphanage director had changed, and almost all the old staff had been replaced.
Whenever she had a free moment, Olesya and Katrya would stroll to the park. Katrya, laughing, always tried to save the world. Until six she was remarkably clever, somehow convincing her mother to spend on any whim before the park: buying candy for all the children, feeding ducks with loaves, or, on a sweltering day, handing out at least ten portions of ice cream. Today she demanded:
Mom, please buy sausage, a loaf, and a drink.
Olesya stared at her.
Whos asking this time? she wondered.
Mom, maybe youd better not know. Why upset yourself again? Katrya replied.
Katya, were not going anywhere right now, Olesya said.
Mom, theres an old man with no home, Katrya said.
What?! Olesya felt as if she might faint. Katrya smiled, as if saying, I warned you.
Mom, why are you so worried? Hes just an old man, alone.
He didnt beg like others; he was shy. He knew countless tales and poems that no one else did. Do you mind the sausages?
Olesya, now an adult and a senior employee at a large construction firm, simply didnt know what to answer. She bought everything Katrya asked for and they headed to the park.
Katrya sat on a bench. Mom, stay here while I go to the pond. See that old man? Thats him.
Olesya indeed saw a poorly dressed elderly man near some children, which eased her anxiety. The main thing was that her daughter was in sight.
That night she lay on the sofa with a book. Katrya was in her room. Suddenly Olesya heard a familiar tune. Silence, then the same melody that had first drawn her in. She rushed to her daughters room, eyes wide with fear.
Mom, did I wake you? Katrya asked.
Yes, what was that?
The old man at the pond taught me to play the flute. I can manage most of it, but the transition at the beginning wont work.
Katrya sighed bitterly, holding a flute. Olesya looked at her, tears welling.
Let me show you. It took me a while to get the notes right, too.
Olesya played the whole melody and began to weep. Memories flooded her so powerfully she couldnt stop. Katrya, genuinely frightened, asked, Mom, why are you so sad? Did the music upset you? Should I stop playing at home?
Olesya shook her head, left the room, and a minute later returned with the same flute, now slightly dulled by time.
Katrya, do you know where that man lives?
Mom, by the pond, behind the bushes, his boxes are there.
Lets go, dear.
They found him immediately. Katrya shouted, Grandpa! and he emerged from the shrubs.
Whats wrong, little one? Why arent you home? he asked, startled.
Mykola Petrovych, good day, she replied, trembling.
He stared at her face for a long moment. Olesya it cant be.
She hugged him tightly.
Everything can be. Enough feeding the mosquitoes; lets go home.
Where to?
Home, Mykola Petrovych. If it werent for you, Id have nothing. My home is always yours.
On the walk back, Mykola wiped away tears that had been weighing him down. They had been a curse, appearing from nowhere. If Olesya hadnt held his hand firmly, he would have fallen long ago.
Now, deep in his soul, he felt certaintyhe would never again wander alone into the dawn, unwanted by anyone.
