rabble rouser

𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 !!

     eugene  /  34 /  journalist for the new york times /  the demagogue

( LETTER TO THE TIMES:  .   .   . rewrite rewrite rewrite .   .   . migrants from the soviet union: a lesson from Budapest, a year later  .   .   .  rewrite rewrite rewrite  .   .   .  unfortunate loss of life  .   .   . a tragedy, the world is   .   .   .  watching )

                                                       𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎 𝐈𝐓.

— ❝ Someone like me? ❞

The words pass her lips without malice, nor offense. Instead, they are colored by curiosity. It was clear the reporter had painted himself a picture of who Zoja might be. A delicate dove. A snowflake, awaiting spring. Accurate or not, it stemmed from human nature, a need to understand others and, in turn, be understood.

Perhaps that is the reason why he had spoken to her on the roof, and why she had listened. To understand. To paint a detailed picture of Eugene, solely for her own viewing. He was forlorn in his tale, reserved, with words left unsaid that piqued her interest, hidden details that she wished to uncover.

❝ If that is the case, you would not enjoy Leningrad. The Neva tends to freeze over this time of year, ❞ she divulges. Not that he would know what winter feels like in the port city.

❝ I don’t see why not, ❞ a smile colors her cheeks, ❝ Lead the way, then. ❞

He opens the door for them both, and the cold rushes in. He thinks about hailing a taxi, but something stops him from doing so. He commits to calling one once it is apparent his companion is too cold to be walking.

“Did you have an enjoyable evening? I found it pleasant but nothing I would voluntarily experience again.” The cars with Russian engravings remind him of his place, and so he withholds another, more vicious thought. “It’s a shame I did not get the chance to meet with you while in the comfort of the hotel. I had much to talk about.”

“It surprised me though, how many politicians there were in attendance. I noticed a few of them had bodyguards by their side, which seems odd to me if everyone is supposed to be equal. No life worth more than another?” He looks at her from the side of his eye, trying to gauge her reaction. “Perhaps it is my American sentiment which clouds my understanding though.”

THE TROUBLE WITH BEAUTIFUL THINGS is that they’re so rarely seen — let alone heard, let alone touched — that attention becomes anathema to them. She lingers on the fringes of the room like wildflowers pressed between the pages of an antique book, lovely and forgotten and lovelier for being impossible to touch without ruin. There’s a looking-glass veneer quality to the evening, the chill of glass and mirror peering through endless refractions of your own reflection.

Once, she would have longed to come in from the cold, to be a part of something, to drink laughter like ambrosia and soak in the easy warmth of meaningless chatter. Oh, how she’d ached for it. With every unwilling, relentless inch of her. And yet over time, as summer spun onwards into fall and winter and the days grew long and indigo-veined, she found herself acclimatising to being alone.

It turns out you can survive almost anything if the only thing you need is you. 

Lost somewhere in between thought and dream, she doesn’t see Eugene coming until he is paces away and already opening his mouth to speak. The shutter of her lashes betrays her astonishment, a momentary disarming. The arc of her chin as she considers him is pensive and perhaps even a touch playful. 

❛  I suppose this would make me your knight in shining armour.  ❜   Her gaze flickers to the small circle of dancers across the room, their eyes trailing him like fireflies in the dark.   ❛  We shall have to keep you from stepping on my toes if we don’t want to indulge our audience’s expectations.  ❜   She lifts her hand for her Eugene to take, slender fingers tapering instinctively like butterfly wings.   ❛  But I suppose that’s why you came to me.  ❜

WITHOUT A SECOND THOUGHT, Eugene takes her hand into his own and rests his other on her back carefully. She’s warm, and like a man who had been frozen he begins to melt. Whether it was due to her distinct American accent, or the feeling of not being brushed aside as he had often felt before, Eugene began to ease the tension held tightly in his shoulders.

“I see you have the arrogance of a knight as well,” he chuckles, “It is presumptuous of you to think I came to you specifically and not because you were the first person I laid eyes on.”

There is a camaraderie between them that is born from the feeling of mutual distrust. Like all Americans Eugene talks with, he feels a sense of normalcy. The music swells around them and for the first time in weeks, Eugene does not mind being drowned in a cacophony of sound. A man can only listen to Tchaikovsky so much before he too feels as though his head might roll off his body.

“Are you enjoying Moscow, or are you like me and simply tolerating it until we can be freezing in New York.”

He doesn’t step on her feet, but he does not dance with the grace of those surrounding him. As they twirl, so does he; as they glide across the room, he tries to follow. He does not lead so much as he imitates that which is already hard to decipher.

“I might dance.” It’s with this admission that Alina keeps her gaze solidly on her plate of honey cake. If she looks at Eugene, he might take her response in the wrong way, if she meets the gaze of their table-mates she might be goaded into dancing sooner than she would like. “Although I prefer to sit and enjoy the evening with drinks instead. Ballroom dance and ballet require the same things: for the dancers to be light on their feet and partners to be in tune. Not too different.”

Prompted to explain the ‘allure’ of the art she so devotedly lives for, she says nothing for a moment, another bite of honey cake into her mouth and a sip of wine to cut against the sweetness. “Why does an artist paint?” She’s calm as she returns his question with one of her own, thoughtful as she poses her response. “Or, a singer perform? Why does a soccer player spend so much time training, or a writer nearly always carry a pen and notebook on them? The allure is whatever ignites within each dancer. Or, for a balletomane, much like a patron of any art or fan of a sports team, there is a love and appreciation for it. People ‘obsess’ for different reasons. It depends on who you are, and there’s not always a need to explain oneself.” She glances around the table to meet the amused yet approving looks of her peers, still easily slipping into the interviewee’s seat after leaving the spotlight, before looking towards Eugene. 

“I’m sure you provide a more objective approach to your writing about it than someone who is charmed by the art of ballet, then?”

IT HAD NOT BEEN THE ANSWER HE WAS LOOKING FOR, but Eugene supposes it is the only answer he will prod out of her. Silently he chastised her, answers which appeared to be of deep meaning or substance have always tasted vile on Eugene’s tongue. He takes a sip of water to recover.

“Ballet is something which I am not familiar with, and my audience would quite bland if I were to write solely based on my objective opinion. I was hoping to learn more about the inner workings of a former prima ballerina — but I suppose an interview with an upcoming one will suit me just as well.”

There is a bitterness in his words that are obvious to anyone overhearing their conversation. Perhaps if this conversation were to happen in New York, and there was no fear of silently being dragged into the night, then Eugene would press on. But for his own safety, he quells the obvious annoyance as best as he can manage.

“Writing for me is not life or death as it appears to be for so many of you. Writing is a vehicle for truth — a concept which seems to allude most here.”

He stands up then, a look of stoic annoyance.

“Excuse me.”

Fred gave the idea respectful consideration - a full drag’s worth of thought, and plus the time it took to billow a very visible cloud of smoke that left their lips as a warning of the temperature around them. There was nothing he wanted to forget, except maybe the kind of forgetting that a moment alone provided. Free from the airs and graces he felt he had to project around everyone here. 

“My answer wouldn’t regularly been about reminiscing but if those are my only two options. … I wouldn’t dream of questioning your mother either. ” There was a comfort in the universality of it all: a man, his mother and her truisms - he knew it well. 

“But it’s true these are one of the most familiar things to me here, I’m not looking forward to running out of this pack.” Fred’s hand instinctively raised to their inner jacket pocket where the carton was currently being held. Luckies, his choice brand ever since they were tucked into his first ever C-ration. 

“But honestly I just can’t go a meal without one of these to finish it off.”  He was now just left clinging the very end of the smoke, perilously close to singeing his fingers in desperate hope. Before it had even hit the floor they were considering the next and then dismissing it for scarcities’ sake. Instead they distracted themself by finally pulling their full focus towards their companion.

“What made you forget about yours?”

+

EUGNE IS NOT A SENTIMENTAL PERSON, and if he were a sentence so meaningless shouldn’t hurt so much. His breath catches on the frozen air, and the anger which burned inside him began to freeze into something foreign — unknown to even himself.

“My mother passed away on Christmas.” There is an impersonal tone to his voice, like he’s reciting fact of another person’s story. “Moscow reminds me of how cold this time of year can be.”

His throat clears and he turns toward his roommate. “I heard from the security guard that you were stuck in the basement of the Bolshoi theater. You were there for an hour — someone was with you.”

He walks closer to Fred, eyes shifting to the entrance above them.

“Aren’t you curious as to why you were stuck there? Don’t you think it’s a bit odd that you of all people became trapped in the theater?”

GROW UP CHILD, IT’S TIME TO GO.

TRANSFORMATION OF LIFE DEATH 

SUCH STRANGE VERSIONS OF LOVE.

bold what applies - italicize sometimes - strike out never

SUN • egotistical • melted wax wings and fingers • stretching sunburnt skin • the most generous soul • blood in the fruit • halos • anger on fire • high vitality • thunderous laughter • is pride really a sin? • halogenic aura

MERCURY • expansion of the mind • silver-tongued • an everlasting wanderer • polyglot • high dexterity • handwritten letters • innately critical • en vogue • eyes in the trees • hidden libraries • there’s always room for improvement

VENUS • in love with strangers • iridescent waters • love potions for your mirror • selfless devotion • shattering crystal • seafoam upon sand • the golden ratio • drowning in your own passion • material value & high principles • luring • plush lips

EARTH • fresh springs • tree hugger • we can start again tomorrow • a blazing rainforest • respects survival of the fittest • nature’s adversity • lazy bones • constantly evolving • flowers sprouting from wounds • a granite altar • fossilized remains

MOON • illusory • silver shimmer off the ocean • secrets and gossip • cycles of reincarnation • a crybaby • physically ethereal • shared glances with a stranger • cat eyes • mistrusting their intuition • fear is a prison • ornate magic wands

MARS • healthy competition • attraction and repulsion • magma and rubies • a blade being forged • wrath wrath wrath • malefic • intense eye contact • cannon fodder & fireworks • blood floods • copper taste on your tongue

JUPITER • red robes and a suit of armor • beacon of stability • leader by birth • thunderbolts and lightning • guilty but can’t stop • secret rich kid • golden touch golden tears • innate optimist • failure isn’t an option • constantly reaching for more • unfinished symphonies  

SATURN • traditional • overbearing energy • a sculptor of reality • this existence is a karmic one • has a heart it’s just.. way down deep • law, order & justice • avoid all necessary risk • the sound of shackles clanging • sisyphus’ struggle • grappling with the reality of time • self-governing

URANUS • psychedelic funk music • overflowing cups • a rebellion with skin • looking good in photo id • oblivious but caring • middle fingers in the air • double rainbows • icy diamond exterior • holographic • afraid of their own mediocrity • pearlescent smoke

NEPTUNE • an elegy for the lost • dissolving boundaries • white horses • the burden of mystical conditions • deceptive • escapism is their reality • a polarizing entity • artists soul • paranoia • searching for the unseen • a siren’s swan song

PLUTO • angel statues over graves • power • the cycle of necrosis • transformative • unfathomable depths • an ivory tower toppling over • screaming at the sky • violets and irises • eclipsed darkness • speaks with their shadow • sex, death, rebirth

tagged by: myself

For the past several minutes, Yelena had been able to tune out the comings and going of her fellow bar patrons with ease, their mumbling for this drink or that snack making not a dent in her personal mental force field. Usually, tuning out was easy because all the voices that she might or might not hear tended to have one thing in common. Most spoke at the very least passable Russian.

“How very kind of you,” she said with a grin. “But really, I’m impressed that you’re making the effort. To tell you the truth, I expected you glamorous Americans to just …behave entirely as normal, waiting for the world to bend to your will.”

“Do you know what? As compensation for your efforts, I think I ought to buy you a drink. A proper one, though.“She turned to the bartender, a slight smile upon her lips and breathed a request in lightning-fast Russian.

“There you are,” she said with a laugh as two servings of clear brown liquid clanked onto the bar top. “Kvass, a hint of cinnamon syrup and plenty of vodka. Enjoy!”

“YOU THINK ME GLAMOROUS?” He raises an eyebrow, there is evident joy in his voice. “I am in absolute elation at your words.”

The drink tastes horrible, but he pretends to enjoy it for her sake. His lips do not even touch the rim after his second sip. The world starts to spin. 

“Your full name is Yelena Andreyevna Kuznetsova — born January 21, 1930, right at the start of the Great Depression.” His words are starting to slur together and his mouth refuses to shut up. “God, be glad you did not grow up in America. Beans and bread and cheese. The three B’s.” 

“At least it’s not Russia!”

When: 12:50 PM Where: coat check With: @timeseugene​

— The Americans are a curious breed. They wrap themselves in fine materials and drape themselves in delicate jewels. The Russian tongue is brutalized on their lips, which they mold into bright grins. It was a spectacle never before seen, and Zoja is drawn to it like a moth is to a flame. They are books, sitting on shelves to be selected by careful hands. Pages, still left unturned. Stories, waiting to be swallowed whole by her hungry eyes.

Eugene Ye-jun Kim is but one such story. The coat he wears is new compared to the one Zoja drapes around her shoulders, with its missing button and a silhouette belonging to a time long past. There is a heaviness that settles on his frame, different from mere exhaustion. She takes note of it before it is hidden in the dark of the night. The festivities have come to a close and they, too, must leave.

A red glow still present on her cheeks. ❝Tired?❞ she asks, tilting her head, ❝The cold will wake you, I’m sure.❞

It’s a careful beginning. Testing the waters before jumping in, submerging your body, exploring the deep blue. 

MEMORIES RARELY FADE ONCE THEY HAVE BEEN SET IN INK. 

“The cold has done nothing but make me wish I were asleep.” He hands the coat boy his ticket and waits. “I’m surprised someone like you can tolerate it.”

Zoja. She reminds him of a pressed flower, petals pressed against forgotten words and immortalized by something heavier than her being. He pities her, to a degree, but Eugene is sure she thinks the same of him. 

He hadn’t meant to speak with her that night. On the rooftop of that god forsaken building and speaking as though reminiscing with a ghost. She’s a kind listener, and he’s careful not to unduly burden her with his intrusive thoughts.

His coat is brought back to him, and he waits. “Would you care to join me on my walk home, I would feel awfully terrible leaving a lady alone at night.”

“YOU’VE TRADED HAIR COLOUR FOR dancing,” She muses in response. The majority of the rest of the table is made up of ballet-repetiteurs and their spouses, with Ulyana directly to her right. Her husband hadn’t felt well enough to attend, but the blonde wouldn’t be deterred from an evening soirée any more than she could be kept from a makeup brush. 

“We were just just discussing whether or not we’d see any of the dancers gliding across the ballroom tonight, and betting which ones.” Though she isn’t any warmer than usual, the atmosphere of the dining hall, and in particular the amused grins around the table are enough to make her seem more relaxed. It’s the slice of honey cake that’s presented to her that brings a smile to materialise in Eugene’s company. 

“If you were allergic, I would simply make sure that slice wouldn’t be put to waste. Does that count as saving you?” She refrains from commenting on his fumbled attempt at Russian, everyone had heard it but she would not be the one to verbalise the shared sentiment she could tell ran through a few others’ minds. Instead, she delicately takes a bite of the dessert with a faint glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Will you be dancing?”

“No one should be subjected to such torture,” He takes a bite of the cake and only briefly thinks of falling over in jest. “And yourself? I would think as a former prima ballerina you would be somewhat adept at handling yourself with the grace needed for ballroom dance — but then again, I have been wrong, unlikely as that may seem.”

Prima ballerina. That word means nothing to him, but from what he has gathered it means everything to those who hold it. 

"I would like to know, what is the allure of ballet? It is beautiful, I will admit, but I do not understand those who obsess over it.”

“ Nasty habit. ” It came as an announcement, of arrival, of intent. It seemed appropriate to slink from the shadows with at least preliminary mutterings. “ Wasting a good cigarette, I mean. ” They revealed themselves further, under illumination from an old, scratched lighter. From it arose a delicate yellow flame that tilted in the light evening breeze. It took two attempt, to singe the paper and the tops of his fingers before it properly combusted between his teeth.

And then it was dark again, with just the gentle moonlight striking the tops of their heads as they stood amongst the rare blooms. “You’re better with the cold than I am, ” came after a couple of drags, each inhale a moment of warmth, bashing against the insides of a frozen body. He would’ve likely made a few more escapes from the proceedings in the hotel had he beared to face the winter. It wasn’t a particularly insightful observation, but his portrait of Eugene so far was made of not much more so far.

Eugene is not surprised when Fred emerges from nightfall. There’s a unique mystery about the man that had there been enough time in the world, he would have loved to get to the bottom of. A hidden secrecy that suited the Soviets more than he thought suited the Harlemite.

“You sound like my mother,” he replies watching as the man breathes out a puff of smoke. “And not to mar her good name, but she said those who smoke only do so for two reasons: to forget or to reminisce.” 

The sound of nearby water soothes him, making him more poetic than usual. “And I do not take you for someone who forgets things so easily. Why are you out here?”

Where: Ballroom

Who: @metamorphosies​​

DANCING HAD NEVER BEEN EUGENE’S FAVORITE PASTIME, but the girlish laughter at his supposed inadequacy left him more than indignant. 

“I can dance, I simply don’t want to.” 

“You’re such a bore, Eugene.” — “I don’t believe it.” — “I bet he’s actually very good.” — “No he’s very clumsy, didn’t you see the orange juice incident?”

“I am not clumsy.”

With each round of abuse, his patience grew thin. “You want me to dance? Fine, I’ll dance.” His whisper yell does nothing to assuage their antagonizing. “But I will not dance with any of you. God knows you would purposefully let me fail.”

There was no rhyme or reason to his actions, it was simply pure instinct which lead him to Eva Miro: principal dancer for the New York City Ballet company, and the subject of envy for the gaggle of corpse de ballet dancers he was speaking with.

“May I have this dance Ms. Miro.”

Where: Foreigner’s Bar

Who: @yelenakuznetsova​

“MOSCOW IS HELL,” he thinks, “ but at least they served good liquor.” Perhaps in a poor attempt to not make a fool of himself, Eugene finds himself at “The Foreigner” — the only place in all of Russia that suits him.

“Vodka-tini.” He says in Russian, a smug look on his face at a sentence gone well. Practice does make perfect after all. The bartender looks at him, and raises an eyebrow before turning back to his station and preparing his drink. The arrogant look falls off his face and suddenly he feels embarrassed. Maybe it was the drinks he had beforehand that made him more openly vulnerable.

A quiet laugh catches his attention and suddenly Eugene’s face turns red. “A man has to try doesn’t he? We can’t all be as talented as you are Ms. Kuznetsova.”

IF AN AMERICAN REPORTER thought he’d be able to pull from her the answers that she’d kept within herself ( despite all rumours, despite what all else might have said ), he would have better luck pursuading her to take a bite of tangerine pie. 

Alina had preferred it, leaving them without answer even after she’d appeared at the head of the Bolshoi’s rehearsal room. There would be no fall from grace, no unexpected decline in performance. Eugene could write as he pleased. Wasn’t that what journalists wanted anyway? To tell the story they wanted?

“No.” She nearly claims that it is, sparing him but a glance, but as she is who she is, he is an American— a celebrated guest along with the rest of them, who is apparently without a seat. “Please,” Her hand raises, turned up and open as she gestures to the chair. “You shouldn’t miss the meal.” Curious that he seems to have missed the first half of it, though. 

“Have the dancers already exiled you from hearing their gossip?” It’s made in jest, yet she wonders all the same between a sip of wine. 

HE WONDERS IF SOMEONE HAD been seated in his spot beforehand. Had Alina chased them away with her sour attitude, or had they had the unfortunate encounter of food gone bad. It was bitterness talking. To say Eugene was less than enthused about the food provided would be an understatement. He considered it a pity that it seemed as though they were trying to impress his foreign friends.

“Quite the opposite, I heard quite enough about Darya’s unnatural hair color. I sought you out as a reprise from such blabber.”

A waiter appeared before them, and suddenly a a crumbly multilayered cake appeared before him. It seemed to be covered in ground walnuts and smelled vaguely of honey. “Медовик” the man said before disappearing into the sea of waiters.

Eugene tries to repeat the word he had just heard to no avail. “What if I were allergic to nuts? Who would save me.” His tone is full of jest, but he wonders — who would?