Maria Stepanova

An exploration of life at the margins of history from one of Russia's most exciting contemporary writers

In Memory of Memory

Mattea Marjorie

Somewhere by a stream in the mid- to late-1930s two young women are posing for a photograph and they can't stop laughing. One has let her hair loose, she leans down and is about to lay her white knitted shawl in the grass. The other is holding her hat to her head in the invisible breeze. They wear short, lightweight dresses. Their bags are already lying on the ground and their underclothes are crumpled at their feet.

Only now l've realized what it means to feel, only now l've realized where what is called ‘desire’ resides. I didn't see you for a day and I was beartbroken, I didn't know where to put myself, but I didn't ring you or tell you bow my hear was feeling. I was held back by my doubts, my fear, I thought it would divide us, I thought that I sbouldn't be in the grip of my desires to such an extent, I thought... I couldn't stop thinking... But I'm used to being reserved, not giving in to impetuosity, and my reserve saved me. 

Still, you, my darling, you are impetuous in your passion, and today I realized wbat it has cost you to keep your desire under control. And my own sufferings seemed so little in comparison, and I even had the brief fleeting thought that perhaps I’m not worthy of you.

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