„I don’t have anything to lose now.“

„All right, keep your chin up. See you this evening.“

„So long.“

Mama slowly puts down the receiver. She stares dully at the table, not thinking about anything. I don’t understand what’s going on with her now. Why doesn’t she want me? Why isn’t she happy that she is carrying a son under her heart, the way any woman would be? Would she be more reasonable if she knew that? Many women dream of having a boy for their first child. I have no idea how to give her a hint that I resemble her long deceased father. And when I grow up, I will be just as handsome, tall and broad-shouldered.

Several times my grandmother told my Mama the story of her marriage, about how Dominic, her future father, had lured my grandmother away from her fiancé, who was a famous arctic pilot and a hero of the Soviet Union. Grandma was proud of this and had no regrets that she had not acquired the good things in life that fate would have bestowed on her, if she had become the wife of a courageous pilot.

My Mama is still in a sour mood. Although I feel sorry for her, I don’t make any effort to lift her from her depression. Sometimes it’s useful to whine a little and spend some time alone. It’s impossible to feed yourself with nothing but sweets; life would become too saccharine. Bitter tears are a protection against diabetes.

No one interferes with my Mama’s grieving; classes are going on at the university, and during the morning hours the editor’s office is empty. This is the best time to work. Mama has a very important responsibility at the Energy newspaper: secretary in chief. I don’t know what people in this position do at other newspaper editors’ offices, but Mila is a copy editor, typist, layout artist and proofreader. On Wednesdays she has additional responsibilities dumped on her, and she has to hang out all day in the printing shop. This is called being „in charge of the issue.“ Fortunately, the printing shop is in the same building as the regional newspaper, Soviet Siberia. This setup works out well for Mama. On days when the latest issue is being published, she spends her free time in the correspondence department of Soviet Siberia conversing with Zina, the head of the department. Her conversations with her friend help the time go by faster.

Mama continues to be depressed, drawing meaningless circles on her paper. It’s best not to disturb her. Let her get used to the thought that there are two of us, and that we are a unified whole, an indissoluble bond: mother and son. I turn over – I’m not content lying on one side for too long – and like a true man, I assume a comfortable position. Now I can invite her into the conversation.

„Mama, talk to me,“ I ask affectionately, calculating that the brief pause has gone on for too long.

She seems to hear me, and she places her hands on her stomach; I feel the warmth of her hands and gratefully cling to the wall of my pool, enjoying the new sensations. I am in ecstasy; I have never felt so good before. „Mommy, I love you!“ I whisper enthusiastically, reveling in the heavenly pleasure.

The telephone rings shrilly. Mama jerks back her hand, grabs the receiver and raps out her words in a mechanical voice: „Editorial office.“

„Lyudmila Dominicovna, come to the party committee office.“

Mama grows cold, hearing the stern voice of the party committee leader; she has grown accustomed to recognizing his mood immediately. She grabs her keys and rushes up to the third floor. I hold tightly to my cord, afraid of being hurt; she is running down the hall at such a breakneck speed that anything can happen. I don’t need any pre-birth trauma that could turn me into an invalid for life.