Yevgeny Valerianovich Samoilov was flummoxed by the fact that every reason necessarily began with “because.”
He worked backwards while he lay in bed at night. “If every reason starts with ‘because’ then every woman starts with a reason. Of course, every fight starts with a woman. Every reconciliation starts with a fight.”
And just as he drifted off he would see an image of a fine settling of dust and snap back awake.
And that is when he would begin to speak aloud: “I am mighty. If I am mighty, I have the strength to sleep. I am mighty and because I’m mighty I have the strength to sleep.”
After a sleepless night, he would rise and say to his hands, stretched high above his head: “I am mighty. I was relentless in my pursuit of sleep. I did not lose heart like the dozen who dozed at Gethsemane.”
He was very good at turning events to maintain his self-assurance.
He would splash cold water on his face and pat himself down with talc.
He would lick his hands and palm the sparse lint off his wool jacket.
He slammed the door behind him and kicked through the collecting trash to the circus each morning.
The circus equipment was old and faded, especially early on in the day, before the lights had been turned on.
The trash was new and bright, but beneath Yevgeny’s feet it went unnoticed.
yevgeny valerianovich samoilov