I’ve always dreamed to see Dad here, in Cambridge.

Most of the times when L. and I were strolling around the centre, or walking to Grantchester and Trumpington and passing by the pubs—all the Red Lions, Green Men and Green Dragons, all the Ploughs, Alexandra’s Arms and White/Black Swans—I told L., “next time, when Dad visits, we can take him here, and he will finally try one of those ales or whatever”: I am a moron when speaking about beer, as I don’t like it. But Dad did, and I imagined his first sip sitting on a crude wooden bench in the beer garden. It might be sunny or maybe not, but it would be great, of course.

I knew it was highly unlikely that he would come: after his major heart surgery in 2018 he was careful with travelling, especially that far and by plane. But there was hope, and against all odds I believed it would be possible one day. It never happened.

It’s not easy to keep all your memories after they’ve got somewhat scrambled: besides, the main thing is to always remember that it is not about “precious you”. (You are not precious; not being self-deprecating, but you should remember that you are just one of those middle-aged people who must embrace the loss and deal with it like a grown-up, without creating cheap dramas: your beloved ones don’t deserve any hint of an emotional trainwreck.) Rather, it’s about him—even though, through your self-reflection, you need to seek precision for the sake of truth.

***

One of my first less obscure memories: Dad and I were travelling to Tiksi almost on New Year’s Eve, as Mum was waiting for us at our Tiksi home (she flew earlier: don’t remember why exactly, but I guess it was something connected to her work schedule). I was around four and tireless—climbing things, getting sick on the first flight (we had quite a few as the journey to the Arctic was not easy), asking for food etc. Our further flights from Sheremetyevo were cancelled due to a huge snowstorm along the route. But we finally made it as far as to Norilsk, where we boarded our next flight almost immediately on a smaller plane first to Amderma and then to Khatanga (on the Taymyr peninsula, if you are interested: each flight took four hours or so) where we got stuck for two nights: Tiksi cancelled all the arrivals due to a massive polar blizzard. I remember Dad constantly playing with me, then feeding me in the small room “for mothers and children”—the airport was tiny, of wooden construction, full of people dressed either in a lambskin (dublionka) or fur coats. I found it all highly entertaining as I was running around and cheerfully screaming for no apparent reason (yeah, I do remember the screams) and then suddenly falling asleep. I slept on a folding bed, on top of Dad’s sheepskin coat, and he told me much later that I slept so long and so deeply that it started freaking him out. But I was just tired: he was by my side, and I felt safe.

We finally managed to fly to Tiksi, and Mum was standing on the stairs and laughing; I believe, the New Year (1980) was about to begin.

***

Two days ago, I decided to ask for a special prayer for Dad in one of the Eastern Orthodox parishes here, in Cambridge: they are located inside an old Anglican church. I stepped in and lit my candle when I was approached by one of those zealous old women, whose function is gatekeeping the community. “What are you doing?” she asked in poor English with that unmistakable unfriendly stiffness in her voice that all the people of my generation who left the former USSR might remember, “We are about to close anyway.” I replied politely that she could blow out my candle if she wanted. “Oh, and I would like to ask the priest about Sorokoust*,” I added.

Somehow my question and my request provoked an utter fury from the woman.

“No!” she exclaimed. “We don’t have enough priests for that! You should know about Panikhida**, and ask about this first, but it looks like you are absolutely unaware!”

I shrugged and turned away from her: that Soviet manner of giving you unsolicited advice in the rudest possible way had seemingly never gone away. But I found the priest, and he assured me that he will pray for Dad, and it was the main—and the best thing that happened. Maybe even a miracle that I didn’t expect to happen.

____________________________

* A series of liturgies in the Eastern Orthodox church in commemoration of a person who recently passed away.

** Another prayer service in memory of the deceased.