The courtyard is large, and the gate is a fair distance away. There’s a shortcut across the piles of snow. Polina decides to take the shortest path. She speeds up and launches into the nearest drift. The snow is surprisingly deep. Polina sinks to her knees and continues by crawling . . . Her left boot sticks and slides off . . . Polina doesn’t notice and continues on . . .
Oh no, Polina. There you are. In the snow.
How do we get there?! I have to get there in time!
Think of the warmth you talked about. Think of the warmth that came over you. Think of the bright, divine light. Try to remember that!
I only see snow and darkness . . .
You’ve opened your eyes! Close them. Now.
The Polina in the air closes her eyes, and soon they both start to hear a rustling as the hems of the heavy, sable coat rub against the snow. Sweating in the coat, Polina struggles forward, over the snow bank, scooping the snow with her hands, churning with her knees. Rustling, groaning, groaning, rustling, until finally, after an interminably long time, she reaches the top of the snow pile. Panting, she stands and raises her right hand in a sign of triumph.
Then she falls. She falls completely inside the pile of snow as if plunging into water.
Dear God.
How is that possible?
Inside, deep inside, is an abandoned snow fort. A hollow space into which Polina slips, straight-legged, as tightly as a knife into a sheath. Behind her she pulls more snow, which seals the opening and edges and fills the cavities caused by the fall. Polina is completely and utterly stuck. When she tries to move, her body only drills more firmly into the blanket of snow.
For a moment, just for a fleeting moment, the situation amuses Polina.
Then she realizes that she can’t laugh.
She opens her mouth and tries to scream. Of course her voice doesn’t carry at all. She is surrounded by plowed, hard, stratified snow, three hundred kilograms per square meter; no sound can get through that. Polina’s cry stops cold at the wall of snow touching her face.
Polina tries to move one more time. She struggles, thrusting her stuck arms upwards. They don’t budge even a centimeter. The toes inside her remaining boot wiggle when she moves them, but her bootless foot is already numb with cold. Her knee won’t move. Her head won’t turn. Polina begins to tire. Her breathing slows, and the air she blows out now is already cool. The snow her warm breath has melted in front of her mouth begins to freeze.
The Polina in the air speeds up. Her jelly body contracts and expands in pulses as she attempts to pump herself full of explosive energy. She has to get to where she is! To where she will still be breathing for a few more seconds . . . Polina tumbles forward rapidly toward the snow bank but rebounds like a soft ball.
Polina, stop!
Shlomith! Help! I can’t get into the snow!
Calm down! You’re just wasting time!
What can I do?!
I’m going to say this for the third and final time: think of warmth. Think of bright, yellow light.
How will that help? That was Maimuna’s death in the desert. I’m dying in freezing snow!
Polina Yurievna Solovyeva: stop doubting! Believe me, and believe your own memories. You died experiencing divine love. You said so yourself! How did it go in Russian?
Divine love?
Exactly.
Well now. Think of that. Think of this: you’re in the cold snow, but you feel warmth and you see light. You’re losing consciousness, and you can’t feel your extremities any more. There are no fingers, no arms, no toes, no calves, no thighs. Nothing you could use to move. To push. To kick. Only the pulsating center part . . .
BooŽEStvennaya LjuBOF . . . BooŽEStvennaya LjuBOF . . .
You feel a tingling that isn’t located in any specific place . . . Polina, I sense it! I feel the throbbing: the throbbing of your heart! Do you feel it?!
Shlomith, I can’t feel it! I still can’t feel it!
Try again: say “BooŽEStvennaya LjuBOF!” Say it over and over. Say it! Say it now!
BooŽEStvennaya LjuBOF . . . BooŽEStvennaya LjuBOF . . . BooŽEStvennaya LjuBOF . . .
Polina, listen. The tingling is everywhere. Not in your limbs, not even on your skin. “Skin”, “head”, “limbs”, “index fingers”, “little toes” . . . these don’t exist any more. You are one with the universe. You see a bright light even though your eyes are closed. The light calls to you. It’s a promise of warmth like down . . . no hardness . . . nothing hard ever again . . . no bruises . . .
No hardness . . . no bruises . . .
You feel no fear. All your fears have melted in the warmth. You’re full of trust. You don’t have to fight any more, Polina. There’s only love. You can submit!
Shlomith’s coaxing, clearly delineated, even commanding thoughts begin to bear fruit. Suddenly before them is a whiteness, a pure whiteness. Whiteness like a silver screen full of light that the projector might fill with pictures at any moment. They feel themselves moving forward. They move through the white. They pass small bits of trash, cigarette butts, and branches broken from trees. They pass a small shovel buried in the snow, a red one that might have been used to finish the arch of the cave. A weak, barely audible thumping guides them: tu-tum, tu-tum, tu-tum. A heart in the bowels of the cave. The closer the beating takes them, the more powerfully the whiteness begins to tremble, until they arrive as if entering the center of a buckskin drum. On one side of the drum-skin waits Polina, whose strength is fading, the Polina who can’t get
