Don't Call It A Night

Don't Call It A Night

I originate from St. Petersburg, the city where daylight and darkness chase each other in an eternal battle. When darkness takes the lead, people get gloomy November without any sunlight or hope for it. When the light breaks through and, eventually, replaces the night, this happens to be the season of the white nights. A short and therefore even more precious northern summer.

This is a purely geographical event. I mean, St. Petersburg doesn't even have the whitest white nights. People who live near or above the Arctic Circle – I heard it with my own ears – make jokes about “famous white nights”. For true northerners our white nights are dark.

In St. Petersburg, though, the white nights have become a phenomenon – thanks to the literature, fine arts, cinema. The white nights in St. Petersburg are a big thing, not only because it's a one long day from the end of May till the beginning of July, but also a cultural code which you either read or not. A period of time everyone is looking forward to impatiently, and in May sighs with relief: this is happening again! If you consider yourself young, then in May and, especially, in June you don't sleep. Even if you want to. You just can't waste this miraculously short time on being in bed by midnight. You rather whine about not sleeping than actually sleep.

During the white nights, as the cultural code says, life can take a different turn, love and drama, most certainly, will burst out, weird things will happen. Everything can happen, in fact. This is a sort of Christmas, only in summer.

The white nights are shamelessly stunning: google the “opening bridges” – the number one cliché and the number one must-see – and you'll know I am right.

The white nights don't age.

The white nights tell stories that didn't happen. They even create false memories that. however, become so dear, that you don't want to replace them with some stupid truth.

The white nights are perfect for daydreaming.

I believe I'm entitled to add up a few lines about this magical season, even though it has been described a million times, and in a much more sophisticated tone than I am capable of.

Why so?

Having moved out of the city, I miss the white nights almost as much as I miss the people, and as much as I miss time that has gone, and unlike the white nights, probably can't repeat itself. Second of all, my mother starred in a movie about the white nights, and, at one point, this was a famous movie. Then... Well, there is no “then” – these two reasons seem enough to me.

Once there was that June that I spent only with my mum. The rest of our family – my dad and my sister – were out of the city. This meant that all days long I was glued to my mum's hand: too small to stay alone, too big to be left with a sitter for the whole day without arguing about that.

We were coming back home from the theater she worked at. It was after 10 pm, and the city was transparent: the sky was pink and blue, the streets were gray and beautiful – as only in St. Petersburg gray can be beautiful. We got out of the metro and were supposed to take a bus that would bring us home – to the ugly residential area of the city that I call “ugly” just for the effect – it never looked ugly to me. Even now I'd not call it ugly – just like I'd not call ugly, say, my own hand. I might not be a fan of it, but I'd rather cherish it as it is...

Anyway!

Buses, for some reason, didn't operate at that hour and we had to walk. I was little, demanding and tired. I wanted to get to my bed, and my mum was in the mood to talk. We walked past the blocks of houses: people were walking their dogs, and were shouting at other people; some were drinking or singing songs, or doing both.

“Don't look at them,” my mum said.

We walked past the construction sites, the industrial zones, and the only one existing at a time gas station. It was a long and unpleasant walk. I was dying to sleep.

“What did you like about today?” my mum suddenly asked.

“Nothing,” I responded.

“Nothing nothing? Not even a one good thing happened to you today?”

“No,” I said.

We walked down the bridge and turned right – to the bank of the river that would eventually lead us to home. The river was disgusting: it smelled like sewage and looked the same. I don't even know why it's called the “river” – this is obviously a sewage channel that, for some reason, has been dug above the ground.

In the evenings the inhabitants of that neighborhood would walk along the river and feed the ducks.

“This is okay,” my mum said. “If you didn't have a good day today, the following one might be better.”

I looked at her. She smiled at me, she hugged me even. But she was not fun. As always, my mum was concerned about something that she could never properly put in words.

She said:

“If you could not make something today, there will always be the next day when you can give it another try. Everything will be fine, my girl.”

Well, she was not right. If you don't make something today, the chances are high that you will never make it.

We walked and walked, until it was almost the midnight. It was still light in the city. The night, even though the short and the slim one, should have taken it over by then. The new day should have begun.

But despite all the odds, that day – the day we're walking along the river and don't see how carefree our life is right now: I am too young to see, and mum is too busy at work and too worried about insignificant things, – that day never ends.