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Мандариновый год
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March 6, 2025
Galina Shcherbakova is “You Can’t Even Imagine.” It seems to me that it’s hard for any author to continue their creative path after such a monumental success. Everything written afterward pales in comparison to the well-known, adapted work that continues to be read and experienced by readers, even years later, with everyone still invested in the fates of the young characters. And here it is: the power of prejudice! I had the impression that Shcherbakova writes about school, about first tender feelings, about boys and girls who are just beginning to grow up. It turns out, it’s not just about that.
The collection "Mandarin Year", which includes two novellas: "Mandarin Year, or The Ideal Option" and "The Town Left Behind", as well as two short stories, "The Evening Was..." and "The Case with Kuzmenko", left a bitter aftertaste and respect for the author’s craftsmanship.
The title work in the collection tells the story of a complicated situation that Alexei Nikolaevich, a middle-aged man, a model family man, and a humble worker in a printing shop, finds himself in. He lived like everyone else: he studied, went to work, met a nice girl from a teaching college, married her, brought her into a tiny “two-room” apartment that he shared with his mother after his father's death, then his daughter Lenka was born, and they managed to get themselves a three-room apartment, his mother had worked on the subway in her youth. Alexei Nikolaevich ran around various departments, collecting certificates, even forged one, as his wife Anna had a friend working at the tuberculosis dispensary. Then Alexei Nikolaevich's mother passed away. She had refused to move into the new apartment, no matter what. Alexei Nikolaevich set up a study-library for himself, and his teenage daughter also has her own room. This isn’t the notorious “seven square meters” in a communal apartment where Alexei Nikolaevich spent his childhood. It seemed like everything was fine. But a trip to a rest home after his mother’s death stirred up Alexei Nikolaevich’s soul, or rather, a conversation about a carpet that took place two years after that fateful trip. His wife wanted a carpet, but he wanted parquet. Or rather, it wasn’t him, but she, Vika. The very same Vika, so different from his plump, always dressed in a short, untidy robe wife. Elegant Vika, smart, with a cooperative two-room apartment left by her ex-husband. It was Vika, seeing the situation from all angles, who suggested the best solution to Alexei Nikolaevich. The ideal option.
It’s immediately worth noting the wonderful, light style that Shcherbakova masters so well. It seems as if this writer doesn’t need to invent anything, as her stories begin so naturally. You read and get the impression that she didn’t make this up, but just took it from life, both the conflicts and the characters. The short stories feel like little novels, as they are so filled with meaning—emotional, psychological—and the characters' traits, even the secondary ones, are so vividly drawn that even when Shcherbakova only sketches them with a few strokes, they seem already familiar. There’s Verka, the nurse, a chatterbox-divorcee, wearing a short dress and bright plastic earrings, a walking source of information; the strict Makeevna, who buried her husband and lost her son during the war, the older sisters didn’t watch over him, and now all three are old maids, only occasionally visiting their elderly mother; or quiet Zoya, scraping by from paycheck to paycheck after her husband’s absurd death. They all become close and understandable immediately. Even Vika, the homewrecker with her “ideal option,” even Anna, the bitch, who won’t stop at anything to defend her own, even Alexei Nikolaevich, who stirred up this whole mess, also evokes both pity and understanding.
Like any true master, it’s hard to box Galina Shcherbakova into a single genre, to define or limit her creativity because her works are about life. About ordinary life. The kind of life it is. And in this life, there is room for drama, but a quiet, almost unnoticed drama for others, and laughter, lively and carefree, reminding one of childhood, running barefoot on sun-warmed planks and never thinking about splinters; and tragedy, but one so mundane and sometimes absurd; and grief, for which there is no time to indulge, because there are things to do, responsibilities, and they all pile up at once; and happiness, because fate sometimes unexpectedly returns what it once took away; and coincidences, that could easily fit in an Indian film, but they happen in ordinary apartments of typical nine-story buildings and in shady gardens that smell of violets.
A strange mix of emotions lingers after reading. It’s funny and nostalgically pleasant, but still, there’s something heavy in the soul, an unease, as if something has settled in the heart after these stories and doesn’t let go. Shcherbakova knows how to depict, without spoon-feeding or falling into sentimentality, sparsely but so clearly and precisely the state of things, that the characters' feelings and experiences become understandable even without unnecessary words, even without the key words. Every movement of the soul is emphasized and expressed in actions, in what is done or, on the contrary, not done, postponed, rejected, as unacceptable. There’s no grandeur, pathos, scale, heart-wrenching scenes, or long dialogues in her books, but despite this, each novella, even the smallest story, immediately leaves an impression, is remembered for its mood, inner light, and continues to stir the soul with a quiet, light sadness. Perhaps because Galina Shcherbakova knew how to notice all these small details, strokes, character traits, everyday matters, and little things, whose interaction weaves the daily picture of ordinary life, in which drama can break out suddenly, over a regular family dinner because of some silly carpet...
The collection "Mandarin Year", which includes two novellas: "Mandarin Year, or The Ideal Option" and "The Town Left Behind", as well as two short stories, "The Evening Was..." and "The Case with Kuzmenko", left a bitter aftertaste and respect for the author’s craftsmanship.
The title work in the collection tells the story of a complicated situation that Alexei Nikolaevich, a middle-aged man, a model family man, and a humble worker in a printing shop, finds himself in. He lived like everyone else: he studied, went to work, met a nice girl from a teaching college, married her, brought her into a tiny “two-room” apartment that he shared with his mother after his father's death, then his daughter Lenka was born, and they managed to get themselves a three-room apartment, his mother had worked on the subway in her youth. Alexei Nikolaevich ran around various departments, collecting certificates, even forged one, as his wife Anna had a friend working at the tuberculosis dispensary. Then Alexei Nikolaevich's mother passed away. She had refused to move into the new apartment, no matter what. Alexei Nikolaevich set up a study-library for himself, and his teenage daughter also has her own room. This isn’t the notorious “seven square meters” in a communal apartment where Alexei Nikolaevich spent his childhood. It seemed like everything was fine. But a trip to a rest home after his mother’s death stirred up Alexei Nikolaevich’s soul, or rather, a conversation about a carpet that took place two years after that fateful trip. His wife wanted a carpet, but he wanted parquet. Or rather, it wasn’t him, but she, Vika. The very same Vika, so different from his plump, always dressed in a short, untidy robe wife. Elegant Vika, smart, with a cooperative two-room apartment left by her ex-husband. It was Vika, seeing the situation from all angles, who suggested the best solution to Alexei Nikolaevich. The ideal option.
It’s immediately worth noting the wonderful, light style that Shcherbakova masters so well. It seems as if this writer doesn’t need to invent anything, as her stories begin so naturally. You read and get the impression that she didn’t make this up, but just took it from life, both the conflicts and the characters. The short stories feel like little novels, as they are so filled with meaning—emotional, psychological—and the characters' traits, even the secondary ones, are so vividly drawn that even when Shcherbakova only sketches them with a few strokes, they seem already familiar. There’s Verka, the nurse, a chatterbox-divorcee, wearing a short dress and bright plastic earrings, a walking source of information; the strict Makeevna, who buried her husband and lost her son during the war, the older sisters didn’t watch over him, and now all three are old maids, only occasionally visiting their elderly mother; or quiet Zoya, scraping by from paycheck to paycheck after her husband’s absurd death. They all become close and understandable immediately. Even Vika, the homewrecker with her “ideal option,” even Anna, the bitch, who won’t stop at anything to defend her own, even Alexei Nikolaevich, who stirred up this whole mess, also evokes both pity and understanding.
Like any true master, it’s hard to box Galina Shcherbakova into a single genre, to define or limit her creativity because her works are about life. About ordinary life. The kind of life it is. And in this life, there is room for drama, but a quiet, almost unnoticed drama for others, and laughter, lively and carefree, reminding one of childhood, running barefoot on sun-warmed planks and never thinking about splinters; and tragedy, but one so mundane and sometimes absurd; and grief, for which there is no time to indulge, because there are things to do, responsibilities, and they all pile up at once; and happiness, because fate sometimes unexpectedly returns what it once took away; and coincidences, that could easily fit in an Indian film, but they happen in ordinary apartments of typical nine-story buildings and in shady gardens that smell of violets.
A strange mix of emotions lingers after reading. It’s funny and nostalgically pleasant, but still, there’s something heavy in the soul, an unease, as if something has settled in the heart after these stories and doesn’t let go. Shcherbakova knows how to depict, without spoon-feeding or falling into sentimentality, sparsely but so clearly and precisely the state of things, that the characters' feelings and experiences become understandable even without unnecessary words, even without the key words. Every movement of the soul is emphasized and expressed in actions, in what is done or, on the contrary, not done, postponed, rejected, as unacceptable. There’s no grandeur, pathos, scale, heart-wrenching scenes, or long dialogues in her books, but despite this, each novella, even the smallest story, immediately leaves an impression, is remembered for its mood, inner light, and continues to stir the soul with a quiet, light sadness. Perhaps because Galina Shcherbakova knew how to notice all these small details, strokes, character traits, everyday matters, and little things, whose interaction weaves the daily picture of ordinary life, in which drama can break out suddenly, over a regular family dinner because of some silly carpet...
June 25, 2012
This was not at all bad. I had a hard time deciding between three or four stars, but since it didn't actually "grab" me, I settled for three stars. This book consists of four novellas, and all of them are good. They are very different from one another, and an interesting thing about Scherbakova is that half of her main characters are men. I like it when women write about men, (and I would like it if men wrote about women, but I can't think of any who do...) and I think she does it very skilfully.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews