Zamkova Hora (A sketch) by Maria Panfiorova

The infamous building of the theater was just beneath us.
An eyesore for ones, an elegance for others – a true postmodern manifesto.
“Everything seems so tiny from up there,” she said.
I looked around — indeed, everything was there: abandoned shadows of history and their rebuilt counterparts, neat European tower spires and skeletons of stillborn skyscrapers, stone and steel, and glass, and unattached forest green. And then there was that chthonic soviet monster — the gray mass of concrete overhang above, spreading its roots, reminding everyone of that prehistoric time it ruled over all of us.
“Is that a hotel or what?”
“I don’t know, probably.”
“Maybe, a hospital.”
It could be one, it could be both, it could be everything — seemed so irrelevant from up there.
We heard the clock ringing behind us. A quarter past? A quarter to? Time lost sense outside of auditory. As long as dim autumn sun touched the dead body of shipyard, we were safe from being late.
“Have you heard the news?”
I said yes and she went on talking. Politics, scandals, drama — I watched the weather vane staying still as the wind blew stronger — tragedies, comedies, tragicomedies. Unfortunate, I agreed. Terrible, I commented. Unbelievable, I sighed. Somewhere behind me was a lonely chimney stack repurposed to be a dwelling house. Right behind me was a grand school of modern thought that used to turn out imperial soldiers.
“Oh, look, they’re building a café,” she said, what a relief.
Brick by brick, everything was changing — a clock, a street, a square. Maybe, tomorrow long forgotten heroes would be revived and the monsters of today would collapse. So, rise up, little theater! Rise up, little church! Rise up, little university! You were called up to the great war, all of us were.
“Let’s go back,” she said. “The wind is getting stronger.”