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THE BOY WHO DID NOT BELIEVE IN SANTA CLAUS

There was a blizzard that morning, but by afternoon it had calmed down and only big white snowflakes slowly and solemnly descended in the motionless air. In the center of the city, the pre-holiday fuss still continued: cars, stalling and skidding in fresh-fallen snow, approached the brightly shining shops; impatient horns honked; music played; sparkling and multi-colored garlands twinkled, and glass doors let out more and more happy shoppers with beautifully wrapped boxes containing gifts... But here, on the outskirts, it was very quiet and absolutely lonely. Angie, sinking almost knee-deep in snow, slogged along a long lane which consisted mainly of closed gates of warehouses and blind eroded walls of old brick buildings. It was gradually getting dark– early, as it always happens in the end of December–but the girl didn't think about turning back. She knew that nobody missed her in her home. Mother, as always, lies on a sofa and watches soap operas on TV. Near her, a huge package of chips stands, into which she periodically dives her thick fingers gleaming with oil, and then she chews noisily, dropping crumbs on the floor, the sofa, and her greasy shapeless T-shirt which she always wears at home. She stops eating only to smoke a stinky cigarette during the commercial break; then she coughs long and deep-chested, heaving with all her bloated body, then says "holy shit!" and returns to her chips. On her mounded belly the TV remote control rests. When a soap opera ends on one channel, she switches to another one.

Father will drag himself home by midnight, if not later. This depends on how much his and his buddies' money will allow. The only good aspect of being on welfare is the fact that father doesn't have enough money to drink as much as before. But his friends often treat him. Actually, his drunkenness was what cost him his job, though he blames "that fucking Jew," the manager Reichmann. Father's friends, of course, agree with him. It is even good if they managed to save enough money by Christmas in or
der to close down a bar properly. Then father will crawl home rather the worse for wear and will hit the sack immediately. But if, on a holiday, he can't get totally drunk, he will come home angry and will fight. Usually he fought with mother, but Angie also got her portion. At first during such nights the girl tried to hide under a bed or in a closet, but when father could not find her at once, he flew into an even worse rage, and when he finally reached her refuge, she got thrice as many blows as usual. So it was better to endure submissively some slaps on her face, standing barefoot on a cold floor and repeating "I'll never do it again, Daddy". What exactly she "will not do", Angie didn't know, and neither did he. For him, it was just as important to carry out the "education" ritual.

Yes, the greatest Christmas gift for which Angie could hope was that her father would arrive home too drunk to fight and would sleep until the next afternoon. She didn't dare even think about receiving something else, like even the cheapest toy. Only once, when her parents seemed to be in good mood, had she given a hint at wanting a gift. Not at all in a form of the request–she simply had begun to talk about what gifts her schoolmates re
ceived. But mother, of course, understood the hint very well. "Shut your mouth, girl," she bellowed, "don't you know your father was shitcanned from his job and we're on welfare? We don't got enough money for food (mother weighed well over two hundred pounds even then, and now she was approaching three hundred), and you're dreaming about fancy toys! Do you think you're a fucking princess?"

The princess. Angie had seen her in that big store down
town. Certainly, she couldn't buy anything there, even a cola drink from the vending machine. But she could wander there slowly for hours, examining the displays and shelves. What toys weren't there! There were electric cars possible to ride in and small motorcycles for children–not to mention walking robots and dinosaurs, and radio-controlled planes. But looking at boys' toys was no more than just curiosity. Angie indifferently passed by the section of video games and the boxes with plastic models for assembling, spent some time near teddy bears, thinking up names for them (after all it would be silly to call them all "Teddy"!). And then her heart sweetly faded. She entered the section called "Barbie's World".

Here, there were Barbies for every fancy and taste, of all skin colors and occupations, in strict business suits and in flippant beach apparel, in evening dresses and in jeans, brides and young mums, teachers, stewardesses, even a mermaid with a fish tail and a Barbie in a wheelchair... But most of all Angie liked Barbie the Princess. Dressed in an airy, as if flying, white dress, with a small gold crown on her blond hair, the princess seemed an embodiment of all those light and joyful things about which, for Angie, it was silly even to dream. But she still couldn't stop dreaming. If... if only she could once leave the store, folding the cherished box to her breast...

But even simply to stand here looking at the princess for too long was dangerous. The store security guard could approach and inquire, whether everything was alright with the girl and where her parents were. Angie was frightened to death that she would be taken to the police; she was sure that in this case her father would either beat her to death or maim her. Once she managed to convince the security guard that everything was great with her, and since then she avoided standing too long near the shelf. She tried to memorize how the princess looked, and then to go keeping this image before her eyes...

"Little girl, hey there!"

Angie shuddered in fright: it seemed to her that it was the security guard again. But in the next second she recovered from her dreams and understood that she was standing in the middle of a snowbound lane. And the person who addressed her was Santa Claus, arisen as if from nowhere. Dressed in a snow-powdery red jacket with white welt, a red cap with a white pompom, red trousers, boots and mittens. His face was also red (though, certainly, not as much as his clothing), with a broad white beard, and on his shoulder he held a bag–red of course, and obviously not empty.

"Ho-ho-ho," said Santa Claus, smiling broadly in his white moustaches, "hi, little girl! Merry Christmas! Why are you back
ing away? Don't you know me?"

"Sorry," Angie said quietly, "I've never seen you before."

"What," white eyebrows frowned with astonishment, "you don't believe in Santa Claus?"

"Mum says that Santa is... ""...is a fucking bullshit," the exact words almost escaped Angie's lips. "That he doesn't exist," she finished aloud.

"Ho-ho-ho!" his eyebrows spread above. "Then who do you think am I, eh?"

"I don't know," Angie muttered even more quietly. "Santa Claus came to our class. And Ricky, he's a big bully, pulled his beard. And Santa's beard was held on with a string."

"Well, but I am real," Santa resolutely objected. "And my beard is real, too. If you don't believe me, you can touch it," he even bent down to make it easier for the little girl.

Angie timidly stepped forward, then once again, and care
fully touched the beard. Santa only smiled encouragingly, and she gently pulled. Having grown bolder, she tugged more strongly, and at last, spurred on by her own impudence, she jerked the beard sharply.

"Ho-ho-ho!" Santa exclaimed louder and more abruptly than before. "What a strong girl you are! So, do you believe me now?

"You are really real?" the girl whispered.

"What do you think?"

Angie felt tears well up in her eyes–tears of joy and offense simultaneously. "Then why... didn't you... come befo-ore..."

"Well, well, sweetheart," Santa took her cap off and sooth
ingly palmed her head. "No need to cry. I'm sorry I didn't come before. But, you see, there are so many children in the world and all of them need gifts! There's not enough time, I have to rely on my helpers, and sometimes they let me down. But look what I brought for you now!"

He took the bag from his shoulder and for some time with a conspiratorial air dug inside it. And then he winked to Angie and took out...

"Barbie the Princess!"

"Barbie the Princess," confirmed Santa, handing over a box with the doll to the girl.

"Now she's mine? Forever?" Angie couldn't believe in her happiness.

"Certainly, forever. What gifts aren't given forever?"

"Thanks, dear, sweet Santa!" She tried to embrace him without letting go of the doll.

"And there's even more!" he interrupted her. "After all, I owe you gifts for seven years..."

"For eight," Angie could have corrected, but didn't dare.

"...so now you will get them all, too. But they're on my sleigh. You should come get your presents and feed my reindeer. Do you want to do that?"

"Of course I do!" The girl began to jump with delight.

"Then let’s go!" He turned and start walking on the virgin snow in the lane. Angie hastened at his heels, trying to step into the big pits of his footprints.

Without reaching the exit to a street, Santa turned into a narrow alley and for a long time the girl saw nothing except concrete walls on both sides and the wide red back with a bag right ahead. Then the walls ended, and they came out to a small ravine; in summer a stream flowed on its bottom, but now only deep snow lay there. On the other side of the ravine, black-and-white trees froze in condensing darkness. Angie understood that they had reached the forest adjoining the border of the city.

Santa began to descend resolutely into the ravine, and the girl had to follow him. It was not difficult to go down, but when they were clambering up, she quickly was out of breath and was even hot in her old jacket which was already small for her. Santa only darted a quick glance over his shoulder and continued to walk quickly through the snow between trees.

"Is it far?" Angie asked plaintively, barely keeping up with him.

"No," he answered without turning to her, "we're almost there."

"It's dark already," the girl said uncertainly.

"Are you afraid of the dark?" he looked at her again. "Ah, you little scaredy-cat! I fly in the dark all night on Christmas Eve! By the way, I can take you for a ride in my sleigh over the city!"

"Really?" Angie's doubts receded again.

"Sure. Maybe I'll even allow you to drive the reindeer."

Meanwhile they had already gone so deep into the woods that they would not have seen its border from here even in the daytime; now in the gloom it seemed all the more that the forest stretched for incalculable miles in every direction.

"Why did you... leave the sleigh... so far away?" the girl asked, panting.

"Well, after all we don't want someone to come across it and take all he gifts for himself! OK, we're almost there. That glade."

The glade was surrounded by high fragile bush. Santa made a way with a crunch and the girl followed him, anticipating seeing the magic sleigh and Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Sud
denly Santa stopped, and Angie almost ran into him.

The glade was empty and covered by untouched snow.

"Where is the sleigh?" the girl murmured.

"It'll be here soon. Meanwhile, undress."

"What?" Angie was shocked.

"Undress. You're hot, aren't you?"

She has indeed sweated and now willingly took off her jacket. Santa stretched out his mittened hand and took it from her.