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chrysalis-the-butterfly · 3 months

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Katya: A Poem

"Goncharov" is a 1973 Martin Scorsese film that Tumblr collectively invented in 2022. I'd heard of it, but didn't take too much interest in it. It was only recently that I found out that "Goncharov" had a sapphic ship, between Katya and Sofia. That was what piqued my interest.

In a flurry of activity, I wrote a poem.

I am indebted to all the Tumblr bloggers who came before me, whose creations were captured in this "Goncharov" master doc and this collection of quotes. I hope you enjoy the poem I strung together from your posts!

If you reblog this, make sure to add the tags #unreality and #unrealism so people who would find it triggering don't see it. Remember to Gonch responsibly!

Yekaterina Mikhailova.

That was my name.

It was a name that meant nothing,

because I was nothing.

My father’s daughter,

my brother’s sister.

For a time, we were rich.

Then our father received a visit from his co-workers

in the mafia.

He came between them

and his daughter.

He died with a smile on his face.

For the next three years, we were poor.

My brother and I,

living – no, merely surviving –

together on the streets,

made a resolution:

never again would we fall so low.

Never again would we be so weak.

So penniless.

So worthless.

We tracked down our uncle.

Thanks to him, we joined the mafia ourselves –

me first,

my brother later, more reluctantly.

He learnt not to question what I did,

no matter how much of a father

he wanted to be to me.

I only have one mother, one father, one brother, one uncle,

but I could trace a path

from Naples to my childhood home in Moscow

with the blood of all the men

who told me they loved me.

…

Later, I trained as a spy.

It was in that line of work that I found Lo Straniero.

The stranger.

He told me his real name was Leonid Goncharov.

I chose to believe him.

What is marriage,

but a way to escape the names of our fathers?

When I walked towards Goncharov

at the altar,

I thought that would be the moment

I would finally become someone

real enough

to have flesh and blood

to call mine.

Perhaps the name Yekaterina

wouldn’t sound so empty on my lips.

And with those same lips

I called his name,

and smiled at him in front of God,

and kissed him in the dark of our room.

And all I became was his wife.

A wedding is no different to a funeral,

is it not?

The old Yekaterina died to Goncharov that day;

he took my name from me,

my very history,

and I allowed him that.

My husband is a man who collects things he can use.

A pistol,

a pocket watch,

a woman’s love,

a wife.

My father would have needed me to marry,

so I did.

Goncharov would have needed me to love him,

so I did.

I truly did.

Oh, I was a good woman, wasn’t I?

A wife when he needed someone to bed,

a sister when he needed someone to argue with,

a mother when he needed to cry...

Is that all women were in his eyes?

Actors?

Pretty dolls to dress up and spin around

according to his needs?

No, I shouldn’t be so harsh.

It wasn’t his fault

he could only ever fall in love with men.

But the way he treated me?

That was his fault.

I needed a new place to exist.

I found you in the fruit stand.

…

Sofia Ambrosini.

That was your name.

With your serpent bracelet twinkling,

you stooped to pick up the fallen apple

that had escaped my basket

and rolled towards your leg –

the right one,

the one made of wood.

I recognised from your false leg

and your false snake

that you were in the same world as me –

the same world of murder

whose space we shared precariously.

But in that moment

we could be two women in a market

shopping for two men,

me my husband,

you your brother.

Because it’s so hard to make friends in a world of murder.

But here we were in public,

under the Sun,

and just for a while,

we could pretend we were women

who knew each other from …

somewhere.

Just making friends.

Just leading each other into temptation.

It was the apple’s fault.

It was the apple that made me bring up Adam and Eve.

There we so many strange apples at that market.

I imagined the wild way they looked

was how they looked in the Garden of Eden.

But then you said,

“I never understood why it had to be an apple.

Why an apple?”

I answered, “I don’t know.

Because it’s always been an apple, I suppose.

It’s easier to recreate in art.

All the painters and sculptors

and everyone else who makes those choices,

they all came together and decided

that an apple looks pretty simple –

nice, smooth, round,

easy enough to draw in a tree –

and now everyone sees nothing but apples

in the Tree of Knowledge

ever after.

So it’s always apples.”

I will never forget your response.

“The dullest possible produce.

The Forbidden Fruit is supposed to be

something unusual,

something special.

All the knowledge of the world

and of each other

and of the realisation

that these two fools are

running around the Garden

with their bottoms bare

in front of the Almighty.

An apple doesn’t seem right for that.

It’s dull.

It’s a thing for pastry and postcards.”

“What would you pick instead?” I asked.

“Pomegranates,” you said immediately. “No question.

It’s the fruit that the God of the Dead used

to trick the Goddess of Spring

into staying with him in the Underworld.

She tasted the seeds

and she was forced to stay down there

for half a year, every year,

forever.

A fruit so powerful

it can trap a goddess

seems like the kind of fruit

that can banish humanity from Paradise.”

We paused.

We made eye contact.

“Tastes better than apples, too,” you added.

And it looks like a jewel

when you split it open.”

I ate a pomegranate panna cotta

in the bistro later that day.

And when I licked my lips,

I immediately understood you.

I did like apples,

but pomegranates?

They were amazing.

I’d go to Hell for them.

I’d go to Hell for you.

…

“Oh, it’s six already?”

Goncharov said to me when I returned home.

“The clock’s broken,” I replied.

“It’s been six for hours.”

If only time would stop for us.

…

I was raised Orthodox,

but Goncharov and I had been attending a Catholic Mass

to better fit in with the locals.

I was unsettled by the topic of Father Gianni’s sermon:

the sins of the flesh,

the importance of resisting Earthly temptations,

and the necessity of self-control in this life,

thereby preparing for glories to come.

Were there any glories to come?

You, Sofia, got up to leave in the middle of the sermon,

heading for the stained-glass Virgin Mary,

and you whispered as you passed,

“Take your glories where you may.”

And like the fishermen who left their nets

to follow Jesus

and become fishers of men,

I got up

and followed you.

I did not know how my husband felt about me doing that.

I did not care.

I started partaking of apples and pomegranates

in equal measure.

…

Sofia, you told me you had never even touched a gun before.

But you were clearly too skilled

when those men cornered you

and you took them all down.

Admit it.

You just lied because

you wanted me to give you that “hands-on” shooting lesson,

didn’t you?

“Are we not all murderers in some way, Katya?”

you said to me when I challenged you.

“After all, a human being is a heart.

Break that, and how can it go on living?”

I had to ask,

“Don’t you have a broken heart, Sofia?”

“It still beats, Katya,” you said, quietly.

“It still beats.”

…

For me, it’s always been the darkness I liked;

the way the lights roll off the water between the alleyways

reminds me of the past.

…

You were adamant in your belief

that all memory is treachery.

But one of my favourite memories

was us together in my husband’s house,

after dinner at the casino,

me in my evening gown,

you dressed as a waiter.

You’d asked, “What’s your poison?”

I’d answered, “Whatever you’re having, darling.”

For the first time since moving to Naples,

I shook off the white furs

and showed you my dress –

the woman

under the animal.

“You look good in red,” you said to me.

Then you called me lisichka.

Little fox.

Which should have sounded wrong,

a Russian pet name in an Italian accent,

but that night it sounded right.

I returned the compliments.

“And you look good in green,

kukolka.”

Little doll.

I gave you one of my pearl necklaces.

“Every woman should be allowed

to feel like she is looked at

beautifully.”

My husband’s voice resounded in my head:

“Time isn’t like your pearls, Yekaterina.

You can’t buy more.

You think you can own time by wearing it,

but it just beats itself into your bones instead.”

Well, no-one can tell me what I can and can’t buy.

…

“If I were cursed, Sofia,

then I would never have found you.”

“You could still lose me.”

“Never.”

…

I started being Katya,

being myself,

not because I fell into my role as Goncharov’s wife,

but because I discovered my inability.

My unwillingness.

I knew he cared for me,

but not beyond the presentation we put on for his peers.

The peers who could end his life at any moment.

And it wouldn’t be so unbearable

if we were at least still friends,

but all of that went to Andrey –

the friendship, the love, the care –

at least as much as Goncharov was capable of

beyond his own inadequacies.

Andrey could not live loyally,

so let’s see how he does in death.

…

I didn’t want Goncharov’s name in your mouth.

I should have taken his money and left.

It’s not obvious why I didn’t.

All this time wandering the wreckage of his house –

I’m sorry, Sofia, it must have killed you.

“Unlike you,” you said to me,

“I do not lure to cannibalise.

I watch, and I starve.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Well, stop it!

What do you take me for?

Stop watching and devour me in full already,

won’t you?”

So you did.

I must have looked like a jewel

when you split me open.

…

“I’ll stay with you tonight, if you’ll have me.”

“I wouldn’t have anyone else.”

I lay in bed with you.

We wanted to do so much,

but ended up doing so little.

I ran my foot up and down your leg –

the right one,

the one made of wood.

I thought of what I knew

(what little I knew)

about your past –

how your Jewish family came to Naples,

how you lost them somewhere,

how the Poor Clares took you in and cared for you,

how you searched for your family amidst the Nazis,

how you lost that leg in the riots.

“The world wants you dead,” I said,

more to myself than you.

You turned to me.

“Do you want me dead?”

I forced myself to meet your eyes.

“No.”

You shrugged.

“Then the world doesn’t want me dead.”

We stayed in bed together for a while after that.

…

We were always wasting time we never had.

How could I love something which was never there?

Oh, darling, that’s just grief.

Time is like blood,

and I have wasted both.

We could not go on forever,

could not fight the story,

could not step outside the marriage

or the mafia

or else.

We were animals,

and animals, whether wild or tamed,

cannot fight the inevitable.

“Time stops for no-one, Katya.

Not even us.”

…

“What’s on your mind?”

“Wishful thinking.”

“Sofia, I’m not cut out for the life you’re offering me.

That different life.

I am chained to my history –

a short chain.

That’s why I cannot leave with you.”

That’s why you and I

and my husband

and his lover

and your brother

and our enemies

are all in this boathouse.

November’s the cruellest month of the year,

and Naples is full of fools.

…

“Of course we’re in love!” I scream at Goncharov.

“That’s why I tried to shoot you!”

He laughs and cries at the same time.

“If we really were in love,

you wouldn’t have missed.”

He’s right.

Our love was a grenade,

and now all that remains is shrapnel.

He loved me, but only for a minute.

I don’t know if he could handle any more.

Love cannot be bought;

otherwise, we would have had a happy marriage.

When we got married, I drew this line

between us and the world.

He’s crossed that line,

and I can’t go with him.

He and I are,

I think,

finally out of time.

He has destroyed and betrayed himself

for nothing.

That is his worst sin.

My inability to be loyal to my husband

is what saved me.

And what now kills him.

What could now kill you, if you let it.

…

You are pleading with me.

“We can have the Forbidden Fruit

and it can be whatever we want!

Let it be a pomegranate!

Let us glut ourselves on it!

And why do we have to follow everyone else’s rules

about what is and isn’t forbidden, anyway?

None of us in this boathouse

are living within the law in the first place.

There is blood on everyone’s hands.

Can’t you and I sin a little sweeter?

Can’t you admit that the sin you want most

isn’t a sin at all?

Can’t you spit out the lies you’ve swallowed

in the Hell you found yourself in?

We could grow our own garden somewhere!”

No, Sofia.

This is my garden,

my Tree of Knowledge,

better the Devil I know,

and you wish you were my Serpent,

but this is my Underworld to rule

as much as any queen can rule there,

unhappy

but resigned.

Go, Eve.

Grow your garden alone.

The Forbidden Fruit is there to be eaten,

to force us to go,

to let us step outside the walls meant to keep us in.

But you just can’t make everyone eat.

The pomegranate is within my reach,

but I have lost my appetite for seeds.

…

I do what Goncharov would do,

and you know what that means.

Death.

Goncharov has never meant anything else.

I will die like my father,

with a smile on my face.

I will die for you.

You were once a little girl, alone and scared,

but that girl is long dead.

The Sofia that lives now?

The world should fear her.

Damn them as they would damn us.

But don’t you ever raise a hand to me.

…

Sofia, don’t cry.

There’s no use trying to rewrite the story now.

Sofia, get out of this boathouse.

Take my boat.

It’s fine.

I won’t need it anymore.

Go, zolotse.

Leave Naples.

Leave Italy.

Leave the mafia behind.

But take your two candlesticks with you.

Light them on a Friday evening,

and watch the red of the sunset

wash over the white of the candles.

Sofia, take your day of rest.

No, a year of rest.

Make every day a Shabbat.

Remember to bless yourself.

Sofia, choose wisely what you do now,

because it might be the last time you get to choose.

“All memory is treachery.”

I wonder how you will remember me.

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cherieprincess · 1 year

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A major aspect of the plot of Goncharov (1973) that I don’t think people are discussing enough is the power struggle that plays out between Katya Goncharova and Sofia Ambrosini.

To Katya, Sofia is everything. Despite Katya being embittered and worn and tired of the world, and that being visible in the way she treats Sofia ("teaching" her to play cards and fire a gun and leading her through the streets, influencing her behaviour and movements, constantly making it clear she is more versed in the ways of the world than Sofia is), she still sees a chance for something new in her - something full of genuine love. She plays with Sofia at first because of her own lack of autonomy - she's frustrated, upset, and lost, and in Sofia she thinks she's found someone she can finally feel differently with, in a way that would be enjoyable to them both.

As smart and versed in the ways of the world as Katya is, with her femme fatale energy, the fact that she's convinced herself that she is more experienced than Sofia is exactly what shoots her in the foot about it. Katya allows herself to put genuine trust in Sofia because she's managed to convince herself that she's smarter and that Sofia is young and new - a sheep amongst the wolves - and Sofia played along masterfully. Katya's self-inflicted superiority, so to speak, is what drags her down; though I'm unsure if superiority is the right term. It's not that she overestimates herself, but she underestimates Sofia.

When Katya realises that Sofia hasn't just been keeping up in this game of chess, but has been winning, her delusion of grandeur shatters around her so fast. She immediately realises she's lost, and though she fights back, the way she’s easily overpowered means that in the end she has to appeal to Sofia. And yet Katya’s self-assuredness is still there - or at least an attempt to keep it up is. Her "appeal" is her softly going "Sof, you know this isn’t how our time ends." Katya is trying so desperately to hold onto some sense of power or control, so she makes a blanket statement rather than asking for mercy. And Sofia’s silent response of a smile, moments before she pushes Katya under the water, tells Katya there’s no use in pretending she still holds the reins.

So throughout, their power balance has fluctuated. Katya's seemed in control from the start, from the very first scene where she offers Sofia an apple, an unmistakeable reference to the temptation into evil that occured in the Garden of Eden. Sofia snatched control back and lifted herself on top, both figuratively and metaphorically, as she shoved Katya down into the water. And in the final scene between the two of them, the power balance is equal.

The two share a cigarette - clearly a distinct parallel of them finally sharing control over the situation - and Sofia seems entirely unfazed as Katya sharpens her knife. Sofia’s calm "If I am going to be stabbed, then I want to feel every second of it", causes Katya to laugh for the first time since the poker game at the scene near the beginning of the film, and she drops the knife. The tension between them disappears as the knife hits the ground - Katya's dropped both the knife and her mindset of having a foothold over Sofia, and Sofia's made it clear that she’s willing to take whatever Katya has to give her, but on her own terms.

Whether or not the two get to develop their relationship on equal footing, post the events of the film, is beholden to whether or not the viewer believes Katya survived or not. But whether the knife scene is the closing line to their personal story, or the opening line to a newly negotiated life between them, it leaves them at the end of a struggle that was laced through the entire film, and honestly is incredibly narratively satisfying.

#goncharov #goncharov (1973)#goncharov posting #gonchposting #unreality #fake film #katya #katya goncharov #katya michailov #katya goncharova #sofia #sofia ambrosini #katya x sofia #goncharov analysis #jesus christ I cannot stop thinking about these two

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whyarewewlwlikethat · 1 year

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This is why I hate when tumblr finds hidden gems. For the past 3 days, I've seen so many people say Goncharov (1973) is overrated now that they've finally watched it. Those people absolutely did not get the movie. The movie follows a man who was poor and mistreated his whole life but manages to turn the odds around. Unfortunately, in the most brutal way – by accidentally joining the mafia. Suddenly, this man turns back into a boy and starts enjoying and buying everything he didn't have as a child. He buys new clothes, a car, fancy cigars, drinks expensive liquor, starts going out to eat in restaurants every single day, and gets used to being called Mr. Goncharov. Basically, he gets everything he has ever wanted. Except for one thing. The one thing he wanted the most but not even all the money in the world could buy. Katya. His childhood crush. The girl whose family treated Goncharov worse than a stray dog because he was not born rich. That same family who would never accept Goncharov as a good candidate for Katya's husband now came to Goncharov and asked him if he was interested in Katya. Here, Goncharov could have stood up and spat in their faces. It was obvious they did not remember him as the poor boy selling newspapers. Instead, he confirmed that he was interested in Katya and asked for her hand then and there. For me personally here is where he finally crossed the line. Not when he first killed, not when he murdered for money, not when he abused alcohol and wasted money on extravagant things. It was when he quietly renounced his past. That is why we witness the longest pause in the movie here! A whole 9 seconds!!! After this he gets Katya. They marry and start living together but it's never quite right. Katya, who used to come to him on the corner of the street where he sold newspapers and talk for hours, was not only gone but was never his. He thought it was only his status that prevented him from getting Katya. He thought of her as another thing he could buy, another childhood toy he never got to play with. So, when Goncharov found out about Katya and Sofia it finally all clicked. Katya was never his. She was always Sofia's. Even though he married her, he got [bought] her, she wasn't his. And what did Goncharov do throughout the whole movie whenever he did not get what he wanted? He killed. This is where people say it came out of nowhere. I've seen sooo many people now say Katya died for nothing and that it was stupid and out of nowhere. While I don't agree that it was out of nowhere I do agree that it was stupid but that's the whole point! Katya did not deserve to die for being in love with someone else. Katya's death serves to show us the real Goncharov. Throughout the whole movie, we are on his side, whatever he does we excuse it. He is the perfect anti-hero. It's only when he kills Katya do we snap out of the spell and realize that Goncharov was never in the right. To me that plotline is the most interesting one alongside Katya and Sofia's. It's just such an amazing AND underrated movie. Simply unfortunate that tumblr found it, made it famous, and now decided that it is again meh. But yeah that's just my two cents.

#goncharov #katya michailov #sofia ambrosini #katya x sophia #martin scorsese #goncharov 1973 #katya goncharov #sofia goncharov #UNREALITY #THIS MOVIE DOES NOT EXIST #i wrote this for fun #it's 5am i can't sleep lol #not wlw #my post

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umm0lly · 1 year

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color theory - katya x sofia (updated)

(@mimiadraws for the art) 1031 words - katya x sofia goncharov 1973 - unreality

Katya has always worn white.

White was pure. Katya had to be pure. White was clean. Katya knew she was clean- though her past may not be. White was unconvincing. Soft. She could always rely on their first impressions, first opinions. She never doubted they'd think her weak, and she never missed. She never doubted that white was her color. She never cared for a different color. She never thought that perhaps she didn't need to put on this act- she viewed it as second nature.

Until.

Until Sofia came along. Sofia came along and Katya was stuck. Until Katya punched her mirror, shattering it. Until she broke the facade. She watched the blood splatter on the white carpet. Until Katya knew what she needed to do.

Until Sofia started wearing green and that was the only thing Katya could focus on- her green eyes that she gladly got lost in day after day, always forgetting the way out of the labyrinth that was her touch. Her green dress fit her better than Katya would have liked. She stared more than the men that night. Her green jealousy for all the men who Sofia paid attention to instead of her, all the men Sofia whispered in the ears of instead of hers, all the men that Sofia's gaze was locked on when Katya had only eyes for her-

Until today, she wore white. She was pure. She was calm, the seeds of the pomegranate locked inside. She was unconvincing. Nobody had reason to think twice about her. She never missed, until Sofia. Until Sofia, she wore white.

But Sofia thinks she'd look better in red. The drop of pomegranate juice, the splatter of blood on the carpet, and the rich wine she and Sofia chat over; all the same color. Until Sofia, she never wore red. Until Sofia, she was pure. Until Sofia, she'd only thought about the women around her. Until Sofia, she'd never kissed one.

Until she started wearing red, Katya was trapped. The mirror in front of her reflected a thousand faces, none of which were her own. Until she started wearing red, the pomegranate lay untouched in a basket long forgotten, its blood-red seeds screaming in a failed attempt to be heard and seen. Until she started wearing red, Sofia was out of reach.

Now, Katya wears red. Now, Katya is poison. She is the blood that will be spilled upon the kitchen floor. She is the lipstick Sofia wore when she stained Katya's wineglass and when she stained Katya's cheek and mouth and neck-

She is the glimmer in Sofia's eye when she flirts, a different glimmer than when she's with a man, a different glimmer than when she's without Katya-

━━━━━━━━━━━

Sofia used to wear blue.

Sofia used to be melancholy. Sofia used to be reserved, insecure, and introverted. Sofia had never put herself out there unless she had to. Sofia never grew up rich. Sofia was not Katya.

But Sofia wore Katya's pearls.Every woman should be allowed to feel like she is looked at beautifully, Katya had told her. When Katya looks at her, Sofia feels beautiful. When Katya looks at her, Sofia is broken. Sofia is blue. Katya is white and Sofia is blue.

Then Katya started wearing red.

And, say, if I were to break down your outer layers? What seeds would I find? Nothing worth anything to you.

Sofia knew she had found the seeds. She knew she'd have this chance and this chance only. She seized it. The same red on her lips, the same red as Katya's new wardrobe, the same red as the pomegranate they shared- it wouldn't match her blue.

And Sofia started wearing green.

Sofia was reborn. She is not weak. She is not insecure. She is not hiding from Katya like she used to. She pried open Katya's shell, and she opened hers. Only, Katya will not find red like the red stains Sofia leaves imprinted on her.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Katya found green.

Now, Katya finds a new labyrinth to get lost in. A new Sofia to lose her mind over. A new Sofia to obsess over like she never obsessed over her husband. A new Sofia, who told her to wear red, and who clouds her mind to the point that she's missing her shots. A new Sofia, one who heard the cries of the pomegranate seeds and now devours them whole.

This Sofia manages to tempt the temptress herself, and this Sofia wears green.

The world should fear this Sofia. This Sofia breathes life and death.

Katya has never felt less afraid.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Sofia had once spoken to Katya about her insecurities. She wore blue. Katya wore white. Her nails were red when they took her pearl necklace off and handed it to Sofia. Her eyes were blue when they drilled into Sofia's. Her lips were pink when leaned forward and pressed onto Sofia's.

The next day, Katya wore red. Two days after, Sofia wore green. The day in between, the world was purple.

No questions are raised when Katya's white pearls find their way onto Sofia's neck, then her wrists and ears.

A glance at Sofia's neck is all that she gets when she has to cover it with Katya's red scarf because of the stain of lipstick.

No more than a few whispers are shared when Katya's heels are on Sofia's feet and Sofia's makeup is on Katya's lips because of a rushed morning.

This is all there is, and while Katya sips wine with Sofia more frequently than she sees her husband, she knows that her husband, dressed in black, is drinking with someone dressed in brown, and that is all she knows.

A missed shot leaves white snow red, and Katya only started missing after Sofia's lips were on her neck and shards of her mirror lay on the ground. The grass is turning brown, the color of a suit usually worn by the same man her husband has been drinking with.

The only fruit found in the bowl on top of the kitchen counter is pomegranates. Sofia buys them every Monday morning, and they're done by Friday. It's alright, though. The two of them have each other to satisfy their hunger.

#goncharov #katya x sofia #sofia x katya #katfia #katya goncharova #sofia ambrosini #sofia modigliani #goncharov 1973 #katya goncharov #katya michailov #katya michailova #I AM HAVING A HEART ATTACK #hope y'all like it :)#unreality

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