Back to Moscow (24 page)

As we turned a corner into one of the smaller pereuloks, we bumped into a Caucasian fruit seller, sitting sleepily on the shaded pavement, next to a large cage brimming with enormous
watermelons. I bought one of the smallest melons, which he handed me in a black plastic bag.

We carried on and soon we were at the garden entrance to Scandinavia.

‘This is where I live,’ I said, casually, as if it was only by chance that we’d arrived at my building. With one hand I was carrying the watermelon, with the other I was
pointing at the balconies on the top floor.

‘Nice place.’

‘Let’s go up for a cup of tea,’ I said and, not waiting for an answer, I grabbed her hand and led her towards the door of my building.

T
HE OFFICIAL VERSION
–
AS
I first heard it from Lyudmila Aleksandrovna – is that Aleksandr Sergeyevich was going
through tough times. On top of financial difficulties, he was bored of aristocratic life in Peter, and, for some reason, pissed off at the tsar. It was at that low moment in his life that his
enemies spread a rumour that linked D’Anthès, a French exile and notorious womaniser, to Natalya Nikolaevna, Pushkin’s beautiful wife. So Aleksandr Sergeyevich, who was not only
the greatest of poets but also an honourable gentleman, challenged D’Anthès to a duel.

Of course, when I first heard the story, I assumed there was more to it, some facts buried in order to avoid a scandal. You can be as Russian and romantic as you want, but you don’t go
around asking someone to shoot you with a gun for nothing.

In any case, despite attempts by his friends to avert the duel, on the fateful morning of 27 January 1837, Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin met D’Anthès in a forest outside Peter.
Pushkin got shot in the stomach and fell, bleeding, on the snow. He was taken back home to Peter, put to bed. After two days of agony, he died. He was thirty-seven.

When I went up to Peter for a weekend I visited Pushkin’s last apartment, a museum these days, and was shown around by a very old and very devoted guide. She narrated the story of
Pushkin’s final days with enormous dedication, interpreting the voices of the different characters, as if telling a fairy tale to a child. I found myself absorbed in the storytelling and, as
I listened to the monologue that the guide must have repeated thousands of times, I could picture Aleksandr Sergeyevich vividly, in his flat, but also in the forest, pointing the gun, receiving the
shot, falling in the snow, firing a shot that only wounded D’Anthès’ arm. By the time the babushka had finished her narration, all the museum visitors were standing around her,
next to the exhibit of a gun similar to the ones used by Pushkin and D’Anthès.

As far as I could tell, Russians are divided on Pushkin’s wife. Some, like Vika or Lyudmila Aleksandrovna, seemed to believe the official version, the beautiful love story depicted in
statues and monuments across the country – such as the golden statue of Aleksandr Sergeyevich and Natalya in the middle of the Old Arbat, at whose feet young Moscow lovers lay bouquets of
flowers.

Others think differently. All these years, entire generations of more cynical Russians have blamed Natalya for Pushkin’s death.

In the end, we will never know what really happened between Natalya and D’Anthès. Besides, in the eyes of most Russians, causing Pushkin’s death is not Natalya’s worst
sin. Natalya is most loathed for not understanding Pushkin’s greatness, for taking him lightly. For that, she cannot be forgiven.

Yet, Pushkin’s self-induced death doesn’t make much sense. From a historical and artistic perspective he was a successful man. Why did he risk his precious life in a stupid duel?
Fuck knows. But whatever his reasons, his early death assured him the kind of glory older people don’t attain. It made him an instant legend. And whether D’Anthès was banging
Natalya or not is, to a certain extent, irrelevant.

Perhaps, if Aleksandr Sergeyevich was unhappy at the time, he thought that risking his life was worth a shot and that, whatever the outcome of his duel, at least things would no longer be the
same.

B
EING ON THE TOP
floor, on summer days my flat was always hot. I had left the balcony doors open and now flies were circling in the middle of the living
room. Except they weren’t exactly circling. Moscow flies had a peculiar way of moving around – they flew in straight lines, turning in sharp corners, drawing geometrical figures in the
air, as if avoiding walls that were invisible to my eyes.

Vika and I lay sweating on the couch. I was observing the flies, trying to remember a passage from Turgenev’s
Nest of the Gentry
, where Marfa Timofeevna, the bitter old lady, says
something about envying the simple life of flies until she’d heard a fly complaining in a spider’s web.

Vika was breathing into my neck, her hair all over my face. She felt unusually warm, her skin sticky. Once naked, her petite body was somewhat softer than I’d expected. Unlike
Tatyana’s, Vika’s thighs were round and fleshy.

I was hit by a sudden urge to leave my flat.

‘Let’s go and grab some lunch,’ I said.

‘Now?’ She kissed my neck. ‘Maybe we can stay here for a little while, eat the watermelon.’

‘It’s too hot in here,’ I said.

The voices from Scandinavia’s terrace came over the balcony. I could recognise some of the brothers’. If only Vika would leave now, I thought, I could go down and enjoy a cold beer
and a hamburger with the brothers, then come back for some sleep.

I felt dark clouds forming in my head. I stood up and went to the shower. It was that time of year when my building had no central hot water – the profilaktika, they called it, about three
weeks every summer during which, I was told, the hot water of entire neighbourhoods was cut so that the pipes could be serviced. It was a collective purifying ritual of sorts that Muscovites seemed
to endure without much protest.

The icy water washed away some of my sorrow, brought me back to life.

Back in the living room, I slipped back into my jeans, sat next to Vika. She lay inert and naked on the couch. I placed my hand between her legs – she was freshly shaved, the skin of her
pubic area reddish and irritated. She smiled, placed her arms around me, kissed my ear. I concentrated hard on pushing Tatyana’s image out of my mind. Vika was a wonderful girl, I told
myself, and, for the few seconds I could maintain the fantasy of Tatyana’s non-existence, I enjoyed Vika’s company. But as soon as Tatyana forced herself back into my head, my chest
tightened and Vika’s presence in my flat felt oppressive.

Vika stood up, walked into the bathroom, washed herself. Back in the living room, she let her yellow dress unfold over her head and cover her body. We went down to the street.

‘Why don’t we just have something to eat here?’ Vika said, pointing at the tables of Scandinavia. The waitresses, who knew me by sight, carried trays with grilled burgers,
fresh salads, cold beer.

‘I feel like walking,’ I said. ‘Let’s go somewhere else.’

We strolled down Tverskaya, turned left at the end and crossed the street into Teatralnaya Ploschad. We sat down at a summer terrace with orange plastic tables, next to the Metropol hotel.

When the waitress brought our food, Vika was talking about her family, something about a brother, or a cousin – in Russian you never knew. I wasn’t really following what she was
saying. At a nearby table a group of foreign businessmen, guests at the Metropol, I figured, were drinking beer and talking loudly, in English. They were accompanied by three young Russian women,
who laughed wildly at each of their stupid comments.

I was overcome by a wave of exhaustion. I didn’t feel like talking. It was as if all the anticipation, all the hunger, had evaporated in a matter of seconds on my couch. All I wanted now
was to be left alone.

I thought about Tatyana, about how she gave me space, even when she was in my flat, about the unobtrusiveness of her presence. Tomorrow evening she’ll be back home, I thought.

‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’ Vika was asking.

I cut open my chicken roll, melted butter flooded my plate.

‘I think I’ll go home,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m tired, I need some rest.’

‘But you wanted to get out. You can’t go home now, with such nice weather. Let’s finish eating. Then we can walk towards Aleksandrovsky Sad and have ice cream.’

I ate some chicken in silence. Vika said her salad was very nice.

‘I’d rather go home,’ I said. ‘I’m meeting some friends tonight.’

Vika looked at me, perplexed.

‘I can come with you.’

‘I need to rest, I’m quite tired from last night.’

She placed her fork facing down on her plate – her face suddenly transformed, her smile gone. Her brown eyes looked somewhat menacing.

‘So you want me to go home now? Is that what you are saying?’

‘Vika, I’m just saying I need to meet my friends later on and I would like to rest.’

‘I can also meet your friends.’

‘Not tonight,’ I said. ‘Another day.’

‘Martin, you asked me to meet you today.’ Her voice sounded now coarser. ‘I want to spend time with you.’

‘But we
have
spent time together. We met at eleven, it’s four o’clock. That’s five whole hours we’ve spent together.’

‘You’ve been silent for the last hour,’ Vika said.

‘I need to be alone for a little while, that’s all.’

Vika took the sunglasses out of her handbag, placed them on her head as a hairband. Then she grabbed the fork and started picking at her salad.

I tried to finish my chicken as quickly as possible.

‘I shouldn’t have slept with you,’ she said.

‘I’m just tired. We’ll meet another day.’

‘You wanted to fuck me, that’s all.’

‘Vika, please.’

She now put her sunglasses on. They were far too large, the sunglasses. They made her look like an oversized insect.

‘Why don’t you want to spend more time with me?’ she said, softening her voice again.

I searched for something suitable to say, but at that moment the image of a fly flashed up in my head. Vika, with her giant sunglasses, transformed into an enormous fly.

‘We just met,’ she continued. ‘There is so much we can talk about. I don’t know anything about you. On Wednesday when we first met, you were talking all the time, it was
so nice. I had a great time. And now you ask me to leave?’

‘Those glasses are too big for you,’ I said.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Vika, I had a great time with you today. But I’m just not in the mood. ‘Ia-ne-v-nastroenii,’ I said, probably raising my voice above what was appropriate.
‘Let’s meet another day.’

‘Why another day? I’m here now. Let’s spend this weekend together.’

‘But my friends—’

‘I can also meet your friends.’

‘Vika.’

‘If you don’t want to spend time with me, what’s the point?’

‘The point?’

Vika lowered her voice, looked at her salad. ‘The point of us being together.’

I stood up.

‘Are you married or something?’ she asked, gripping my arm. ‘I saw women’s stuff in your bathroom. If you are married, just tell me, but you should have told me before. I
wouldn’t have slept with you.’

‘Vika, listen. I need to go now.’ I shook her hand off, threw a thousand-ruble note on the table. ‘I’ll call you.’

‘Go to hell.’

O
N
S
UNDAY
I
WOKE UP
just before noon. I put the percolator on the stove and two slices of bread in the
toaster. I sat at the table, my head throbbing, waiting for the coffee. My mobile had been on the kitchen table all morning. I had six new text messages that had arrived during the night without my
noticing. All from Vika.

privet, kak dela, sorry about earlier

why are you ignoring my message?

oh, maybe you are with your friends, have a good time

maybe we can meet tomorrow to talk

if you have time. otherwise another day

I’m thinking about you

I typed a short reply proposing to meet for coffee during the week, pressed send and immediately switched off the phone. After I finished my coffee and toast, I bundled the bedsheets into the
washing machine, lay on the couch.

It had been a long night. I stopped drinking at about four in the morning, when I found myself on the basement dance floor in Karma, barely able to keep my eyes open. I said goodbye to Diego,
who was slow-dancing with a fat dyev, but I was unable to find the others. I walked upstairs, into the open air, and was surprised to see daylight. I ignored the drivers waiting outside Karma and
decided to walk, heading towards Petrovka Ulitsa. In summer I loved to walk home from a night out, crossing empty streets, breathing fresh air, observing how the night retreated and a new day took
over the city. It was the only time of day when Moscow didn’t feel crowded.

I went back into the kitchen and made another cup of coffee. I hung the bed linen on the balcony. The sun was now hitting the western façade of my building. It would be dry in a couple of
hours, I thought, just before Tatyana arrives.

I had a cold shower. Feeling refreshed, I lay back down on the couch, naked, observing the little white dots on my Indian tapestry. If I kept my eyes fixed on one of the dots that surrounded
Lord Ganesh, the intricate painting seemed to shift slightly, the elephant head somehow peeking out of the wall. It was a bizarre visual effect I had noticed before, usually when drunk or hungover,
and I wondered if that was the intentional purpose of the white dots – dots that otherwise didn’t add anything to the image. I closed my eyes, my mind drifted, and, in the sweet moment
when my awareness was slipping away but I wasn’t yet asleep, a thought flitted across my mind: I missed Tatyana.

I stumbled to the kitchen, switched on my phone and sent Tatyana a text message:
Miss you
.

She replied in a minute:
Me too, love you
.