Pravda (7 page)

She nodded as if such a conclusion were quite understandable and told him—with great feeling—that she had been born here. She
reminisced a little about how the city used to be when it was Leningrad. He asked her how she had left. She told him she defected. She told him she had effectively "started again" in London. She became more and more loquacious. She told him a great deal and much that was personal, though she left out the names; and he began to form the impression that she was in some odd way trying to unburden herself, and that she was answering his polite curiosity with something like relief.

Then, precisely as the second hour ended, she put to him the question that he realized was the real reason behind her asking to see him again: did he, Henry, think it possible that she might hear Arkady play?

Henry was caught out. He was moved by her plea. And yet, knowing Arkady as he did and fearing Arkady s reaction both toward Maria Glover and toward himself if he were ever to bring the two together again, he considered that he could not risk effecting such a meeting, even covertly. Despite all that she had told him, he felt he had little choice but to answer no.

A brutalized dog whimpered in the shadow of the crumbling courtyard. Six
P.M.
now in Petersburg; eleven
A.M.
in New York; and this was just the fourth or fifth call of nine or ten between them. Gabriel sat by the window of Yana's mother's apartment, the telephone never in its cradle, the undernourished light lingering, the better to slip away unnoticed when he turned; Isabella heading uptown, battery running down, the New York morning like a set of freshly whitened teeth. She fixated, he terrified—real and unreal, one and the same.

"You have to go back there."

"I'm not going back there."

"You
have
to go back there."

"Is, I am not going back there. I can t. You can go when you come or tom—"

"Gabriel, I need you to go back there today, tonight."

"We'll go together. When you get here."

"Too late. It might be too late."

"I can't—"

"How was she again?"

"How
was
she?"

"How was she?

"I told you ... I told you. She was on the floor. In the main room. What are you asking me?"

"There was nothing wrong with her?"

"Yes. She was dead, Is, she was dead."

"For Christ's sake. I know that."

"What are you asking me, then?"

"I'm asking you ... I'masking you if ... She wrote me this letter .. . I'm asking you if it looked like she did it herself."

"Jesus."

"I mean ... anything ... was there anything strange about her? Anything that—"

"Is ... Is, she had a stroke. That's what happened. That's all." "How do you know?"

"Yana. The ambulance men said—there was dried saliva and other stuff—her skin was all mottled—they told Yana it looked like a stroke and I—"

"You sure? Can you check? Will there be an autopsy?"

"Is—"

"Did they say that there would be some kind of autopsy?"

"Is,
for Christ's sake.
She didn't want to kill herself. I spoke to her on the phone on Sunday night. She was ... she was fine. So will you stop. Will you stop being such a crazy idiot. She's dead. She is just dead. She died."

Silence.

Gabriel again: "Shit. Shit, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay.
I'm
sorry. I'll be there tomorrow night if I can get my visa. I'm on my way to the embassy now." Isabella breaking. "Sorry ... I'm sorry. You are right—I'm being crazy and you're there by yourself and ... Gabs, will you be all right? Is Yana there? Or Arytom? Someone you can stay with?"

And so Gabriel pulling himself together. "I'm okay. Just make sure you get the visa and a flight, Is, that's all you have to do. This had to happen one day."

"I know. I know, I know."

"And you were right about the consulate. They're helping a lot. I'm ... I'm talking with them again first thing. A guy called Julian Avery. When I called, they knew who I was. They remember Grandpa Max. They know who Mum was too—who we are, I mean. They're going to help ... with everything. We're lucky, in a way."

A long silence, and then Isabella asking the question: "Does
he
know?"

Another silence. Then: "Yes."

"They contacted him?"

"Yes. The hospital contacted the consulate before me. The consulate guy—Avery—seems to know where he is. And he's next of
kin. So they got hold of him. They told him. He knows." Gabriel drew his heaviest breath. "But we're going to bury her here, Is. We're not going to fly her home. She wanted to be buried in Petersburg. We're going to do that as fast as we can. We're not going to tell him. We're going to do it before he can get here. That bastard can go fuck himself."

Nicholas Glover had in fact spent his entire adult life fucking himself. However, estranged as they had been these past ten years or so, neither Gabriel nor Isabella could know this; and even before their antipathy ossified, Nicholas knew well that they could scarcely have imagined the ongoing mêlée in which he lived. Indeed, in the past twenty-four hours, Nicholas had come to an awful and existence-rearranging realization: that the only other person in the world who might ever have grasped the true nature of his lifelong war was his wife—Maria, Masha, Mashka, Marushya.

But it was too late now. Too late to confide. Too late to be open. Too late to start the one journey that he might have taken with any hope of reaching understanding at the end. Was this a tragedy? At present, Nicholas had no idea. Because as of the past thirty minutes, he was ignoring all such thoughts, ignoring them with a strength of will which, had it been available to most other men, would have sent them rushing from their dreary lives pell-mell in pursuit of their disappearing dreams.

Yes, Nicholas was ignoring all thoughts save those directly associated with process and procedure. In these, at least, there was a kind of ease ... As six o'clock chimed back and forth across the steeply raked Parisian rooftops, there was even some satisfaction in the sound of his handmade soles upon the medieval cobbles of the Rue des Barres. Everything procedural was taken care of. Thank Christ. Her rent was paid for another six months and then the flat would simply be leased to another tenant and his problem no longer. Her possessions, such as they were, Gabriel and Isabella could have. Welcome
to them. Under Russian rules, all the money in her bank accounts would be returned to him ... And even if this was not exactly the law, his solicitors could be instructed to make sure that it was done anyway. Who would challenge him? Surely nobody was going to fight him through the double jungle of a U.K. passport-holder (spouse, defector, repatriated) deceased on Russian soil. Not even Isabella. The Russian system could be relied upon to be as opaque as he required it to be. And what a relief that all could be conveyed through the Paris office; he had no wish to return to London. Even the wretched ache in his neck—a residual crick from his travels—seemed to have eased.

Almost jauntily, then, as if to put this improvement to the test, he looked up for the first time in two or three years at the crooked fa¸ade of the old building on the corner of the Rue du Grenier sur l'Eau—the oldest building in the city, so they said, beam-warped and brick-crooked as the eight hundred years of history it had witnessed. Yes, sixty-two was not so bad. Still in good shape. Still in sound mind. Still thinking. And still very able.

Yes, indeed:
tout était dans l'ordre.
Had he been carrying a cane to match his tailored linen suit, he might have twirled a spry thanks at the tourists now parting to let him make his way between their collective craning. Had he had a hat, he might have doffed it to the venerable old sisters now entering the mighty church of St. Gervais opposite. Good evening, sister, good evening, and a fine one too. Paris is behaving itself? The delicate scent of scandal, the salt tang of corruption, the sweet savor of vice—all vanished, all banished? Excellent. But now I must hurry home to my young friend, who has promised Tanqueray and tonic for my ills. And I am so very fond of him this evening.

Slim and trim, neither tall nor short, with pale eyes and a thin mouth (which between them disguised a fine, disparaging intelligence and a lifetime of immoderate appetite), Nicholas Glover had the kind of demeanor that Dorian Gray might have developed if that asinine portrait had never been painted and the young fool had relied instead on the excellence of his genes and the incisiveness of his wit to see him handsomely through to his sixties. His hair was turning white, still thick but close-cropped; his skin was clean-shaven and well attended to. Indeed, the only thing Nicholas took pains to conceal was his crooked teeth, which in the upper case were uneven and shading to yellow, and which in the lower were at war in such a manner as to have forced one another into partial overlap
and sudden protruding angles. For this reason, a smile seldom parted his lips.

He stepped sprightly past the early diners at the café on the shallow steps and sprightly too across the main road, up onto the embankment, and so to the Pont Marie. The light was softening and even the lazy Seine seemed a little less raddled—the city's favorite older woman come out once more, dressed in the flattering colors of the evening sun, slinking through the town again, turning heads, remarked upon, while her most loyal admirers, the distinguished old buildings on the Quai de Bourbon (likewise lit most handsomely in shades of pale sand and amber-yellow and
blanc cassé),
kept their devoted station.
Bonsoir,
Madame Seine,
bonsoir;
our compliments. The air, softening too, he thought, linen loosened by an afternoon of love ... Ah, yes, he could see the satisfactorily large windows of his own apartment.

Alessandro would most likely be in the bath, drinking wine, no doubt (and not something cheap, the grasping little shit), listening to that terrible music of his. Dear God, how he loathed Alessandro's music: some thirty-five-year-old ever-adolescent would-be chanteuse who couldn't sing or play or write or dance, popping along with her pigtails and her pout for the benefit of whom? Seven-year-old girls and thirty-five-year-old gay men; it was so bloody ... so bloody
camp.
And of course Alessandro would be singing out loud, planning all the while in that chichi little Soho head of his, planning what he wanted to extract from the evening. Nicholas sighed. Those childish emotional blackmails of poor Alessandro, those peasant clevernesses, which he no doubt considered compelling evidence of a subtle, emotionally attuned mind but which
(hélas)
were probably culled from the daily parade of inconsequence otherwise known as the "relationship" columns. Probably written by Gabriel.
There
was an irony. Nicholas narrowed his nostrils and exhaled slowly. He remembered (fondly) the time before that particular word achieved its current ubiquity; and he found it impossible even to think of it now except escorted by those two unyielding quotation marks: "relationship." Give me the sincerity of nakedness and the honesty of desire, O God, and deliver me from the turgid bourgeoisie and all their favorite phrases.

A shudder. He had reached the far side of the bridge—the Île St. Louis. Home. In the middle of the river. Two young policemen cycled by, and he slowed to watch their saddles until they disappeared past the Librarie Adelaide on Rue Jean de Bellay. Then he raised his
small leather document-holder to return the wave of the waitress from the Café Charlotte, white skirt swaying above pretty brown knees. Would she let him paint her one day? He thought so, if he went delicately about it. And so he turned left, along the quay, until he came to number 15, once the residence of Emile Bernard,
Créateur du Synthésisme
(so the plaque said), where he popped the lock, entered the cool of the courtyard (cedar scent and the clove perfume of basil in bloom), and climbed the wide stone stairs of staircase D, dipped in the middle from four hundred years of just such footsteps.

But the interior gloom of the stairwell recalled the sorrow and heaviness of his recent journey (his mind racing down avenues he had not sanctioned, as it always did). Anger and sorrow. His deepest consciousness had always felt this way—a churn wherein anger and sorrow were mixed and remixed and mixed again with the ceaseless salt of his lust. Oh Christ, his wife was dead. Masha was dead. Marushya. No longer fundable as a living and breathing woman, as the only woman to whom he might have confessed himself. And already, as quickly as the evening was falling through the sky, the entirety of more than three and a half decades of his life seemed to him implausible. All the things he had never said. Or rather, all the things he had said, all the things he was always saying, but only to himself.

I am a bloody fool, Masha. A bloody, vain, and self-denying fool. Could you have understood this ... this idle carcass of mine? Or did you always understand, despite my silence and deceit? I think you did. Could I have told you everything? I think I could. Even the worst of it? The very worst? Could I have told you and would you have understood? I tried ... once or twice, I tried. But I was afraid you would not be able to bear it. Not want to hear it. I was afraid you would leave me. I was afraid of everything. I lived in chaos. I lived through chaos. I lived on chaos. And Christ, you never asked. Masha, you never asked ... And I suppose I was grateful for that. I loved you because you didn't ask. I loved you dearly. The others ... All those hundred others, they always wanted something answered. Something settled. "How can you?" "Why do you?" "Why can't you?" "Why don't you?" They wanted me to provide "clarity"; they wanted me "to be honest." Clarity—can you believe it, Masha? Yes: you would understand. I know you would. Because you know how difficult it is to hold the line against the thousand daily surrenders this craven new world requires, to keep on coming back for more, heart in pieces, soul in rags. Clarity! Oh, Masha ... As if I ... As if I,
one man shuffling through all the disgusting piss and filth of this twenty-first century, one man at the tail end of a million desperate and profoundly unclear generations, none of whom have ever known the first thing about who they are, why they are, where they came from, what they are made of, where they it in, if they it in, why they are alive, why they die—as if I could provide anyone with any kind of clarity. But time and time again, Masha, I have been forced to this conversation: "Oh, but you can't live like this, Nicholas," they say. "Like what?" I ask. "With all this uncertainty and—you know—messing around." "Messing around? You call this messing around? No, Christ, this is not messing around. This is the very opposite of messing around. This is as in earnest as it gets: you and I, naked and alone, here and now, in this bed, the rest of time and space irrelevant. The soul's exchange, the body's vow, the mind's reprieve. Our most human nexus. I take this extremely seriously. It's the only thing I take seriously. It's the only thing I can take seriously." (Is this hurting you? Should I stop? For four years I was only yours. I swear it. Not much in a lifetime, but it was four years. I swear to you. My best years.) "Come on," they say, "be honest with me, Nicholas." And then, Masha, I have to fall to silence as the questions rain down upon me ... Because what you cannot say, what you must not say, is that you are living your whole life enacting the only honest, clear fact that you do honestly and clearly know: that nothing is honest and clear. (My God—you are smiling. You do know all this. You knew all along.) The cells, the DNA, the molecules of the blood—they all—they all—have different opinions, different opinions on everything, from euthanasia to the Hippocratic oath, from Israel to Palestine, from God made man to Man makes gods. They do not agree. There isn't even a consensus. Not within me. And certainly not out there. Half the world is screaming for water and freedom when the other half is ordering cocktails and complaining about the service. (Didn't you always say that, my Masha?) And what could I say to them about me? What could I tell them about what I feel? The head distrusts the heart. The heart ignores the head. The balls want to carry on regardless. It's a total and utter mess. Chaos. "Come on: be honest with me, Nicholas, tell me what you honestly feel about the situation." But what they really meant was "Be simple with me, Nicholas." Be uncomplicated. Be straightforward. And simplicity—simplicity is the new code for ... no—what am I saying?—simplicity actually means stupidity. What they're really asking is "Be stupid with me, Nicholas." The only way we can
get through this is to be stupid: work, marriage, the war, God, love, and television. If we can just stay stupid, it will be okay. We promise. Honesty! Honesty—Masha, is it not the most monstrous piece of excrement that mankind has ever come up with? Human nature, consciousness itself, is famously indeinable, mysterious, mobile, responsive—is gloriously less constant, less intrinsic than the imaginings of rocks, trees, sheep. That's the whole point. No, no, no—you get three goes at it, Masha: birth, death, and that little moment of both. The rest of the time you are fooling yourself and everyone around you. If you are alive and thinking and still interested in being alive and thinking, then you are necessarily unclear and you do not honestly know anything—you're guessing, hunching, hoping. And that's it. What I honestly feel—what I honestly feel! I could not write down what I honestly feel if I started now and did not stop till the last syllable of recorded time. And yes, I loved you, Masha, because you never once asked me to be clear or honest. Because you understood what being human actually means. And you weren't afraid of it. Were you?