Pushkin Hills (10 page)

“No more than half an hour.”

At the monastery, I introduced Tanya to the curator, Loginov. Rumour had it that Nikolai Vladimirovich was religious and even observed tradition. I wanted to talk to him about faith and waited for an opportune moment. He seemed happy and calm, and I was so lacking in that…

I concluded the tour in the southern vestry by Bruni’s drawing. The ending would have been more effective by the grave, but I wanted to let the group go. My wife stood by the railing for a bit and soon returned.

“All this is sad and absurd,” she said.

I didn’t ask what she meant. I was tired. Or rather, I felt very tense. I knew that her visit was no accident.

“Let’s have dinner at The Seashore,” I offered.

“I wouldn’t even mind a little to drink,” replied Tanya.

The room was deserted and stuffy. Two enormous fans sat idle. The walls were adorned with wooden reliefs. The few customers
comprised two groups: the visiting aristocracy, in blue jeans, and the local public, much greyer in appearance. The visitors dined. The locals drank.

We sat by the window.

“I forgot to ask how you got here? I mean I didn’t have the chance.”

“Very easily, on a night bus.”

“You could have come with one of the guides, for free.”

“I don’t know them.”

“Neither do I. Next time we’ll arrange something in advance.”

“Next time you come to us. It is rather taxing.”

“Do you wish you hadn’t come?”

“No, not at all! It’s wonderful here…”

A waitress with a tiny notepad came to the table.

I knew this damsel. The guides nicknamed her Bismarck.

“Yeah, what?” she uttered.

And fell silent, fully debilitated.

“Is it possible to be a little more polite?” I asked. “As an exception. My wife is visiting.”

“What did I say?”

“I beg you, please stop.”

Then Tatyana ordered pancakes, wine, chocolates…

“Let’s discuss everything. Let’s speak calmly.”

“I won’t go. Let them leave.”

“Who are ‘they’?” asked Tanya.

“They are the ones who are ruining my life. Let them leave.”

“They’ll put you in prison.”

“Let them. If literature is a pursuit deserving condemnation
then our place is behind bars. And anyway, they no longer send people away for literature.”

“Heifetz* hadn’t even published his work and yet he got put away.”

“That’s precisely why they got him: because he didn’t publish. He should have printed something in
Grani.
Or
Continent
.* Now there’s no one to fight for him. Otherwise they could have made some noise in the West.”

“Are you certain?”

“Of what?”

“That Misha Heifetz is of any interest to people in the West?”

“And why not? They wrote about Bukovsky. They wrote about
Kuznetsov.”*

“These are all games of politics. We must think of real life.”

“I’m telling you again, I will not leave.”

“Can you explain why?”

“There’s nothing to explain. My language, my people, my crazy country… Imagine this, I even love the policemen.”

“Love is freedom. While the doors are open, everything is fine. But if the doors are locked from the outside, it becomes a prison…”

“But they’re letting people out now.”

“And I want to use this chance. I’m fed up. I’m fed up with standing in lines for all sorts of junk. I’m fed up with wearing stockings with holes. I’m fed up of getting excited about beef sausages… What’s holding you back? The Hermitage, the Neva River, birch trees?”

“I couldn’t care less about birch trees.”

“Then what?”

“Language. In a foreign tongue we lose eighty per cent of our personality. We lose our ability to joke, to be ironic. This alone terrifies me.”

“I don’t have time for jokes. Think about Masha. Imagine what awaits her.”

“You’re blowing everything out of proportion. Millions of people live, work and are perfectly happy.”

“Let these millions stay. I am talking about you. Either way, you are not published.”

“But my readers are here. While over there… Who needs my stories in Chicago?”

“And who needs them here? The waitress at The Seashore, who hasn’t even read the menu?”

“Everyone. They just don’t know it yet.”

“This is the way it’ll always be.”

“You are wrong.”

“Try to understand: in ten years I’ll be an old woman. And I know exactly what my life will look like. Because each day that’s gone by is a step into the future, and every step is the same: grey, worn and steep… I want to live one more life. I dream of something unexpected. I don’t care if it’s a drama or tragedy… it’ll be an unexpected drama…”

We’ve had this conversation time and again. I would disagree, call her to reason. Pose some kind of moral, spiritual or psychological arguments. Try to prove something.

But at the same time I knew that all my rationalizations were lies. It wasn’t about that. I simply couldn’t make this decision.
Such a serious and irreversible step frightened me. After all, it would be like being reborn. And at one’s own will. Most people can’t even get married properly…

All my life I had detested active behaviour of any kind. To my ear, the word “activist” sounds like an insult. I lived in the passive voice, so to speak, allowing circumstances to take the lead. This helped me find justification for everything.

Any decisive step imposes responsibility. So let others be held responsible. Inactivity is the only moral condition… In a perfect world, I’d become a fisherman. Sit out my life on a riverbank. And preferably without any trophies.

I didn’t believe Tanya capable of leaving without me. For her, America was synonymous with divorce, I had thought. A divorce that had already formally taken place and lost its vigour, like flat beer.

In the old days women would say: “I’m going to find myself a good-looking rich guy, then you’ll be sorry.” Now they say: “I’m going to America.”

America for me was fiction. Something like a mirage. A half-forgotten film starring Akbar the tiger and Charlie Chaplin…

“Tanya,” I said, “I’m an irresponsible man and I’m up for any adventure. If the
Santa María* or a Boeing was sitting out there” (I pulled back the curtain) “I’d get on and go. Just to see this Broadway. But dealing with all the red tape, explaining things, convincing them… Historical birthplace… Ancestral calling… Imaginary aunt by the name of Fanny Tsyperovich…”

Our food and drinks arrived.

“Then wish us luck… Oh look, ‘potato’ is spelt with two As in the menu.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Anyway, I’ve come to say goodbye. If you don’t want to go, we’ll leave by ourselves. It’s decided.”

“And Masha?”

“What about Masha? I’m doing all this for her. Will you sign the papers?”

“What papers? Wait a minute, let’s have a drink.”

“That you have no material claims against us. Do you have material claims?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then you’ll sign the papers?”

“And what if I don’t?”

“Then they won’t let Masha leave.”

“And you’ll go alone?”

“I don’t know… No… But I don’t think you’ll do that. Fundamentally you’re not a mean person.”

“What’s kindness got to do with anything? We’re talking about a living person. What if our daughter grows up and says… How can you decide for her?”

“And who should decide? You? You, who’ve ruined your life and mine…”

“All’s not that hopeless.”

“I urge you to think about it.”

“There’s nothing to think about… Some stupid papers… Why did you have to start all this? Besides, I’m not drinking. I’m working. Life will sort itself out, you’ll see.”

“You yourself said, ‘Once a drinker, always a drinker!’”

“No, I didn’t. It was some Englishman. Let him be damned!”

“It doesn’t matter. Someone is trying to say hello.”

I looked over. Mitrofanov and Pototsky were standing in the doorway. I was glad for the chance to stop this conversation. If I could just get her into bed, I thought…

“Let me introduce you,” I said. “Sit down.”

Stasik bowed ceremoniously:

“Author of novels, Pototsky. Member of the SU of Writers.”

Mitrofanov nodded without saying anything.

“Join us. Do you have time?”

“I’ve done time,” Pototsky replied playfully.

Mitrofanov maintained silence.

I realized they had no money and said:

“My wife is visiting. It’s on me.”

And I went up to the bar to get us some beers. When I returned, Pototsky was saying something animatedly to my wife. I could tell he was talking about his talent and the outrageousness of censorship. Which, however, did not hamper his departure from the subject:

“Beer? I’m afraid it won’t irrigate the system…”

I had no choice but to get vodka. By that time the waitress had brought our sandwiches and salad.

Pototsky became visibly invigorated.

“For me – a large one,” he said. “I love the larger ones.”

Volodya still hadn’t said anything. Stasik noticed my look of curiosity and explained, pointing to Mitrofanov:

“You see, a wasp flew into his mouth.”

“Dear God,” sighed my wife. “Is it still in there?”

“Not any more. He was finishing a tour of the monastery, you see, and a wasp flew into his mouth. Volodya, beg your pardon, hawked up, but it whooped him all the same. Now he can’t speak – it hurts.”

“And does it hurt to swallow?” asked Tanya.

Volodya shook his head vigorously.

“Swallowing doesn’t hurt,” clarified Pototsky.

I poured them vodka. It was evident that this company was burdensome for my wife.

“How do you like it here?” asked Pototsky.

“Some parts are wonderful. Like the view of Savkin Hill, or Kern Lane…”

Suddenly Mitrofanov tensed up.

“Fa-fa-fee,” he uttered.

“What?” asked my wife.

“Fa-fa-fee,” repeated Mitrofanov.

“He says it’s all ‘fantasy’,” explained Pototsky. “He wants to say that Kern Lane is nothing more than director Geychenko’s invention. I mean, the lane exists, of course – your typical lane with linden trees. But Anna Kern had nothing to do with it. It’s possible she’s never been anywhere near this lane.”

“But I like to think that it was just there that Pushkin told this woman how he felt.”

“She was a courtesan,” Pototsky insisted sternly.

“Mo-mo-ho,” added Mitrofanov.

“Volodya wants to say ‘common whore’. And, forgive me for being rude, he is right. Anna Petrovna had dozens of lovers.
Comrade Glinka alone is worth volumes… And what about Nikitenko? And to get mixed up with a censor – that’s crossing all boundaries!”

“Back then censorship was different,” said my wife.

“Any censorship is a crime.” Stasik did not miss an opportunity to jump on a topic close to his heart.

“My entire life is a fight against censorship,” he went on. “Any censorship abuses the artist… Censorship sparks an alcoholic protest in me! Let’s drink to the end of censorship!”

Stasik had another drink and mysteriously lowered his voice:

“
Antra noo!
Between us! For a while now I’ve been hatching a plan to emigrate. I have in me exactly one thirty-second part of Jewish blood. And I have my eye set on the post of President’s advisor. I am the keeper of a secret recipe for making Tula honey cakes.”

“Oh-eh,” said Mitrofanov.

“What do you mean ‘loaded’?” objected Pototsky. “Yes, I had something to drink. Yes, I am slightly uninhibited. And yes, I am stirred by the company of a beautiful lady. But ideologically I am sober.”

There was a painful silence. Then someone dropped a coin into an apparatus called “Meloman” and the heart-rending wailing of
Anatoly Korolyov* broke through:

        
“The city held to me

        
Its open hand of squares,

        
The leaves along the boulevard are turning gold…

        
There is so much I need to say to you,

        
But who will help me find the perfect words?”

“We have to go,” I said. “Should I order more vodka?”

Stasik cast down his eyes. Mitrofanov nodded enthusiastically.

I ordered and paid. We rose to leave.

Pototsky jumped up and clicked his worn-down heels:

“As my noble Polish ancestors used to say –
do widzenia!
”*

Mitrofanov smiled sadly.