Pushkin Hills (3 page)

“Were you sleeping?” asked Galina.

I protested emphatically.

I noticed that people respond to this question with excessive fervour. Ask a person, “Do you go on benders?” and he will calmly say, “No.” Or, perhaps, agree readily. But ask, “Were you sleeping?” and the majority will be upset as if insulted. As if they were implicated in a crime.

“I’ve made arrangements for a room.”

“Well, thank you.”

“It’s in a village called Sosnovo. Five minutes away from the tourist centre. And it has a private entrance.”

“That’s key.”

“Although the landlord drinks…”

“Yet another bonus.”

“Remember his name – Sorokin. Mikhail Ivanych… Walk through the tourist centre, along the ravine. You’ll be able to see the village from the hill. Fourth house. Or maybe the fifth. I’m sure you’ll find it. There’s a dump next to it.”

“Thank you, darling.”

Her tone changed abruptly.

“Darling?! You’re killing me… Darling… Honestly… So, he’s found himself a darling…”

Later on, I’d often be astonished by Galina’s sudden transformations. Lively involvement, kindness and sincerity gave way to shrill inflections of offended virtue. Her normal voice was
replaced by a piercing provincial dialect…

“And don’t get any ideas!”

“Ideas – never. And once again – thank you…”

I headed to the tourist centre. This time it was full of people. Colourful automobiles were parked all around. Tourists in sun hats ambled in groups and on their own. A line had formed by the newspaper kiosk. The clatter of crockery and the screeching of metallic stools came through the wide-open windows of the cafeteria. A few well-fed mutts romped around in the middle of it all.

A picture of Pushkin greeted me everywhere I looked. Even near the mysterious little brick booth with the “Inflammable!” sign. The similarity was confined to the sideburns. Their amplitude varied indiscriminately. I noticed long ago that our artists favour certain objects that place no restriction on the scale or the imagination. At the top of the list are Karl Marx’s beard and Lenin’s forehead…

The loudspeaker was on at full volume:

“Attention! You are listening to the Pushkin Hills tourist-centre broadcasting station. Here is today’s schedule of activities…”

I walked into the main office. Galina was beset by tourists. She motioned me to wait.

I picked up the brochure
Pearl of the Crimea
from the shelf and took out my cigarettes.

After collecting some paperwork, the tour guides would leave. The tourists ran after them to the buses. Several “stray” families wanted to join a group. They were being looked after by a tall, slender girl.

A man in a Tyrolean hat approached me timidly.

“My apologies, may I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Is that the expanse?”

“What do you mean?”

“I am asking you, is that the expanse?” The Tyrolean dragged me to an open window.

“In what sense?”

“In the most obvious. I would like to know whether that is the expanse or not? If it isn’t the expanse, just say so.”

“I don’t understand.”

The man turned slightly red and began to explain, hurriedly:

“I had a postcard… I am a cartophilist…”

“Who?”

“A cartophilist. I collect postcards…
Philos
– love,
cartos
…”

“OK, got it.”

“I own a colour postcard titled
The Pskov Expanse
. And now that I’m here I want to know – is that the expanse?”

“I don’t see why not,” I said.

“Typical Pskovian?”

“You bet.”

The man walked away, beaming.

The rush hour was over and the centre emptied.

“Each summer there’s a larger influx of tourists,” explained Galina.

And then, raising her voice slightly: “The prophecy came true:
‘The sacred path will not be overgrown…’!”*

No, I think not. How could it get overgrown, the poor thing,
being trampled by squadrons of tourists?…

“Mornings here are a total clusterfuck,” said Galina.

And once again I was surprised by the unexpected turn of her language.

Galina introduced me to the office instructor, Lyudmila. I would secretly admire her smooth legs till the end of the season. Luda had an even and friendly temperament. This was explained by the existence of a fiancé. She hadn’t been marred by a constant readiness to make an angry rebuff. For now her fiancé was in jail…

Shortly after, an unattractive woman of about thirty appeared: the methodologist. Her name was Marianna Petrovna. Marianna had a neglected face without defects and an imperceptibly bad figure.

I explained my reason for being there. With a sceptical smile, she invited me to follow her to the office.

“Do you love Pushkin?”

I felt a muffled irritation.

“I do.”

At this rate, I thought, it won’t be long before I don’t.

“And may I ask you why?”

I caught her ironic glance. Evidently the love of Pushkin was the most widely circulated currency in these parts. What if I were a counterfeiter, God forbid?

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Why do you love Pushkin?”

“Let’s stop this idiotic test,” I burst out. “I graduated from school. And from university.” (Here I exaggerated a bit; I was
expelled in my third year.) “I’ve read a few books. In short, I have a basic understanding… Besides, I’m only seeking a job as a tour guide…”

Luckily, my snap response went unnoticed. As I later learnt, basic rudeness was easier to get away with here than feigned aplomb.

“And nevertheless?” Marianna waited for an answer. What’s more, she waited for a specific answer she had been expecting.

“OK,” I said, “I’ll give it a try… Here we go… Pushkin is our belated Renaissance. Like Goethe was for Weimar. They took upon themselves what the West had mastered in the fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Pushkin found a way to express social themes in the form of tragedy, a characteristic of the Renaissance. He and Goethe lived, if you will, in several eras.
Werther
is a tribute to sentimentalism.
Prisoner of the Caucasus
is a typically Byronesque work. But
Faust
, for instance – that’s already Elizabethan and the
Little Tragedies
naturally continue one of the Renaissance genres. The same with Pushkin’s lyricism. And if it’s dark, then it isn’t dark in the spirit of Byron but more in the spirit of Shakespeare’s sonnets, I feel. Am I explaining myself clearly?”

“What has Goethe got to do with anything?” asked Marianna. “And the same goes for the Renaissance!”

“Nothing!” I finally exploded. “Goethe has absolutely nothing to do with this! And ‘Renaissance’ was the name of Don Quixote’s horse. And it too has nothing to do with this! And evidently I have nothing to do with this either!”

“Please calm down,” whispered Marianna. “You’re a bundle
of nerves… I only asked, ‘Why do you love Pushkin?’”

“To love publicly is obscene!” I yelled. “There is a special term for it in sexual pathology!”

With a shaking hand she extended me a glass of water. I pushed it away.

“Have you loved anyone? Ever?!”

I shouldn’t have said it. Now she’ll break down and start screaming: “I am thirty-four years old and I am single!”

“Pushkin is our pride and joy!” managed Marianna. “He is not only a great poet, he is also Russia’s great citizen…”

Apparently this was the prepared answer to her idiotic question.

And that’s it? I thought.

“Do look at the guidelines. Also, here is a list of books. They are available in the reading room. And report to Galina Alexandrovna that the interview went well.”

I felt embarrassed.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

I rolled up the brochure and put it in my pocket.

“Be careful with it – we only have three copies.”

I took the papers out and attempted to smooth them with my hands.

“And one more thing,” Marianna lowered her voice. “You asked about love…”

“It was you who asked about love.”

“No, it was you who asked about love… As I understand, you are interested in whether I am married? Well, I am!”

“You have robbed me of my last hope,” I said as I was leaving.

In the hallway Galina introduced me to Natella, another guide. And another unexpected burst of interest:

“You’ll be working here?”

“I’ll try.”

“Do you have cigarettes?”

We stepped onto the porch.

Natella had come from Moscow at the urge of romantic, or rather reckless ideas. A physicist by education, she worked as a schoolteacher. She decided to spend her three-month holiday here. And regretted coming. The Preserve was total pandemonium. The tour guides and methodologists were nuts. The tourists were ignorant pigs. And everyone was crazy about Pushkin. Crazy about their love for Pushkin. Crazy about their love for their love. The only decent person was Markov…

“Who is Markov?”

“A photographer. And a hopeless drunk. I’ll introduce you. He taught me to drink
Agdam.* It’s out of this world. He can teach you too…”

“Much obliged. But I’m afraid that in that department I myself am an expert.”

“Then let’s knock some back one day! Right here in the lap of nature…”

“Agreed.”

“I see you are a dangerous man.”

“How do you mean?”

“I sensed it right away. You are a terribly dangerous man.”

“When I’m not sober?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t understand.”

“To fall in love with someone like you is dangerous.”

And Natella gave me an almost painful nudge with her knee.

Christ, I thought, everyone here is insane. Even those who find everyone else insane.

“Have some Agdam,” I said, “and calm down. I want to get some rest and do a little work. I pose you no danger…”

“We’ll see about that.” And Natella broke into hysterical laughter.

She coquettishly swung her canvas bag with an image of James Bond on it and walked off.

I set off for Sosnovo. The road stretched to the top of the hill, skirting a cheerless field. Dark boulders loomed along its edges in shapeless piles. A ravine, thick with brush, gaped on the left. Coming downhill, I saw several log houses girdled by birch trees. Monochrome cows milled about on the side, flat like theatre decorations. Grimy sheep with decadent expressions grazed lazily on the grass. Jackdaws circled above the roofs.

I walked through the village hoping to come across someone. Unpainted grey houses looked squalid. Clay pots crowned the pickets of sagging fences. Baby chicks clamoured in the plastic-covered coops. Chickens pranced around in a nervous, strobing strut. Squat, shaggy dogs yipped gamely.

I crossed the village and walked back, pausing near one of the houses. A door slammed and a man in a faded railroad tunic appeared on the front steps.

I asked where I could find Sorokin.

“They call me Tolik,” he said.

I introduced myself and once again explained that I was looking for Sorokin.

“Where does he live?”

“In the village of Sosnovo.”

“But this is Sosnovo.”

“I know. How can I find him?”

“D’ya mean Timokha Sorokin?”

“His name is Mikhail Ivanych.”

“Timokha’s been dead a year. He froze, havin’ partaken…”

“I’d really like to find Sorokin.”

“Didn’t partake enough, I say, or he’da still been here.”

“What about Sorokin?”

“You don’t mean Mishka, by chance?”

“His name is Mikhail Ivanych.”

“Well, that’d be Mishka all right. Dolikha’s son-in-law. D’ya know Dolikha, the one that’s a brick short of a load?”

“I’m not from around here.”

“Not from Opochka, by chance?”

“From Leningrad.”

“Ah, yeah, I heard of it…”

“So how do I find Mikhail Ivanych?”

“You mean Mishka?”

“Precisely.”

Tolik relieved himself from the steps deliberately and without reservation. Then he cracked open the door and piped a command:

“Ahoy! Bonehead Ivanych! You got a visitor!”

He winked and added:

“It’s the cops for the alimony…”

A crimson muzzle, generously adorned with blue eyes, appeared momentarily.

“Whatsa… Who?… You about the gun?”

“I was told you have a room to let.”

The expression on Mikhail Ivanych’s face betrayed deep confusion. I would later discover that this was his normal reaction to any question, however harmless.