The Unreal Life of Sergey Nabokov (42 page)

“No, no,
T
is dark blue, almost inky.”

And so they went on, merry as schoolchildren. If it was not a poster on a kiosk, it was the blue imp sparking above the streetcar, the shadows on a building, the speckled winter plumage of talkative starlings, a jowly old crone selling turnips who resembled—did she not?—a female version of Van Eyck's Canon van der Paele…

If I confess that I felt excluded from their banter, it is without any bitterness—for the exclusion, I saw, was not intentional, but instead the outward sign of a degree of harmony I had never in my life observed between two people, not even between my parents, whose marriage had always seemed formidably seamless.

My brother delighted in everything Véra said or did. If I could not get used to his playful terms of endearment—my Happiness, my Peach, my Fairy Tale—I could nonetheless see that, despite their poverty, their uncertain prospects, the ugliness closing in, he was divinely happy.

The following day, he accompanied me to the Haupt-bahnhof to see me off. Though our visit had not afforded us the kind of thoughtful, prolonged conversation I had looked forward to, I was nonetheless grateful for the glimpses into his life. As we quaffed a last-minute Pilsener in the stale-smelling station saloon, I asked him whether, for the sake of my sanity, we might return to the old question of Davide Gornotsvetov.

He looked at me blankly.

“Davide Gornotsvetov,” I prompted, “and the ballet dancer in
Mary
—and other things in your fiction as well. Only recently, for instance, I read your beautiful story ‘The Admiralty Spire,'
and once again noticed, well, that there were things there you couldn't possibly have known, little details, insignificant really, only they touched quite closely certain… How do I put it? Private experiences of mine. I really don't quite know what I'm trying to ask you.”

He smiled patiently. Over his shoulder I noticed the minute hand on the wall clock lurch forward; it was one of those timepieces that suggests the medium it purports to measure is not flowing but rather a series of discrete moments, each isolated from what comes before or after.

“Nor do I,” said my brother. “Listen, Seryosha. I'm a writer. A writer is always noticing; half the time he doesn't even notice what he's noticing. I understand that's not a very satisfactory answer. But I'm afraid it's the straightest response you're going to get from me.”

“I understand,” I said. The minute hand jerked forward. “I always keep hoping for more, even when I know there
is
no more.”

“Without doubt an admirable quality. But one can only give what one has to give.”

I reminded myself that I had not thought I would get much from him in the first place, but he surprised me.

“I suppose I've neglected to ask after Hermann,” he said. “That
is
his name, isn't it? Hermann?” He pronounced it with a markedly German flourish.

“Yes, Hermann. He's wonderful. Quite simply, he saved my life. Were it not for him…”

“I do understand, Seryosha. We've more in common, you and I, than anyone might have thought. Without Véra I wouldn't have written a single novel.”

The minute hand stuttered forward. “I presume that's not an attempt at a joke,” I told him.

“Why should it be? I'm perfectly serious. I honor my own salvation, and yours as well.”

“Then I hope we'll continue to exchange letters. I very much cherish this contact.”

His hazel-green eyes met mine. His expression turned sheepish.

“What is it?” I asked him.

“Well, if you absolutely must know.” He paused; I waited for the minute hand. There! “Véra's the one who handles the correspondence.”

It took a moment to register.

“What?” I said. “I've been writing to
Véra
all this time?

“And she's been writing to you. She finds you a most charming correspondent. She's told me so many times. And rest assured, I do read your letters. It's just that I find answering them difficult. I'd explain, but I think you'd best board your train now. I can see you've been keeping your eye on the clock. We certainly don't want you stranded in Berlin.”

I DID NOT ALTOGETHER BECOME A RECLUSE IN those happy years. From our Valkyrie perch in the mountains Hermann and I would descend at regular intervals to Munich, Salzburg, and Paris. When in Paris I saw my old friends less and less as time and circumstance dispersed them. Most of the Americans had gone home; even Tchelitchew and Tanner were now in America (though no longer together). The Ballets Russes had split into several quarreling entities, and Cocteau had thrown himself into playwriting.

Only once did I see Oleg—and only from afar, across the great width of the Champs-Elysées. His taxi had broken down—from its radiator rose a fume of angry steam—and as traffic flowed around him one could imagine the fume of angry steam rising from him as well. He did not see me, and I did not go to his assistance. Whatever help he needed was no longer mine to give. Mercilessly he flogged with his jacket the flank of his hapless vehicle, as a peasant might a long-suffering beast that had finally collapsed from its burden, a sight that must surely
have seemed comic to most passersby but that spoke to me of a melancholy as deep as the memory of Russia herself.

Every August Hermann and I made a pilgrimage to Bayreuth, and if, as the decade wore on, one had to put up with swastikas and the paraphernalia of the National Socialists, it seemed a small price to pay for the privilege of hearing Richard Strauss conduct the 1933
Parsifal
, or in that sweltering summer of 1937 the inimitable Furtwängler illuminating, as only his brooding genius could, the complete
Ring
. How I wished Father could have been there. These performances would have changed his mind about Wagner—but then I remembered the full-page photograph of Hitler in the printed program and was no longer so sure.

From Volodya—or was it from Véra?—I received the occasional cordial missive.

From V. Sirin, on the other hand, I received regular commu-niqués from that incomparably rich inner world he inhabited. In 1935
Invitation to a Beheading
appeared, a wild dream of a book, harrowing and hilarious and tender and transcendent. I did not know at the time how closely my own situation would one day resemble that of the condemned man who wonders how he can begin writing without knowing how much time remains.

It was not until 1937 that I saw Volodya again. Halfway through a visit to Paris, I dropped by Le Sélect one afternoon, and was astonished to discover my brother seated in the rear of the café, absorbed in a chess game with his friend Mark Aldanov. My first shameful impulse was to turn and flee, so full was I of tumult—joy at seeing him, confusion that he should be in Paris, hurt that he had not informed me of his plans—but why should he have? I approached the table, touched him on the shoulder, and in as casual a tone as I could manage expressed my pleasure and surprise at having run into him.

He flinched at my touch (I should have known better), looked around for a very long second without any glimmer of recognition
in his eyes, and then exclaimed, “Ah, Seryosha, what a delight to see you. What brings you down from the Alps?”

I told him, all a-stutter, that I could very well ask what brought him down from Berlin. Had he come to Paris for a reading? Had I missed the event? I'd seen no notices.

“No, no,” he said. “I've been here for two months now. I'm done with Berlin.”

“That's marvelous news, I'm so relieved for you and Véra.”

“Véra, alas, remains in Berlin. As does our son.”

“But how can that be?”

“She refuses to leave her job. She fears there's no work to be had in Paris.”

“She's right,” said Aldanov gloomily, without looking up from the chess board. “There's no work to be had anywhere. And even if there were work, she wouldn't be able to get working papers.”

Volodya paid his companion no mind. “I don't understand her reluctance. As for myself, I've been desperate to get out. I don't know if you've heard the news—there's no reason you should, since what happens in Germany doesn't concern you in the least—but that hyena Biskupsky's been appointed head of the Department for Émigré Affairs. But that's not the worst of it. Prepare yourself. He's arranged for Taboritsky, of all people, to be his deputy. Taboritsky! That clockwork assassin, that miserable excuse for a man. Mother is beside herself, and rightly so. He should have been left to rot in prison for the rest of his days. Instead, he's been put in charge of all our fates. Already an order has gone out that all Russians in the Reich must be registered immediately. And word is that Taboritsky has been given leave to gather a team who can serve as translators and interrogators in the event of war with the Soviet Union. It's grotesque. It's absurd. It's unbearable.”

For a man who prided himself on never reading the newspaper, my brother seemed monstrously well informed—better
than I, in fact, who had not previously heard this news about one of Father's murderers.

“There'll be no war with the Soviet Union,” said Aldanov. “Mark my word. Hitler's not that foolish.” He gestured toward the chessboard. “I'm afraid I've no choice but to concede. I shall leave you two brothers to your reunion. I'm sure you've much to talk about.”

I had always thought Aldanov a remarkably kind man; though Volodya had once penned a devastating review of his friend's latest novel, Aldanov appeared to have forgiven the treachery.

“You're looking well,” Volodya informed me with uncharacteristic solicitude. “I believe you've put on a bit of weight. Life must be agreeing with you these days.”

“As a matter of fact it is. I'm quite settled and content.”

Volodya, on the other hand, looked dreadful. His jacket was threadbare, his cuffs worn, his shoes in abominable condition. He too seemed aware of the contrast. “And quite spiffily turned out these days, I see.”

“I'm not going to apologize for my choices,” I told him.

“You misunderstand me. I'm not asking you to do so. You're still quite sensitive, aren't you? But I don't wish to provoke a quarrel. For one thing, I need to ask your help. Véra can't get a work permit for France unless someone sponsors her. It's maddening to be treated as criminals by these loathsome bureaucrats, but there it is. I seem to remember meeting some French friends of yours. Is there any possibility one of them might have connections in the bureaucratic labyrinth? Véra won't come unless she feels she has a firm guarantee of a job, but under the circumstances that's completely impossible. I only know Russians, and Russians are useless in these matters, since in the eyes of the state we barely exist.”

Gone was that Olympian confidence he used to exude. As he rolled himself a cigarette, his hands shook.

“Cocteau and Desbordes,” I said, remembering that afternoon at Michaud's. “The latter is probably not much help, but the former may be. It's one of his hobbies to know everyone who's anyone. I'd be very happy to see what I can do.”

Volodya looked at me full on. I had not noticed till then the circles under his eyes that made him resemble Uncle Ruka. “I'd be terribly grateful, Seryosha, for anything you can do. Terribly, terribly grateful.”

It was as if Fate had decided, on some unfathomable lark, to let us trade places for a bit, to see what happened when the prince switched roles with the pauper—or was it the other way around?

 

I cabled Hermann that I was extending my stay in Paris indefinitely, as I felt my brother needed me. Then I set out to find Cocteau.

The sad truth was, after years of intimacy—or at least the enchanting appearance of intimacy—we no longer knew each other. He and Desbordes had affably drifted apart. These days he was said to consort with an American Negro boxer named “Panama” Al Brown, whose European career he was trying to manage with somewhat less success than he had once managed his nightclub.

It took me some days to track my old friend down; he was avoiding his usual cafés. His friends said he had become paranoid—all agreed the time for another opium cure drew nigh. My note to him at his new address went unanswered for nearly a fortnight.

In the meantime, Volodya's situation grew even more desperate; he had come down with a severe case of psoriasis—brought on by nerves, declared his doctor.

“It's driving me mad,” he confided to me. “In the middle of the night I think, if I had Véra's pistol I'd put it against my temple and pull the trigger.”

“It's best, then, you don't have it,” I replied. “Perhaps she'd better not come after all, at least not till you're better.”

“No, she must come at once. Besides, I miss Mitouchka. You've never been a father, you wouldn't know the insane tenderness, the hellish anxiety one feels at the thought of that helpless, miraculous life, that mingling of one's long blood shadow with another's. There's nothing like that feeling on this earth. But then there must be many things to rue about your predicament. How absurd it must feel to be so ill-fitted to the world one finds oneself in.”

“I assure you I don't dwell on my predicament, as you call it. Really I don't. Finding the right shade of lip gloss is a far more troubling annoyance.”

“Must your wit always be so obvious?” he asked.

 

When Cocteau finally rang me, it was Volodya who answered the telephone. He held the receiver out to me as if it were a distasteful object he wanted no part of.

“There's a man on the other end who keeps insisting that I am actually you, and I cannot seem to convince him otherwise. He also demands to know whether the line is bugged.”