The Wine of Solitude

In the part of the world where Hélène Karol was born, dusk began with a thick cloud of dust that swirled slowly in the air before drifting to the ground, bringing the damp night with it. A hazy, reddish light lingered low in the sky; the wind brought the smell of the Ukrainian plains to the city, a mild yet bitter scent of smoke, cold water and rushes that grew along the riverbanks. The wind blew in from Asia; it had pushed its way between the Ural Mountains and the Caspian Sea; it brought with it whirls of yellow dust that cracked between the teeth; it was dry and biting; it filled the air with a howl that faded as it disappeared towards the west. Then all was calm. The setting sun, pale and dull, veiled behind whitish clouds, sank deep into the river.

From the Karols’ balcony you could see the whole town, from the Dnieper River to the hills in the distance; its outline was marked out by the gaslights that lined the winding streets with their fluttering little flames, while on the opposite bank the first fires of spring smouldered in the grass.

The balcony was surrounded by boxes full of flowers that had been especially chosen because they opened at night, Nicotiana, Sweet Mignonette, Tuberoses; the balcony was so wide that it could hold the dining table and chairs, a wicker ‘love-seat’ and the armchair of Safronov, Hélène’s grandfather.

The family sat around the table, eating in silence; the flame from the gas lamp attracted delicate moths with beige wings. Leaning forward, Hélène could see the acacias in the courtyard, lit up in the moonlight. The courtyard was bare and dirty but lined with trees and flowers, like a garden. On summer evenings the servants sat down there, talking and laughing among themselves; sometimes a white skirt could be seen moving about in the darkness; they could hear an accordion playing and a muffled cry: ‘Let go of me, you devil!’

‘Well, they’re not bored down there …’ said Madame Karol, looking up.

Hélène was half asleep in her chair. At this time of year, they ate late; she could feel her legs trembling, aching from having run around the garden; her chest rose and fell quickly as she remembered the shrill cries she couldn’t help but make as she ran after the hoop, cries like the song of some bird. Her small rough hand loved touching her favourite black ball, which she had hidden in the pocket of her tartan skirt even though it left bruises as it pressed into her leg. She was eight years old; she wore a dress of broderie anglaise with a white silk belt tied below her waist in a ‘butterfly’ bow fixed in place with two pins. Bats flew by and as each one swooped down low, Mademoiselle Rose, Hélène’s French governess, let out a little cry and laughed.

Hélène half opened her tired eyes and looked at her family.
Her father’s face was surrounded by a sort of yellowish haze that shimmered like a halo: to her weary eyes it looked as if the light from the lamp was flickering, but yes, it really was flickering. The lamp had begun to smoke; Hélène’s grandmother shouted to the servant, ‘Macha! Lower the lamp!’

Hélène’s mother sighed, yawned and flicked through Paris fashion magazines while she ate.

Hélène’s father said nothing, softly drumming his slim, delicate fingers on the table.

He was the only one whom Hélène resembled; she looked exactly like him. It was from him she had inherited her passionate eyes, wide mouth, curly hair and swarthy complexion that turned almost yellow whenever she was sad or ill. She looked at him tenderly. But he only had eyes for his wife. His loving caresses were only for her too.

She pushed away his hand. ‘Don’t, Boris,’ she said, sullen and irritable. ‘It’s hot, leave me be …’

She pulled the lamp towards her, leaving the others in darkness; she sighed with boredom and weariness, curling strands of her hair round her fingers. She was a tall, shapely woman ‘of regal bearing’ and with a tendency to plumpness, which she fought by using corsets shaped liked breastplates, as was the fashion; her breasts nestled in two satin pockets, like fruit in a basket. Her arms were white and powdered. Hélène felt a strange sensation, close to revulsion, when she saw her mother’s snow-white skin, pale, languid hands and claw-like nails. Hélène’s grandfather completed the family circle.

The moon spilled its tranquil light over the tops of the lime trees; nightingales sang beyond the hills. The Dnieper shimmered a dazzling white. The moonlight shone on the nape of Madame Karol’s neck, which was as pale and hard as marble;
it reflected off Boris Karol’s silvery hair and the short, tapered beard of the elderly Safronov; it cast a dim light on the small, wrinkled, angular features of her grandmother: she was only fifty but she looked so old, so weary … The silence of this sleepy provincial town, lost deep within Russia, was intense, heavy and overwhelmingly sad. Then, suddenly, the stillness was broken by the sound of a carriage jolting along the paved street: the terrible din of a lashing whip, swearing the bump of wheels against stone, which faded and disappeared into the distance … Nothing more … silence … just the rustling of birds’ wings in the trees … the sound of a distant song from some country road, interrupted by the noise of arguments, shouting, the thud of a policeman’s boots, the screams of a drunken woman being dragged to the police station by the hair … Silence once more …

Hélène gently pinched her arms so she wouldn’t fall asleep; her cheeks burned as if they were on fire. Her dark curls kept her neck warm; she ran her fingers through her hair, lifting it up; she thought angrily that it was only her long hair that kept her from beating the boys when they raced: they grabbed it while she was running; she smiled with pride recalling how she had kept her balance on the slippery edge of the fountain. Her arms and legs were racked with agonising but exhilarating exhaustion; she secretly rubbed her painful knees, covered in scratches and bruises; her passionate blood pulsed quietly, deep within her body; she kicked the underside of the table impatiently, hammering its wood and sometimes her grandmother’s legs, who said nothing so Hélène wouldn’t be scolded.

‘Put your hands on the table,’ Madame Karol said sharply.

Then she continued reading her fashion magazine.

‘Tea-gown in lemon-yellow twilled silk with eighteen orange velvet bows to fasten the bodice …’ she said with a sigh, forming each word with longing.

She wound a curl of her shiny dark hair round her fingers and stroked it against her cheek as if in a dream. She was bored: she didn’t like meeting up with other women to smoke and play cards, as they all did as soon as they were over thirty. Looking after the house and her child filled her with horror. She was only happy in a hotel, in a room with a bed and a trunk, in Paris …