Voroshilovgrad (42 page)

The loose snapshots clearly hadn't been organized according to any principle. The faces there looked unfamiliar and somehow alien. I know that kind of picture, the ones that are always kept; nobody wants to include them in their family photo albums, but that they don't dare throw out, perhaps because throwing away pictures of the living is frowned upon . . . so they begin to collect, these old photographs—given as gifts, sent by mail, or just taken for no particular reason by camera enthusiasts—and wind up in a pile surrounded by other nearly forgotten relatives and family friends. I glanced through them briefly, then and set them aside.

The rest of the prints, however, had been treated with love, and sorted fastidiously; they told the story of Tamara's family and
even projected its future to a certain degree. The first pictures, mostly black and white, a little bent, scratched, and ink-stained, featured some insane southern landscapes, as well as the white caps of mountain ranges, roof tiles, high windows, stone walls, beat-up roads, and other exotic things interspersed with self-assured men and young, prideful girls with tar-black hair and white teeth. Some of them looked at me gloomily, some were laughing and carefree, while others were clearly worried or upset about something. I tried finding Tamara's features in her relatives' faces, but she was completely different—something separated her from her fellow mountain dwellers; it may have been her weary eyes or her sunglasses. Nevertheless, these people were undoubtedly close to her; they were related somehow, something kept them together, and I tried capturing some seemingly inconsequential details that might help me solve the riddle of this family, studying their clothing and combing through whatever notes or dates had been written in; scrutinizing young women with puffy hair as they strolled down wide boulevards, men wearing old-fashioned swim trunks standing still on a seacoast, old Soviet cars, silly children's toys, factory entrances, university lecture halls, school hallways, and train compartments filled with happy faces looking straight at the camera, peering into the other side of time and space.

The prints dating back to the mid-'60s were dominated by two girls, faintly similar, yet completely different. The older girl had black eyes with a serious and focused expression and wore a peculiar medallion around her neck, while the younger one was always looking off to the side, wearing goofy ribbons in her hair—they made her look funny, yet somehow more feminine—paying no
attention whatsoever to the photographer. I immediately recognized Tamara and Tamila. Various adults—men and women and the close family in which they were lucky enough to grow up—were always bunched around the sisters, clustered behind them, off to the side, or up above. Someone seemed to have chronicled every step of the young girls' lives—preschool (the hideous furniture of Soviet educational institutions, the teacher spilling out of her sun dress, New Year's decorations, dances, games, and the painful hopelessness of singing in a choir), picnics outside the city (animals and sunflowers, the sun on the lake, and children's shrieks that had developed along with the pictures themselves), vacationing at the beach with their parents (sun-battered landscapes and color photographs faded like flags left out in the summer heat), school (uniforms fit for prisoners, state holidays, poetry readings, their first big exams, friends suddenly sprouting up inside the frames); and the girls changed gradually from picture to picture, coming to resemble their current selves more and more, becoming who they were now, today, in this life, this time: fully mature and thoroughly embittered.

During their school days, Tamara was always surrounded by girlfriends: she would be standing there in the center of the shot, arm in arm with one of them. If she was alone, she would have a self-assured expression on her face or be holding a bouquet of flowers, her book bag, or something more substantial. She was mature and looked older than she really was; by the time she was in high school, she had the fully formed body of a young woman and wore jewelry that the administration clearly frowned upon, without ever managing to ban it outright.

Tamila was just the opposite—a timid little girl, a late bloomer of sorts, even in the pictures taken during her last few years of high school. She never took the ribbons out of her hair and she wore oversized sweaters, and worn-out shoes—she always stood off to the side, in the corner, trying to slip out of the frame unnoticed.

Judging by the murky faces, blurry hair, and rushed movements, the pictures that followed clearly hadn't been developed professionally. Tamara wore her white lab coat; occasionally, I'd recognize familiar buildings and scenery, and if I wanted to I could even recall where I was when it was taken and what I was up to. Over time, the number of male faces increased. At first there were some community college guys who barely looked old enough to shave, wearing short, black jackets and holding tape players, then came male classmates in the same white uniform that Tamara wore. Eventually there were more and more men, mature and established ones. They stood by their Volgas, wearing light dress shirts and heavy black suit jackets; they ate in restaurants, drank cognac, wore digital watches and brightly colored ties, and displayed gray, stone-cold expressions and battle-worn fists. All the men flocked around Tamara, standing still just long enough to project themselves into these pictures and become part of her past. Tamara always looked light and stunning, despite the hideous haircuts that were fashionable back in the '80s, and wore long coats and short, nearly nonexistent skirts, or else tight dresses and light-colored sandals that she took off and held in her hands as she stood on the hot, summer asphalt. She had deep and brash eyes, a tender yet dismissive smile, and a body that drove all the men wild—all the professors and truck drivers, thieves and Communist Youth League
leaders, budding capitalists and alcoholics who hung around her, trying to make it into one of her pictures at any price.

Tamila, who by this point was starting to look more like a woman, would occasionally make an appearance, but she was still overshadowed by Tamara. There were hardly any pictures of them together. That was probably how Tamila wanted it, but who knows. Generally, Tamila had her picture taken with adults—her parents, teachers, and other men and women, God knows who they were to her. In one print, she was standing in a park that resonated with the abundant sun and greenery of summer, between two rotund women who were squashing her between them, so Tamila simply evaporated among their flashy dresses. I took a closer look and, to my surprise, recognized Angela Petrovna (her thick, ash hair spiked up, her piercing gaze, and heavy, autumnal breasts) and Brunhilda Petrovna (her hot, copper-colored curls glistening in the sun and her hips protruding out of the disappearing fabric). Then I came across Kocha and Injured (the hardened gait of a young thug and the supple torso of a star forward, respectively), Sasha Python, Andryukha Michael Jackson, and a multitude of other friends, acquaintances, classmates, neighbors, relatives—an endless throng of faces, portrait and profile, shadows from the past, from every moment of my life, every moment of my memory. And a surprised Tamara, squinting with pleasure, her hair black like tea, wearing no clothes at all, half-submerged in the nighttime waves; or else wearing a formal suit at various award ceremonies, wearing sweaters and jackets at work, holding umbrellas, sunglasses, and bags during trips, celebrations, weddings, and funerals—she was always standing right in the middle of the action.

By the time
he
made an appearance, I'd reached one of the last few prints; Tamara was already a mature divorcee, much more attractive and intelligent than she'd been before her wedding, as is often the case. Her eyes were a bit weary, her face a bit puffy from chronic insomnia, her movements had slowed down a little and she seemed to have acquired a mild sort of melancholy, as though anticipating that, though he'd left her life, he would eventually come back. And then, there he was again, a constant presence, overwhelming her. He went everywhere with her, upstaging her in the photographs, trying to squeeze her out of the frame, which was a first. And yet she seemed perfectly fine with this new arrangement—judging by her face, at any rate. Maybe she needed his protection, or just his presence, as though she was willing to yield space in her own life to him, viewing it as a given, a necessity. They were always together, sharing each place, moment, shot. Sometimes Tamila's despondent face would crop up, over to the side, as though caught in the same photo with them against her will; and every time she appeared, she looked somber, and slightly pained, as though blinded by the sun.

And then something must have happened, since the man vanished as mysteriously as he'd appeared, and without any images suggesting why he might be absent. Then everything ran together in the last pages, there were some old girlfriends, other familiar faces, some houses, someone's funeral, various cities, winter landscapes, but Tamara herself was gone, save for the occasional rare appearance. It was as if she'd decided to avoid having her picture taken, as though she didn't want anyone seeing her during those years. Only at the very end of the album were there a few relatively
recent pictures of Tamara and Tamila. They looked much the same as ever—worn out yet sultry, incredibly similar yet totally different—but now they were sticking together, literally: their arms entwined, always leaning on each other, their hair and clothing pressed together, looking into the lens attentively, intelligently; keeping their eyes fixed on you. They were odd women, I thought, with a past as black as their eyes; when they looked at you, you felt they were looking at you alone, and you in turn saw them and nobody else.

When she came home in the middle of the night, when I heard her from inside my dreams, jingling her keys like Saint Peter searching for righteous people up and down the city streets, stepping into the room where I was sleeping, still dressed and still clutching her photo album; I could see her, could see how she moved, how she looked in her skin-tight outfit, her hair blowing in the wind like a flag, even in my sleep . . . So when she stole timidly across the dark room and stopped by the bed, hovering over me, watching me a while in the dark before eventually deciding to pry the album out of my grip, I was able to intercept her hand and pull her toward me without opening my eyes, and she submitted to the darkness I was pulling her into. Once her lips found mine she started kissing me greedily, holding nothing back. She had been waiting so long for this moment, dwelling on it, so it was bound to happen. She didn't even bother getting undressed, she just pounced on me still wearing the long jacket that covered up
her heavy sweater and long dress. Her hair was falling in my face, blacking out the dim light setting the night into motion. Running my hands up her legs, I felt thick socks going almost all the way up to her knees, and then there was nothing else—no stockings or anything, which rattled me for some reason. I felt all of her at once, all of her weight and weightlessness, felt the warmth of her skin and the slightly damp panties that she slipped out of gracefully, continuing to kiss me, stepping out of them in just a few efficient motions, leaving them to dangle on her left calf, then she slid her hand down toward my jeans and quickly took care of them too. She started riding me, her hips clenching me powerfully. Occasionally she'd lean in, kissing me with abandon, gasping for air, and then drawing back again, causing her hair to spill down onto her shoulders. Her face and neck glimmered in the dark, while her hands pressed firmly down on my chest, as though she was pushing me away or rejecting me, but, lacking the willpower to hop off of me, she could only bounce up and down, her gray jacket swaying like a sail in the wind and her rings catching on my shirt buttons. Her kisses smelled of strong tea and booze, and her clothes felt rough against me, contrasting with the softness of her skin; her teeth were sharp and her nails were bloody and predatory. Her hands slid underneath my shirt, leaving long, painful streaks on my back that glowed in the dark like electric wires. She screamed as she was about to finish, looking at me as though surprised. Her movements became jerky and painful; I got the sense that she was looking past me, moving automatically now, like a sleepwalker. I kept moving with her, keeping pace, staying with her, following a new rhythm with her, and we reached its finale together.