The grandson’s an absolute cretin. He’s even breathing like an idiot: first exhales, then inhales, whereas with normal people it’s the reverse. And all the time watching me, with his eyes gaping, and his mouth squinting.
And as for the grandfather, he’s even more tensed up, like he’s staring down a gun-barrel. And his eyes pale blue and soggy, with the moisture trickling out of them like out of two drowning victims, straight into his boots.
“Hey, granddad, what’s your name, and where are you headed?”
“My name’s Mitrich. And this is my grandson – his name’s Mitrich too. We’re going to Orekhovo – to have a ride on the merry-go-round.”
“Hee-hee-hee-hee…”
That’s the grandson, a really bizarre sound – he doesn’t speak, more like chirrups, and not out of his mouth, either. Actually out of his left nostril.
“Right then, Mitrich, what were you up to while I was out in the corridor? While I was thinking about my beloved, you two were going through my stuff, right?”
Well, they just dissolved in tears. The two of them, just sat there, rocking and howling. The grandson’s so upset his armpits start blinking.
“Hey, I’d like to join in.”
It’s Black Moustache, with his jacket and brown beret, holding a bottle of Stolichnaya.
“You don’t mind?”
And we all four filled up, each to his own. The grandson whips out an actual bucket, fetches it up from somewhere between his mons pubis and his diaphragm.
“To Brüderschaft then, lads?”
“Brüderschaft!” And we all drink with our heads flung back, like concert pianists…
Black Moustache in the jacket is the first to speak:
“D’you know what Chekhov’s last words were? ‘Ich sterbe – ‘I’m dying.’ Then he said, ‘Give me some champagne.’ And then he died. And as for Schiller, he couldn’t live without champagne. He’d sit with his feet in ice-water, pour himself a glass of champagne, and start to write. By the time he’d sunk the first glass, he’d have Act One under his belt; with five glasses in him, he’d have a full five-act tragedy. But you know Goethe, old Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, never touched a drop.”
“Not even when Schiller offered him a glass of champagne?”
“Not even then. He’d say, ‘No, thanks, old boy, never touch the stuff.’ But don’t think he doesn’t fancy a drink (while all the honest men are getting pissed). Of course he does. But he doesn’t want to make an arse of himself, so he gets all his characters to do his drinking for him! Look at Faust: they’re all at it!”
“Why should he want to do that?”
“Why does he make Young Werther put a bullet through his own head? Because – and this is fact – Goethe himself was on the brink of suicide, so to rid himself of the temptation, he gets Young Werther to do it for him! And that’s how he drank. Same way as he shot himself. Faust has a snort, and Goethe’s smacking his lips. Mephistopheles gets ratarsed, and the old fart’s slurring his speech.
“And Mussorgsky! Jesus! Mussorgsky – you know how he composed his immortal opera Khovanshchina? Eh? Mussorgsky’s lying in a ditch, pig-drunk, and Rimsky-Korsakov’s walking past, in his dinner-jacket, with a bamboo cane. He sees Mussorgsky lying there. ‘Come on, get up!’ he says, ‘Go and get washed and finish your divine opera Khovanshchina!’ So there they are, Rimsky-Korsakov in an armchair with his legs crossed, top-hat perched on the back of his head. Mussorgsky’s sitting facing him, totally knackered, crouched over his table, sweating cobs over the notes. Mussorgsky’s gasping for a drink, doesn’t give a bugger about the music, and the minute Rimsky-Korsakov’s out the door, he dumps his immortal opera Khovanshchina, has another skinful and plops back into his ditch.
“Yes, Russia’s finest sons, all the people she really needed, they all drank like fish. All Russia’s honest men drank themselves into a stupor, out of sheer despair, because they were honest! Because they weren’t able to relieve the people’s suffering! The bells of hell couldn’t rouse them, lying there suffering in their own vomit. And that’s how it was, right up until our own day.
“Incidentally, you look as if you haven’t touched a drop since morning. You’ve got such sorrow in your eyes.”
“Sorrow? My eyes are a bit bleary, that’s all. I’m just slightly pissed.”
“Sorrow! You’re upset over some tart or other! (To Mitrich.) He’s upset over some tart or other!”
“My, my, we’re getting just like characters out of Turgenev, sitting around arguing about love. Why don’t we all tell stories?”
“Yes, why don’t we! Yes, like Turgenev, let’s go!”
“Mind you, it’s all a bit different in Turgenev. His people all gather round the fireside, with their top-hats on, and their lace jabots flying. Well, okay, we’ve no fireside, but we’ve plenty to keep us warm. And as for lace jabots, who needs them? We’re rat-arsed enough without them! Mind you, if you want love Turgenev-style, you’ve got to be prepared to sacrifice everything for your chosen one! I mean, could you slip into Party headquarters at night, take off your trousers and drink a whole bottle of ink? For the woman you loved? Could you do that?”
“Not a chance.”
“I could. And I could tell you some stories.”
Old Mitrich, for God’s sake. What drivel will he come out with? Well, never mind, you’ve got to respect other people’s dark corners. Even if there’s nothing in them but garbage…
“We used to have a chairman. Lohengrin, they called him, a really hard man, covered in blackheads. He’d go out of a night in his motor-boat – he gets into his boat, sails up the river, and starts squeezing his blackheads. Then when he’s had his little boat-trip, he comes back to his office, and that’s him, nobody can get near him. If you so much as say ‘boo’ to him, he starts to cry. Just stands there, howling, pissing on the floor, like a little kid…” (Starts crying.)
“Hang on, hang on, Mitrich, what the fuck’s that got to do with Turgenev? Blackheads? Pissing on the floor?”
But I felt for old Mitrich, I understood his tears. He was just so sorry for everything and everybody: for the chairman, for the floor he’d pissed on, for the boat, and the blackheads – he was sorry for everything. First love, or final pity, what’s the odds? When Christ was dying on the Cross, he commanded us to have pity, he certainly didn’t tell us to mock. Pity, for the fruit of every womb…
I’m getting seriously guttered myself, and what with all the rustling and lip-smacking, it was as though the concert pianist was drowning in his own hair, playing Liszt’s Forest Murmurs in C sharp minor…
ON-BOARD ANNOUNCER: Citizen passengers, have your tickets ready, please. Tickets ready!
VENYA: To tell you the truth, nobody’s that bothered about the inspector on the Petushki line, because nobody’s got a ticket. It was a different story before old Semyonych was appointed Chief Inspector; they used to whip people with no tickets into reservations, like Red Indians; then they’d beat them about the head with the Greater Soviet Encyclopedia, give them a spot fine, and boot them off the train. Inspector Semyonych changed all that, made it much simpler, and more humane. People without tickets just had to give him one gramme of vodka per kilometre. Like, for instance, if you’re going from Kuskovo to Usad, that’s a distance of eighty kilometres, you just pour old Semyonych eighty grammes, and you’re free as a bird, you can stretch out on the seat, and travel like a merchant banker.
Anyway, Semyonych came into our carriage, beaming. He could hardly stand up already, he usually only got as far as Orekhovo, and he’d dive off the train into his office, smashed out of his skull…
“Is that you again, Scheherezade? Moscow to Petushki?”
At this point I shall digress a little, and while Semyonych is drinking the fines he’s so far collected, I shall explain the significance of Scheherezade…
I first bumped into Semyonych three years ago. He’d only just taken up his post: “Moscow to Petushki? A hundred and twenty-five gramme
s.” And when I told him I didn’t have any grammes: “Right, d’you want me to smash your face in?” I said there was no call for that, and started muttering something about Roman Law. That really intrigued him, and he wanted more detail about Rome and the Ancient World. So, I started to tell him, and I’d just reached the scandalous tale of Tarquin and Lucretia, when he had to jump out at Orekhovo, so he didn’t get to hear whether that idle bugger Tarquin had his wicked way with her or not.
Actually, as far as world history goes, Semyonych is a chronic sex maniac, and the following week, he rushes up to demand the sequel. “Come on,” he says, “Did he shag this Lucretia or didn’t he?”
Anyway, I skipped on from Roman history to the Christian era, and just as I was saying, “And so, urged on by the Patriarch Cyril, the monks of Alexandria tore the clothes off the beautiful Hypatia…” the train suddenly pulled up at Orekhovo, and Semyonych had to jump out onto the platform, totally spellbound.
That went on for three years, every week, and I was the only ticketless person on the Moscow-Petushki line that never once gave Semyonych a single gramme, and lived to tell the tale, moreover. But all good stories come to an end, and so does the history of the world.
Last Friday I’d got as far as George Bush, Saddam Hussein, and Margaret Thatcher. I mean, there’s nowhere left to go. And here’s Semyonych, he’s drunk all his fines, and stands looking at me, like Scheherazade’s Sultan.
“Moscow to Petushki? A hundred and twenty-five grammes.”
“Semyonych, listen! Are you capable of seeing into the future? Can you come with me out of the dark ages past, into the new Golden Age which is fast approaching? Can you go forward with me from the Third Reich, the fourth vertebra, the Fifth Republic, the 17th Party Congress, into the world of the fifth empire, the seventh heaven, and the Second Coming, as awaited by all Judea!?”
“I can do anything today. Speak, Scheherezade, speak!”
“Then listen! There will come a day, and on that day Simeon, wearied with waiting, will say,’’Oh, Lord, release Thy servant…’ And the Archangel Gabriel will say, ‘Rejoice, Mary, Mother of God, for thou art blessed among women!’’And there will be nothing but goodness and beauty, the tormentor and his victim will entwine in a kiss, and the woman…”
“What woman? What woman?”
“And the woman of the East will cast off her veil! Yes, she will finally fling off her yashmak, that oppressed woman of the East! And lie down…”
“Who’ll lie down!?”
“Yes, the wolf and the lamb shall lie down together, and there shall be no more tears, and each young man shall take unto himself a young lady, as his fancy moves him, and they shall…”
“Oooh! Oooh! Will it be soon? Will it be soon?” And all of a sudden, Semyonych is whipping off his jacket and his uniform trousers, right down to his unmentionables.
Well, okay, I was drunk, but I was astonished nonetheless, and the other passengers, the sober travelling public, practically jumped out of their seats – they’d got completely the wrong idea…
You see, I should explain that homosexuality’s finally been eliminated in our country, albeit not completely. Or rather, it has been completely eliminated, but not entirely. Or put it another way – it has been entirely and completely eliminated, but not finally. I mean, what’s on our people’s minds? Arab-Israeli tension. And homosexuality. And what’ll they think about when Arab-Israeli tension’s resolved? Homosexuality.
Let’s say they’re watching TV. Chancellor Kohl and President Mitterand meet at a diplomatic reception. Naturally, they smile and shake hands. But our people say, “Aha!” they say, “How about that Chancellor Kohl, eh?’” or “Ooh! Just look at that Mitterand!”
Anyway, that’s how they’re looking at us now.
“Semyonych! Remember where you are!”
“This woman of the East, Scheherezade… when she casts off her veil, what’ll she have on underneath? Has she got anything on under her yashmak?”
I had no time to answer. The train pulled up at Orekhovo, the doors slid open, and Chief Inspector Semyonych, spellbound for the thousand-and-first time, fell out. For a second or two, he stood there unbuttoned, swaying like a thinking reed. All the fines he’d collected for fare-dodging surged up from his gut and flowed across the platform…
All this I saw with perfect clarity, as I can testify to the whole world. But as for the rest – well, I can’t testify to anything. On the rim of my consciousness somewhere, on the absolute rim, I can remember the human avalanche getting off at Orekhovo, trying to spit me out onto the platform. But the spit came to nothing, and I was left spinning, like a turd in an ice-hole.
I reached into my pocket for an unopened bottle of Kuban vodka, and had five or six good belts. And I was borne away on a powerful current of dreams.
I found myself walking across meadows and pastureland, through patches of sweetbriar, and herds of cattle, with the wheat bowing down before me, and the cornflowers smiling.
You know, I used to think all those stories about the Golden Age were nothing but pathetic bullshit. But twelve weeks ago I saw the prototype, and very soon its reflection will shine in my eyes for the thirteenth time, yes! Where the birds are never silent, and the jasmine never fails…
SPHINX: So, you’re going to Petushki? Where that tart of yours wallows in silks and jasmine, and the little birds flutter down and kiss her wherever they fancy?
VENYA: Ugh! A thing with no legs, no tail, and no head.
SPHINX: Listen, chum, this is a Sphinx talking. I’ll let you through if you answer my riddle… okay?
VENYA: This is the riddle she asked me.
SPHINX: Right, then – Lenin’s going along the road and who should he meet but Trotsky. “You’re looking a bit off today, Lenin,’” says Trotsky, “What’ve you had to drink?” “Right,” says Lenin, “I’ll tell you – first off I had 150 grammes of Rossiiskaya, then I had 500 grammes of Kuban, plus 150 of Stolichnaya. What about you?” “ ‘I had exactly the same,” says Trotsky. “So where are you headed for?” says Lenin. “Petushki, of course,” says Trotsky. “‘That’s where I’m going,” says Lenin, “You’re going the wrong way.”’ “No no no,” says Trotsky, “You’re going the wrong way.” Anyway, they convinced each other to turn back. Trotsky went one way, and Lenin went the other. And they both fetched up at Kursk station. Okay now, tell me this – supposing they hadn’t changed direction, where would they have ended up?
VENYA: Petushki? Petushki, right?
SPHINX: Wrong! Wrong! They’d have ended up at Kursk station, because nobody, but nobody, ever gets to Petushki! Hee-hee-hee!
ON-BOARD ANNOUNCER: Pokrov! Pokrov Station! Next stop…
VENYA: Pokrov! That’s a town in Petushki district! I can see the lights! You’re on the right track, Erofeev! Yes!!! Fuck you, Sphinx!
No… wait a minute… hold on, Pokrov’s on the right, when I’m travelling from Petushki to Moscow, and not from Moscow to Petushki!!! Bastard Sphinx!
Now, hold on, Venya, take it easy. Maybe you’ve just got disorientated. You remember, the whole way from Moscow you were sitting on the left, facing the engine. That means your little suitcase’ll be on the left too, if you’re going the right way. Let’s go and look…
Where’s my suitcase!!!
You know, a person oughtn’t to be alone. A person ought to offer himself up to people, even if they don’t want him. I’m going to walk along the train and find people and say, “Here I am, I’m offering myself to you without reserve. Now tell me: are we going from Moscow to Petushki, or from Petushki to Moscow?”
The first carriage was empty – just the rain splashing in through the open window. The second was empty too – no rain, even. But in the third… In the third carriage stood a woman dressed all in black, gazing out into the darkness, and pressing a lace handkerchief to her lips… Inconsolable Grief, just like Kramskoi’s famous painting.
You see? When people go off by themselves, to have a good cry, t
hey don’t want anybody joining in. What can I say to her?
“Princess?”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing. I could see your lip trembling, that’s all.”
“You’re talking through your hat, sonny. That’s my nose twitching. You’d do better to keep your trap shut, and not broadcast your stupidity.”
That’s what she said. After I’d traipsed along the whole train, in search of an answer! I’ve forgotten the question now, but I think it was important. Well, what the hell, I’ll remember later – there’s a woman crying here. Or there was…
Am I falling asleep, or waking up? I haven’t a clue. There is a form of existence – by what name shall we call it? – for it is neither sleep nor waking…
We’re still racing through the rain and the darkness, but there isn’t another soul on the train, not anywhere.
A whole gang of Furies! (Crashing cymbals and drums.)
“Stop, ladies, stop! Avenging goddesses, stop! There’s nobody guilty here! Where are you going? Where is this train going?”
“What business is it of yours, you silly bugger!” (Crash.) And she suddenly whizzed up to the ceiling and shot off after her girlfriends…
The sunset flamed red, the horses shuddered, but where was the happiness they write about in the papers? I knew the Moscow to Petushki train was coming off the rails. Carriages rose up, and crashed down again, and the Furies came charging straight back at me like stampeding cattle…
Then everything went hazy. If you were to say there was a fog, I’d probably agree – yes, it was a bit foggy. But if you were to say no, it wasn’t fog, it was flames and ice, then I’d say well, yes, maybe it was that too.
Anyway, I woke up on the platform, and around me was nothing but the wind, the darkness, and the perishing cold. And from far away, out of the fog, floated those two long streaks of piss from Mukhina’s famous sculpture, the worker with the hammer, and the peasant girl with the sickle, coming towards me, smirking. And the worker bashed me on the head with his hammer, then the peasant girl had a swipe at my balls with her sickle.
Moscow Stations Page 3