by Teffi
“What are you saying?” asked the dark one in astonishment. “Really?”
“Oh, what a sweet little flower! What a sweet little flower,” the snub-nosed girl crooned tenderly, feeling the crumpled daisy with her fingers. “And each little petal is different. This one is a delicate blue, and this one is pink. Here, feel it—you can tell right away that it’s pink. And this one is yellow. But this one—you may not believe it, but it’s pure gold. Heavens, how much joy there is. And all of this joy is for us. All this joy has been given to us. In one little flower. Yet there are millions of little flowers just like it scattered all over the earth. With butterflies fluttering above them. And everything is so beautiful, it’s so beautiful that some angel just won’t be able to help itself, it will secretly wing its way down from heaven and give some little flower or butterfly a kiss, then go back up behind the clouds and smile at us from on high. Hush! Listen. Can you hear? The angel’s laughing!”
“Girls!” called Darya Pavlovna from the water’s edge. “It’s time!”
The blind girls got to their feet and joined hands. The snub-nosed girl paused. “Can you hear it? Can you hear it?” she asked, turning her head towards the bench where the woman in the hat was quietly weeping. “Can you hear the angel?”
And both girls, smiling joyfully, began to amble along in an uneven, awkward gait towards the shore.
1948
Notes
1 L’amore è come lo zucchero: Love is like sugar (Italian).
THY WILL
1
The guests were being slow to arrive. It was already past ten o’clock and the hostess was getting cross.
“It’s impossible, the way people behave now! Some guests won’t turn up until after the theatre—and they’ll just want to go straight in to dinner, while others have been sitting here and wearing one out since nine,” she said, not thinking how discourteous this might be to the guests who had arrived at nine.
But these were old friends with whom she didn’t need to stand on ceremony—three of her fellow bridge players, and then Doctor Pamuzov, two young actresses and an affected youth with slicked-back blond hair and a pointed little face. The youth so resembled an albino mouse that you half expected him to have red eyes.
The conversation was flagging; no one was coming up with any juicy new gossip.
“Will that Anna Brown be joining us this evening?” asked one of the ladies.
“I really don’t know,” replied the hostess. “She dropped by on Thursday and, if you ask me, she’s got a screw loose up here.”
She tapped her forehead.
“You can be absent-minded, but not that absent-minded. It was the stuff of farce. She had been sitting here for some time when suddenly she jumped up and started staring at the wall calendar. ‘I must go,’ she said, ‘I really must go.’ ‘What’s the hurry?’ I asked. ‘No,’ she answered, ‘I should have gone ages ago—look, it’s already the sixth of Thursday.’ ‘Good heavens,’ I thought. ‘What is she on about?’ But then she rubbed her temple, blinked a few times and said, ‘Pardon me, I thought that was a clock.’”
“How ridiculous!” the women all exclaimed.
“Well, well,” said Doctor Pamuzov, shaking his head. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Well, if you ask me,” barked one of the ladies, whose distinguishing feature was an enormous round brooch supporting her third chin, “your Miss Brown is simply a fool who’s putting on airs.”
“Yes, she’s putting on airs,” the others all chorused. “And why Anna ‘Brown’ when everyone knows she’s a plain old Anna Brunova? Who does she think she is?”
“But that’s a stage name,” said the hostess, coming to Anna Brown’s defence. “It’s what people do.”
“Stage names are neither here nor there. What matters is talent.”
“Yes, talent. Which she hasn’t got.”
“Of course not. Gerbel created her.”
“Pianists like her are ten a penny.”
“If Gerbel hadn’t given her such a brilliant review…”
“Well, if you ask me,” boomed the lady with the brooch, drowning out all the other voices, “if you ask me, your Anna Brown is simply a fool who’s putt—”
Suddenly she broke off mid-word. Eyes bulging, she was looking in horror somewhere above the hostess’s head. Everyone turned. They saw a tall, dusky woman. Smiling graciously, this woman leant forward and held out her hand.
“Hello, my dear.”
It was Anna Brown.
“Hello, darling!” trilled the hostess. “I’m absolutely delighted to see you! Isn’t this just lovely?”
And everyone tried to look welcoming, while glancing furtively at one another as if to ask, “Do you think she heard?”
Doctor Pamuzov couldn’t contain himself and started shaking with mirth.
“Forgive me. I’ve just remembered a joke. Oh, my! I’ll tell you later. It really is very funny indeed!”
And once again he was shaking, snorting, coughing and wiping tears from his eyes.
Suddenly everyone began talking at once, not listening to one another.
“We thought you’d gone away!”
“There aren’t any concerts now.”
“Of course not. The season’s over.”
“But maybe your students are keeping you here?”
“Surely not? Haven’t your students left, too?”
It was all quite absurd. Everyone seemed to be asking questions of Anna Brown and then immediately answering on her behalf. And there she was, listening calmly, as if none of this had anything to do with her.
“Darling!” exclaimed the hostess anxiously, while looking indignantly at the doctor, who was still shaking with mirth. “You look exhausted.”
“I am. I keep getting headaches and I feel a bit cold.”
“Cold? In this heat? The papers say there have been cases of sunstroke.”
“Sunstroke?” said Anna Brown in sudden astonishment. “How strange! Sunstroke—in the middle of winter?”
“The middle of winter? I’m talking about now—June.”
Anna Brown frowned.
“Yes, yes, of course. It’s June. I’ve got everything back to front.”
Some more guests arrived and the hostess rushed off to greet them.
The evening was getting lively. Card tables were being set up, and two long-nosed maids in white caps were serving tea and biscuits.
The young man who looked like an albino mouse went over to the piano with the two actresses. Softly touching the keys, he began languidly humming something.
Anna Brown whirled around. Pressing her hands to her temples, she exclaimed, “Dear God! Please—anything but music!”
But they didn’t hear her and went on humming.
Anna began quietly making her way to the door.
Still more guests were arriving, but there didn’t seem to be anyone she knew. Or maybe she just didn’t recognize them. And then her attention was caught by some other woman. There was something terribly restless and unpleasant about her. First Anna noticed the woman’s beautiful, elegant dress. It was skew-whiff across the breast—two loops had been pulled over one button. Then she took in the woman’s unkempt hair. As for her face, it was as if she hardly even had a face—only the unbearably strained expression of her large, weary mouth and her unpleasant dark eyes.
“Dear God! What’s wrong with her?”
Anna drew closer. This woman moved too, towards her. Yes, it was herself. It was her own reflection in the large mirror.
“Seems I really am in a bad way!”
The foyer was furnished like a small living room, and the door out onto the stairs was half open. There were several gentlemen smoking on the landing.
“Should I go home?” Anna said loudly. She shook her head and looked around. Next to the door stood an exotic plant. The plant looked stunted but it was in a very large tub, and tucked away behind it was a low armchair.
“Just what I need.�
��
She sat and drew the thick, plush curtain hanging by the window towards herself.
“Perfect. Now I can do some thinking.”
She couldn’t go home. The previous evening she had felt such dread as she approached her house that she had to sit down on a bollard—she had no idea how long she had stayed there. Going home could be very frightening. The night before last her elder sister had come and sat on her bed and said tenderly, “Why make things so hard for yourself? You’ll only wear yourself out.” This sister, who had died four years ago, had never really loved her, and it was very strange suddenly to hear her speaking so affectionately. If she had still been alive, she would have done nothing but judge Anna. But Anna knew she had done nothing wrong. She was right. And everything that she had done had been carefully thought through. If she had not left him, he would have left her, and that would have hurt even more. She had merely precipitated the event; she herself had chosen where to draw the boundary. It was a real breakthrough—to draw a boundary oneself. But hardly anyone seemed to grasp this. She had heard, not long ago, about a prisoner whose cell was six steps in length. Every time he reached the wall he wanted to smash his head against it, so tormented was he by this limit imposed on his freedom. Six steps—that was all. Then he decided he would take only four steps. He drew a boundary, of his own free will, and he felt free. These four steps are my freedom. As for your six steps, you can keep them. What would her own life be like now if she had clung to the six steps of their relationship? She would be waiting, watching, checking. Would he ring or wouldn’t he? Would he drop by or wouldn’t he? Would he send a concert ticket or wouldn’t he? Would he ask her over or wouldn’t he? But it was even worse when he did give himself away. Like when he said something after being lost in thought. Four times now he had come to and at once said something about the singer Zarnitskaya. He was writing an article about her. It was true that she had a good voice, but why would he get so lost in thought about that? People said that he had created Anna Brown the pianist. His review had been stunning… Stunning… “But I know now,” she said to herself, “that what inspired him to write that review was not just artistic rapture. So why should I believe in the purity of his rapture for this singer’s talent? But be that as it may, it’s not the heart of the matter. Every affair, like a stone thrown up into the sky, reaches its ordained height and then falls back down to earth. The more powerful the force that impelled it upwards, the harder it falls. Well, I wasn’t going to wait for it to fall. I didn’t want it to kill me on its way down, so I chose to set a limit to its ascent myself. I couldn’t prove anything, but I had a presentiment and that was enough for me. The real problem is that we live on two planes of existence! One is straightforward reality. The other is made up entirely of presentiments, impressions, incomprehensible and insuperable sympathies and antipathies. Of dreams. This second life has laws and a logic all of its own, for which we cannot be held accountable. Brought out into the light of reason, they surprise and shock, but we cannot overcome them. Now and again a man who has led a decent, honest life will end up in court, and the court will never be able to get to the bottom of what motivated his crime. And the defence he trots out will be utter balderdash, because the terrible laws of the second plane of his life are incomprehensible, and therefore inadmissible on the plane of reality.”
She suddenly had a vivid recollection of that last evening. He had asked her over and she had gone round, in a state of feigned excitement, full of lies, cheerful and bright. He was ambitious, so she filled his ears with flattery. She told him about all sorts of wonderful responses to his articles; she had embellished and embroidered the truth, mentioning envious people who didn’t even exist and aiming clever jibes at them. She told him about letters and flowers being sent to her by the editor of the magazine he worked for. He felt flattered: it was because of him that she was turning down this fascinating and potentially useful admirer. He was smiling, stroking his head with roguish self-satisfaction. Then he got up, embraced Anna, seated her on the divan and knelt down before her. The usual ritual of their amorous evenings. And when the words “usual ritual” came into her mind, she knew this was the moment. “All right, that’s enough. Now, while he’s entirely mine, I’ll draw a boundary of my own free will. I’ll put an end to our intimacy…” He was embracing her legs and burying his face between her knees, and suddenly, in an abrupt movement, she pushed him away with both hands. Raising his head, he looked at her in confusion. And this face with its flared nostrils and a dark vein bulging across its brow—this face looked frightened and pitiful. And somewhat repulsive.
She got up, smoothed her hair and in a voice so plain and natural that she even deceived herself, she said, “That’s enough of all this. Aren’t you finding it all rather tiresome already? Really, I’m surprised at you!”
Nonchalantly she made her way out of the room. She stopped in the doorway and, without turning around, she said, “I may give you a ring in a day or two.”
He didn’t see her out and didn’t reply. Since then they had not met.
She had brought it off perfectly. That she’d found his face repulsive was exactly what she had needed. It made her job easier. Only one thing was wrong: when she got home, triumphant and quietly laughing, she found herself listening involuntarily for the phone to ring. The next day was no better, and with each following day it was even worse. The trouble was that she was still hoping. She needed to do something that would make it impossible to keep hoping.
She lived on a quiet street, and every time a car went by it seemed to be Gerbel’s. Every time the telephone rang she thought it was him. She stopped going to concerts. She was afraid to be around other people she knew in case she happened to hear his name.
Then came this obsession over the key. She still had the key to his apartment. She had used it so as not to disturb his manservant when she came over late at night.
What should she do with the key? Post it back to him? Leave it with the concierge? Somehow nothing seemed right. But why not? Evidently because this would put an absolutely indisputable full stop to everything. It would be the end. If she was shying away from this full stop, it must mean she was still hoping for something. But as long as she was still hoping, she would find no peace. She had to stop hoping. Even if she put the key in the post or left it with his concierge—even then she would have no peace. Even then she would be waiting for something, still pathetically hoping for something. If only he would go away forever—or better still, die—then she could rest easy.
She could slip out right now and go down the stairs. No one would notice; the door would remain just as it was, almost closed but not completely. She could cross the street. Yes. There was no one about. Although the yardman was sure to be in his usual place, by the gate. He wouldn’t notice her. He’d be bundled up in a sheepskin coat with his collar pulled up around his ears. It was snowing—he wouldn’t hear footsteps. He’d be asleep… Oh, someone had said it was summer now. Maybe it was, but yardmen wear sheepskin coats in summer, too—they always feel cold at night…
…How quickly I’ve got down the street and round the corner. On the left is the Neva; I’d better not look. In summer, during the white nights, the Neva looks so sad and still, so hopeless—it can sap all your strength of spirit. But I need strength of spirit—it’s what I need more than anything. I should get the key out now or I’m sure to drop it and make a noise. But what if he’s not at home? No, that’s impossible. Since I’ve decided to come, he must be here. He’s sleeping.
Here we are. The apartment is dark. The same familiar smell, as unsettling as ever. Cigarette smoke and eau de Cologne. Although in another apartment the same smoke and the same eau de Cologne would smell quite different. There it would be ordinary, but here it’s always disturbing. Here’s the bedroom. The curtains are drawn across the door, but there’s light coming through the gaps. I could see whether my portrait’s still there or whether he’s taken it down. But why should I? It’s all the sa
me to me. I haven’t come to check things like that, I’ve come to impose my will. Here on the bedside table should be the little blue saucer that goes with my teacup. He loved it for some reason and kept it after I broke the cup. And on the saucer a pair of cufflinks. No, don’t think about the saucer. There’s a certain repellent tenderness about it. And I mustn’t look at the bed either. I should go over to the commode and feel around for a cold, long, flat object… And carefully pull out the blade. Now everything will be easy. People always do this in gloves, that’s why I’ve got gloves on now. I go quickly up to the bed. I need to feel for his face. No, I can see—there’s light falling right on the pillow. His head is thrown back. How easy it all is. One movement, one moment. And the key? I toss the key onto the table in the foyer. The yardman is asleep. Thick snow blankets his shoulders. He hasn’t heard a thing. And the snow will cover my tracks. And now I’m back here again, back in my place behind the tub with the stunted plant. But how tired I am, and how I’m trembling!
There was an excited hubbub.
“Time for dinner!”
“Dinner is served!”
Someone was looking at her. They seemed pleased.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding!” said the hostess. “Let’s go in for dinner.”
Anna rose to her feet, swaying slightly to one side. Everyone was chattering cheerfully as they made their way into the dining room. In she went with the rest of them.
“Please have a seat! Allow me, hmm?”
It was the same as ever. Guests approaching a laden table always become strangely animated, like beasts, and everyone wants to say something—it doesn’t matter what.
“Well, well, hmm. Yes, yes! Is anyone sitting here? Allow me! Hmm!”
In the midst of all this amiable silliness Anna was standing calmly at her seat, next to Doctor Pamuzov.
“How pale you are!” he said, and even frowned. “You really ought to take a little, you know, a little cure!”