The Summer Guest

by Alison Anderson

  Out of solidarity with the victims, a lone female skier from the Ukrainian Olympic team had withdrawn from her competition.

  On the Maidan, there were photographs of the victims, votive candles flickering in the night. Ana found a list of their names and murmured to herself. Serhiy, Volodymyr, Oleksandr. How old they were; where they were from. Until she came, with a sudden intake of breath, to Oleksiy Bratushko, shot 20 February by a sniper on Instytutska Street. Aged 39, born in Sumy.

  She closed the computer and went out into the dusk, wrapped warmly against the cold. There was a pastel light from the fading sun that augured the lengthening of the days. Ana gazed at the darkening fields, the flicker of lake, the shadowy peaks on the horizon. She wanted to be present in her life. No matter where her sympathies lay, or how right and commendable they might be, she was not in Sumy or Kiev, she was not from there, and she knew this. She had both the great good fortune and the existential tragedy of having lived all her life in that prosperity and safety and comfort of what she rather ironically referred to as the democratic West. She thought wistfully of Léo and conceded that now she probably would join him on the barricades—if they had been Ukrainian, that is. But looking around, she saw only the dark fields and sleeping villas and a woman in a long coat walking a small fluffy white dog. The woman said good evening as she passed. Ana responded; the dog sniffed the hem of her coat, catching a whiff of Doodle. The woman called to her dog. Ana went on until nightfall, then turned and made her way home. There was a rhythm to her steps, Oleksiy Bratushko a faint drumming amid her thoughts, a spontaneous elegy.

  Doodle was waiting outside the door and followed her in, rubbed and hopped against her legs, part greeting, part expectation of sustenance. Ana tipped some kibble into the bowl, took off her hat, scarf, coat, then poured herself a small glass of Calvados. The house was cold.

  She lit a fire, harnessing her impatience until she had a good burn and a growing circle of warmth. Then she put some Shostakovich preludes on the stereo and opened her laptop again.

  There was a message from a small press in Boston, informing her that a translation she had published with them the previous year, Go Through the Door, Turn Left, by a young writer, Lydia Guilloux, had been nominated for the Fleur Mailly Foundation French Translation Prize.

  In all the time she’d had to struggle to make a living on her own, this was the rare book that she had truly loved; she had read it one weekend just after she moved there from Paris and knew she had to translate it. It was the text of her salvation after her divorce: consolation, challenge, survival. Distraction from negative thoughts. She worked for free, in her spare time, then spent six months sending out pitch letters until she found the small press prepared to take the risk and bring it into the Anglo-Saxon world, and willing to pay her a small advance.

  The Fleur Mailly was a rather good prize, with a cash purse that would pay her keep for four and a half months. Which in turn would translate to four and a half months to breathe: freedom up front, a chance to travel, a sort of long-lost irresponsibility of youth, no bills to worry about. Not to mention the recognition: It would be forever on her curriculum vitae, a stamp of approval. At last, after thousands of pages, a few of them had risen above the others; she could almost see them floating against a blue sky, her brilliant white pages.

  She read through the rest of the message—benefactors, ceremony, other nominees. Could she afford to fly to New York two months from now? She doubted it.

  Ana’s author was the only woman on the shortlist of six. There was one other woman translator, she noticed; she recognized the name—Isobel Brookes, for a novel entitled The Lemon-Rind Still Life—but had not met her.

  Lydia Guilloux’s book had not done as well as they’d hoped; so far it had sold a few hundred copies. Ana had sent most of her complimentary copies to friends, some of whom had written to say they loved it; the others were silent or neutral in their congratulations. It didn’t matter, it had led to this. She was proud of what she had achieved. Perhaps she might sell a few more copies now.

  She thought again of Yves’s teasing suggestion that she translate a novel by Chekhov. Which, when Zinaida Mikhailovna last checked, was on the top shelf of the wardrobe, at the back, behind three blankets and under a dozen pillowcases. Ana closed her eyes and pictured a Chekhov manuscript she had seen once in a museum in Paris, never imagining she might one day be so close to his life, his reality. Handwriting that was almost fastidiously neat—particularly for a doctor—as if he had copied his words out for someone who had difficulty reading.

  Before going to bed, she looked one last time at the news: The reviled Ukrainian president had fled the country. It was a triumph of sorts: The protests had become a revolution.

  July 1, 1888

  And this is Kazimir Stanislavovich, but you may call him Kuzma Protapych, says Anton Pavlovich, his voice full of mischief.

  A hand takes mine briefly, a palm cold with sweat. There is a mutter, there is laughter, then Anton Pavlovich murmurs in my ear, It’s all right. He’s gone to speak to Ivan. He’s a very shy man. So shy he has no mirrors in his house. Yet somehow he has managed to father six children.

  Then his wife must not be shy, I say with a laugh and a blush. He will be in good company with me; I cannot see him. I am free to imagine he looks like . . . Lermontov. Tell him that. A young god, a Lord Byron sort.

  Ah, you’d be sorely mistaken. He looks like a struggling writer who collects tickets on Saint Petersburg’s trams. His beard straggles, and he collects dandruff on his uniform.

  Anton Pavlovich, you are cruel.

  But I love him. He’s a good writer and a good friend.

  Has his wife come?

  You idealize, Zinaida Mikhailovna. Who would look after six children? My mamasha has enough with her own six. No, Madame Barantsevich has stayed in her quarters in Petersburg.

  Poor woman.

  Lucky woman. He’s a good fellow. Imagine, he writes at night, when the bambini are asleep.

  That’s one way, I suppose. But when does he sleep?

  In the tram, between two tickets.

  Has he published?

  A few short stories, but his reputation will grow, I am sure of it. He prefers long novels, of the sort that elude me.

  Perhaps you should have six children and write at night.

  I don’t know if he is smiling at my witticism, but he has placed his fingertips on my forearm, a gesture I have begun to recognize, to expect. For the moment, he murmurs, I’m managing in the daylight, in my wifeless, childless state, to produce a few words. Perhaps a short novel will suffice.

  July 6, 1888

  The veranda. Evening.

  As I told you, said Anton Pavlovich, I must find a small estate. A place like the Smagins’—a big house with lots of rooms or outbuildings, but a bit run-down is all right, so it won’t be too expensive, but above all, plenty of rooms, yes, and not only for guests: I want to create a sort of resort or spa, a refuge for writers, fellows like Barantsevich, where they could come to get away from their brats and their tearful wives to write about life and love! And share the companionship of others who know what it’s all about and, when the day’s work is done, relax at the end of a pier with a line in the water—doesn’t it sound like a noble project?

  That it does, I replied. When I hear the conditions under which you or Kazimir Stanislavovich have to write—yes, if one doesn’t have the wealth to buy the space or tranquillity—

  And to be in such soothing surroundings—silence, nature, nothing to trouble one’s thoughts. Just a well-scrubbed room with an old table by the window and a comfortable chair. That’s all that’s needed.

  And would you allow women to stay at your refuge?

  Of course, why not, if they behave, and are charming, and don’t cause us to fall in love and forget why we’re there! Love makes a muddle of creativity. Mature, sensible women writers, of course! Yes, it would be splendid. I can think already of a few women like that. And
just imagine all the good conversation, and how we could encourage and support one another. But above all, the quiet we could command, yes, that would be an absolute rule, no laughing or singing or loud talking from dawn to dusk—a vow of silence, monastic industriousness—

  At that moment a loud cry broke the stillness, the timing so perfect that we burst out laughing, until we heard it again, the dreadful cry of something or someone in extreme pain. I waved my hand. What day are we, Anton Pavlovich?

  It must be the sixth of July or thereabouts—

  Oh! Tonya! She must be going into labor, it’s her time!

  Shall we go? Does she need us?

  Pasha will send for the midwife in the village, but he knows to fetch us or Elena if there’s a problem. Oh, Anton Pavlovich, I’m going to be an aunt!

  He chuckled and, hastily kissing my hand, took his leave and promised to send for news before bedtime.

  July 8, 1888

  I’m an aunt! I went today to see Tonya and Pasha. The baby—they have called her Ksenia—is healthy, and Tonya has recovered quickly, all sighs of delight and little sobs of happiness.

  I placed my palms on the infant, her tiny legs and hands, her plump little cheeks—is there anything softer, more tender, on earth? As I stood there, a calm certainty came over me: that she would, in some way, continue my life for me; that I would continue to live, through her. With hindsight, a sort of ridiculous, unrealistic superstition, and I did not share it with Pasha or Tonya or Elena—I did not want to sadden their joyful time—but I could keep it as a secret with myself, something to think of with hopefulness. Mama would agree if I told her. She wanted them to name the baby after me. I told them it wouldn’t be fitting and it was far too depressing. Besides, Zinaida is a perfectly ugly name.

  Come, Zinaida Mikhailovna, Kuzma does not believe me when I tell him that blindness enhances one’s sense of smell.

  (Kazimir Stanislavovich protested limply, but Anton Pavlovich had already taken me by the elbow.)

  We’re going to the kitchen garden. We shall prove to him that you have a superior nose, even though his is twice the size of yours and well adorned with a mixture of peeling sunburned skin and erysipelas; or might it be an overindulgence in vodka?

  Again Kazimir Stanislavovich mumbled ineffectively, pointlessly. The gate creaked; we were standing in Grigory Petrovich’s little kingdom. My heart was pounding, it was warm, I felt oddly useful and celebrated at the same time.

  Right. Both of you, close your eyes. No, I mean, Kuzma, you close your eyes. Zinaida Mikhailovna, please bear with me.

  I could not help but laugh. Kuzma continued to protest, a bubbling string of: Antosha, I beg you, my friend, Anton Pavlovich, I beg you.

  Don’t worry, I murmured to him. If Anton Pavlovich should happen upon the stinging nettles, we’ll soon be free of our ordeal.

  Now. Here are the rules—you will smell what I have in my hand and whisper your answer to me. No cheating, Kuzma!

  After a certain amount of rustling and vegetable snapping and breaking, and a cry of oy (the nettles?), the smell of the air deepened with something sweet and summery: the first raspberry of the year.

  I whispered my answer. Anton Pavlovich turned to Kazimir Stanislavovich and after a moment he exclaimed, Cherry?

  Kazimir Stanislavovich, I beg you, the basics! The absolute basics! Did your babushka not make jam in the summer?

  We were poor, said Kazimir Stanislavovich.

  Precisely, said Anton Pavlovich, unforgiving.

  Next came a carrot, then a lettuce leaf (which Kazimir Stanislavovich mistook for cabbage), then a rose (we both accused Anton Pavlovich of cheating and told him to take the rose to Anya and tell her to put it in the soup), then chives (onion) and wild strawberries (oddly enough, Kazimir Stanislavovich guessed this one), then something terribly faint and delicate. I hesitated for a long time, then grabbed Anton Pavlovich’s arm and said, Anton Pavlovich, you are definitely cheating. That is my mama’s Earl Grey tea from the English specialty shop in Sumy.

  Poor Kazimir Stanislavovich thought it was pipe tobacco and pleaded defeat. You have taught me a bitter lesson, Anton Pavlovich, he said. I’ll learn to close my eyes from now on when smelling.

  Take care when crossing the Nevsky Prospekt, however. If the smell of horse manure is too pungent, you might get run over by your own tram.

  A fist hit cloth, and Anton Pavlovich was pushed against me; we all laughed, and I cried out for more raspberries. Anton Pavlovich filled my outstretched palms. I lifted the berries to my face, felt the soft furry fragrance against my lips and nose, then the odd cracking of their warm little globes between my teeth, the release of the juice among the tiny seeds. As a child, I wouldn’t eat raspberries, I was afraid of the seeds, afraid they would stay in my body and grow into a bush. I told the story to Anton Pavlovich and Kazimir Stanislavovich, and we remembered other foolish things we’d said or done as children. When we’d had enough of raspberries, we moved to the bench in the shade beneath the oak tree, and Kazimir Stanislavovich began to relax at last. He told us that he lived above a bakery in Piter and that the smell of baking bread sometimes woke him in the night when it was time for him to leave for work, and Anton Pavlovich protested and asked did he not write at night?, and Kazimir Stanislavovich acknowledged that when his writing was going well, he would realize by the smell of baking bread that he’d gone on too long and would have no time to sleep. The worst of it was when they’d spent all his wages and had no money left and had to eat stale bread and dry kasha for three days: Then the warm, comforting smell of fresh bread in the oven was torture. And when he’d been paid and he brought up a fresh loaf, his wife and children would stare at it, no one daring to break the fragrant crust.

  But then he would sell a few stories, and they were even able to buy a few pastries. And his ticket for Sumy, where the air smelled not of bread but of the hay and the river and Mama’s garden, and something indefinable, a sort of deep warmth from the earth, perhaps the soil itself, baking in a kiln of sunlight.

  IF ANA COULD NOT go to New York, perhaps she could at least go to London for a few days. An invitation had come to a cocktail reception at the literary association she belonged to; it would do her good to see people, emerge from her isolation.

  She refused to admit to herself that she had an ulterior motive, but Ana nevertheless sent off a quick email to Katya Kendall, saying she would be coming to London the following month, and asking for an appointment. She was eager to know the history of the manuscript—how it had been brought to light, so to speak, and how it had found its way to Polyana Press.

  She did not mention Chekhov’s novel. She had far too little to go on, only her hopes and Yves’s hunch.

  Briefly, she imagined the cover, her name in small letters beneath his. Translating Anton Chekhov, just think. Then: No, mustn’t get carried away.

  Why London? You should go to Ukraine, Yves was saying.

  They were in a small café in the old town in Geneva. Yves had to raise his voice above the hiss of the espresso machine.

  That’s where you’d really like to go, he continued, I can tell. Go to Crimea and visit the places where Chekhov lived, then go to Sumy.

  Ana stared at him, half fascinated, half horrified. Haven’t you seen the news?

  Not lately. Why?

  Crimea is crawling with little green men. Russian soldiers—or so everyone says, who else would they be—with no insignia on their green uniforms. They just showed up. Like some virus. The Russians have some of their fleet there, in Sevastopol, in case you’d forgotten. And you say, Go to Crimea, hang out on the waterfront in Yalta and eat ice cream?

  Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen.

  I beg to differ.

  Why?

  Because it’s not the West, Yves. They’re not just going to sit around a table and talk politely and decide the future of the place. Hold a free and fair referendum. Like Scotland or Catalunya or somewhere. Russia has been making noises a
bout Crimea ever since the Maidan uprising started. The Duma has approved military intervention, if need be, for Christ’s sake, to, quote, protect Russian interests. You don’t think nuclear submarines are interesting? Russia wants Crimea.

  Well, then, scratch Crimea if you’re worried about the green men. Go to Kiev. Go to Sumy.

  Ana’s heart was pounding. He was daring her. Would you come with me? Davai.

  I wish I could. I’m on standby to interpret at the World Health. There’s an outbreak of the Ebola virus. There’s no telling when it will be over.

  They looked at each other across the table, troubled.

  But you can go on your own to Ukraine, surely. It might even be a good time to go. The enthusiasm of revolution, they’d love to have you there, showing your Western support.

  Then he leaned across the table and said, Maybe what you need is a burly Ukrainian poet with a beard down to here, and you will translate his stanzas on the Maidan, and he will take you back to his garret and make mad love to you between shots of vodochka.

  Ana laughed, then sighed. Like Isadora Duncan and Sergei Yesenin, you mean? Anyway, I don’t speak Ukrainian.

  Is not necessary, said Yves in a thick accent, vodochka will translate.

  She smiled, fiddling with the unopened square of chocolate that had come with the coffee, then said, I wish I weren’t so scared. I don’t know what brought it on. I’m sure I haven’t always been afraid of the outside world in this way. I used to embrace the unknown, to welcome it. I filled notebooks with descriptions of street scenes in Rome or Athens or Istanbul, small incidents of everyday life that seemed so exotic to me back then, backpacking . . . It was all fascinating, I couldn’t wait to get on the road. Then at some point I decided—or realized—the world is not such a welcoming place.

  Yves shrugged and echoed, You realized. The same happened to me. A shadow crossed his face, then he said, There’s something to be said for naïveté. Up to a point in life, anyway. When did you lose it, do you suppose—was it a person or an event?