The Flight

by Gaito Gazdanov

  He explained to her that, whenever she desired, in a London bank, the address of which he gave her, on any day of her own choosing a sum of money would be paid out to her, which he would leave in her name.

  “You’re an incorrigible banker,” she said. “You see everything in terms of cheques and banks. I don’t need your money.”

  And so he left. He died of cancer five years later, and Lola never saw him again. Yet she knew that he had been true to his word—an advice notice was promptly sent to her from the bank, indicating that the money authorized in her name by such-and-such a man was at her disposal. Many years had passed since then, but only now did she recall this; and so, in order to escape financial worries once and for all, she decided to travel to London to withdraw what was rightfully hers—all because of one fortuitous event that had taken place over a quarter of a century ago.

  * “Lola Aînée, Aunty?… But she’s just some old cow.” “She’s a remarkable interpreter of Racine and Corneille… You need a greatness of spirit, such as is unknown nowadays, to reach the heights of those roles.” “As for greatness of spirit, Aunty… I agree with you, but that of the audience is even more remarkable.” “You’re an idiot… Now just follow this sorry procession and keep quiet.”

  † At last we’re free. Have you finished with the condolences?

  ‡ Listen here, my boy.

  § Alas, we others are only mere mortals, blessed perhaps by a capacity for…

  ¶ The poor thing!

  IT WAS ALREADY mid-September; yellow leaves were lying on the pavements of the boulevards in Paris, and there was an occasional chill in the mornings. Sergey Sergeyevich had spent all summer with the exception of the first week and a half travelling: Sweden, Norway, Finland, several times to England; trains, motor cars, offices, offices, motor cars, trains. In the end, there had been no time to go to the Midi, as he had originally intended. Sletov had remained in Paris throughout the summer, hardly ever leaving; he had filled out slightly, recovered entirely from his sentimental shocks, and struck up several new acquaintances, not one of which, however, had amounted to anything. He had been living alone in Sergey Sergeyevich’s apartment and had grown accustomed to this quiet, comfortable existence, and again, as in the days of old, he began at various intervals to dream of eternal things: work, an apartment, a wife, children, a comfortable little world, at the centre of which was none other than he, Fyodor Borisovich Sletov.

  On the evening of the sixteenth, as he sat reading in Sergey Sergeyevich’s study, he suddenly began to hear strange movements about the house—several doors opening and closing—and into the study walked Sergey Sergeyevich, who feigned surprise on seeing Sletov.

  “Well, Fedya, still loveless?” he asked with his usual smile, while shaking Sletov’s hand. “Don’t you think that in this empty world…”

  “You’re an astonishing fellow, Seryozha,” said Sletov, “and manifestly abnormal. I’m not sure whether you yourself realize this.”

  “I admit I had my suspicions, but most likely for reasons other than yours. How exactly do you suppose my abnormality manifests itself?”

  “Just look: you can turn up out of the blue, from the other end of the earth, yet still I can know for sure that your first words will be derision. Do you see what I mean? No greeting, no expression of joy, only derision. Any other person might say: ‘Hello, my dear friend! How are you? I’m so glad to see you,’ and so on. Whereas you say: ‘Hello! Why do you have that idiotic look about you?’ Not literally, of course, but near enough.”

  “Well, fine, we’ll discuss this later. What’s the news, anyhow?”

  “Actually, in fact, nothing. But do you know, there are certain things I think I’ve begun to realize for the first time in my life.”

  “Your memory, your memory,” Sergey Sergeyevich was quick to put in.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s deceiving you. You forget you’ve realized them before.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Indeed, you have. Each state of mind corresponds to a certain conception of the world that… Do you follow? The one corresponds to the other, whereas you seem to think it’s the first time because memory is connected to all this and it’s only one of the factors, not an independent variable. Hasn’t it occurred to you? It’s elementary. But really, not a single encounter?”

  “No, of course I’ve had them,” said Sletov, smiling guiltily, “but without consequences, so to speak: you know, just sporadic, fleeting impressions.”

  “Personally, I shouldn’t lose hope. On the whole, you’ve always been lucky.”

  “How so?”

  “Because you, for instance, don’t have to decipher correspondence, whereas that’s what I must do presently.”

  However, Sergey Sergeyevich was unable to carry out his intentions, because as soon as Sletov left the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver and heard a familiar voice:

  “Hello? Seryozha?”

  “Is that you, my dearest?” said Sergey Sergeyevich. “Where are you calling from?”

  “From a hotel. I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Fine, I’ll be expecting you.”

  Ten minutes later, Olga Alexandrovna walked in. Her face was very bronzed; her dark eyes betrayed a frosted tenderness.

  “I’m pleased to see you,” said Sergey Sergeyevich. His cheerful eyes neared her face; he kissed her several times on her cheeks and forehead. “So we’ve come back, have we? The Lord be thanked. And such a beauty, such an inscrutable creature. Is everything all right with your luggage?”

  “Seryozha,” said Olga Alexandrovna, “I’ve come to have a very serious conversation.”

  There was a strange intonation in her voice, which Sergey Sergeyevich could not fail to notice.

  “Something really serious?”

  “Yes, Seryozha: you must grant me a divorce.”

  “I hope, Lyolya, that you don’t doubt my good intentions. Tell me what’s happened.”

  Olga Alexandrovna explained to him that her life hitherto had comprised mistakes—“A simple classicism,” said Sergey Sergeyevich—but that now it had reached a crisis point; she was not the woman she once was.

  “You know, Lyolya, it’s a thing of the past now—that other woman was really quite charming.”

  Still Olga Alexandrovna persisted. She spoke of the new life awaiting her, which demanded her full, uncompromising part in it. She could no longer live in two homes. She must marry. Sergey Sergeyevich would remain her friend, as always; there could be no doubt about this.

  “You’ve really thought all this through?”

  “Oh, many times—it’s all been decided, Seryozha.”

  “It’s a great pity. Very well, have it your way. But you’ve really taken everything into consideration?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “May I ask one question?”

  “Of course.”

  “What will you live on? Is your future husband sufficiently endowed?”

  Olga Alexandrovna’s dark eyes glared at him with reproach; however, despite this, there was also another expression that defied description. She said nothing. Sergey Sergeyevich also said nothing. Finally, she said:

  “No, Seryozha, whatever you may think, I could never be wrong about this.”

  “Ah, Lyolya, you said it yourself: your whole life has been a series of mistakes.”

  “Yes, but not of this sort.”

  “I suppose,” said Sergey Sergeyevich, “that your future husband is a remarkable man, is he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Marvellous. But the others—and it’s just the two of us, Lyolya, we can speak frankly—they, too, were remarkable. However, they all had one striking characteristic in common, one that you never suspected.”

  “Again, this ironic philosophy, Seryozha. Wake up! Understand, finally, that this isn’t a joke. When you’re dying, will you be so derisive then?”

  “I don’t know, Lyolya, I just don’t know. But this chara
cteristic is well worth mentioning.”

  “Go on.”

  “It consists in the fact that all these people loved, chiefly and most sincerely, not you, as it may have seemed on the face of it, but me.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Well, just that—me. That is, not me personally, if you will, but me as the man from whom you get the money you give to them. Do you follow me? There have been no exceptions. I don’t mean to disillusion you. You’re planning to marry, however, for the first time in all these years. By all means marry, but don’t tell your fiancé that you have no money.”

  Olga Alexandrovna sat there utterly dejected, unsure whether to believe Sergey Sergeyevich’s words. What grieved her was not that she would soon be deprived of her means of subsistence, but that Sergey Sergeyevich could even mention this.

  “This changes nothing,” she said finally.

  “On your part, of course. But how will Arkady Alexandrovich react to this?”

  “We shall soon see,” said Olga Alexandrovna. “I can tell you now that he’ll react just as I have done. Hand me the receiver.”

  She pulled the telephone towards her and called Arkady Alexandrovich. He answered immediately.

  “Arkasha,” said Olga Alexandrovna in an agitated voice, “I’ve just been to see Sergey Sergeyevich. He has agreed to grant me a divorce, but won’t give me any money. I’ll be penniless. What will we do?”

  After a brief pause, Arkady Alexandrovich’s voice replied:

  “I don’t know, Lyolya. I know only one thing: I don’t think this should alter our plans.”

  Olga Alexandrovna stared fixedly at Sergey Sergeyevich.

  “We’ll need to change the hotel to begin with,” continued Arkady Alexandrovich, “but these are all details. Money will perhaps, even doubtless, be tight. But I won’t be afraid with you by my side.”

  “Thank you, Arkasha, I never doubted you. I’ll be back soon; we’ll talk then.”

  She replaced the receiver and, as before, stared silently at Sergey Sergeyevich.

  “Clearly he’s smarter than I thought,” said Sergey Sergeyevich.

  “You never did understand. You’re incapable of believing in anyone’s love. But now you’ll see. I don’t need your money.”

  “Listen, Lyolya,” said Sergey Sergeyevich. “I hope you understand that I don’t intend to deprive you of money. Only I doubt this episode is worth your leaving.”

  “If only you could understand!”

  “Fine, Lyolya, hear me out.”

  And so Sergey Sergeyevich set about explaining to her that, in his opinion, it was not necessary for her to forsake her home because of a common affair. He said that Olga Alexandrovna was a dear old friend, that without her everything would be empty, that she could continue living as she wished, but ought to remain here.

  “Just think, Lyolya,” he said, “all the rest is incidental. I’ve always loved you—if I hadn’t, could you really have lived your life as you do, never thinking of my interests or Seryozha’s? He understands a lot of things—things that should never have been, Lyolya.”

  Sergey Sergeyevich knew that this was a sore spot for Olga Alexandrovna. She sat there silently, her head down.

  “In spite of all this,” Sergey Sergeyevich continued, “do you really not know that you’re surrounded here by good intentions—intentions, Lyolya, that aren’t spoilt by time, like other extemporaneous ones? Fine, I may not count, but what about Seryozha?”

  “This is very painful for me,” said Olga Alexandrovna, tears welling in her eyes, “but what’s to be done? A new life is beginning now; this one is finished.”

  “And you accuse me of callousness,” said Sergey Sergeyevich. “I don’t want to accuse you of anything. Do as you will, if you believe you must. We’ll all regret it. It would be folly, I think, to try to dissuade you. If you wish to go, then your current feelings must be stronger than those we so vainly, it would seem, expected of you. Go, I shan’t stop you. But always remember,” he said, raising his eyes to Olga Alexandrovna, “wherever you are and whatever happens to you, you can always count on Seryozha and me. I’d very much like to think that we could also count on you, but I believe that in this I would be mistaken.”

  Olga Alexandrovna sat in the armchair, weeping.

  “Of course, there can be absolutely no material change,” said Sergey Sergeyevich. “You shall live as you have always done. All that is mine is yours.”

  OLGA ALEXANDROVNA arrived back at the hotel with tear-stained eyes. Arkady Alexandrovich kissed her hand—he, too, was in a state of distress. Nonetheless, he immediately began to console her. When she rang, nothing could have been further from his mind than the blow that was dealt; however, for the first time in his life he rose to the occasion. Truly, he could not envisage life now without Olga Alexandrovna, and, in responding to her, he had been absolutely sincere. There was, of course, another reason for his unexpected noble-mindedness: he had not had time to grasp what was at stake; his often sluggish mind perceived this as a minor obstacle and had not managed in that moment to comprehend the magnitude of the problem. In any case, however, he had done the right thing: owing to a combination of several factors beyond analysis, as almost always when it is difficult to determine why, in fact, a man answers one way and not another, and why very often it is impossible to predict his reaction to a given occurrence. The onrush of a fleeting emotion, a chance agonizing sensation, the fear of the unknown, some dark instinct—all of these can determine and bring about entirely unexpected and uncharacteristic responses in a man. However, in the brief period intervening between the telephone call and Olga Alexandrovna’s arrival, Arkady Alexandrovich, while pacing about the room, had time to think about many things. His first impression was that some irrevocable catastrophe had occurred; then, once he had calmed down somewhat, the situation began to seem less tragic. Firstly, it was still unlikely that Sergey Sergeyevich would deprive Olga Alexandrovna of an income; he would probably give her something on which it would be possible to live. But even then, if he really did refuse Olga Alexandrovna any support, there was another way out: an appeal to Lyudmila. Arkady Alexandrovich knew very well that it would be impossible to get even so much as one hundred francs out of Lyudmila by any conventional means. It was too late to stipulate any sum as part of the divorce proceedings—it would have been necessary to do that earlier, but back then, in the Midi, he could not have foreseen this. The only thing left was the threat of approaching her current fiancé directly—a threat he would carry out if Lyudmila refused him. Arkady Alexandrovich even had time to consider that it would be irrational to demand a large one-off sum: firstly, because such a request couldn’t but seem odd to her future husband, and secondly, because after payment the threat would pass. On the contrary, it was necessary for Lyudmila to pay him monthly that to which he believed he had a right. In the case of non-payment: a letter to her husband and the ensuing consequences. Arkady Alexandrovich knew that all this was far from straightforward, that Lyudmila would make a desperate effort to contest this, yet the decisive final argument was nonetheless on his side. Naturally, Olga Alexandrovna would know nothing of this; indeed, Arkady Alexandrovich himself could not conceive of this solution without an involuntary feeling of disgust. However, he could not imagine another way out: through long experience he knew well that the options available to him were limited. When he saw tears in Olga Alexandrovna’s eyes, he took it to mean that Sergey Sergeyevich had been categorical, which still troubled him.

  “What’s to be done, Lyolya? We’ll get by somehow,” he said in a high-pitched, slightly pathetic voice. “We’ll work…”

  “No, no,” replied Olga Alexandrovna. “That isn’t why I’m crying. It’s all been arranged.”

  Arkady Alexandrovich felt wild with joy; however, he did not let it show.

  “What do you mean to say?”

  “Sergey Sergeyevich said that there will be no changes, everything will be as it has always been. But he was so crue
l, so merciless, as only he knows how to be. He spared nothing, Arkasha, nothing! He was uttering sympathetic words without so much as a smile; it cut me like a knife!”

  Olga Alexandrovna then told him the whole story. Arkady Alexandrovich listened attentively and said:

  “There’s an impropriety here, Lyolya, a scandalous impropriety. People might think that I want to take something away from you. No, it’s just that something else is being added to your former life, something that demands no rejection of the former one. It doesn’t demand anything at all; it’s ready to content itself as it is—all the more so as what we have now is so wonderful and unique! If you want to live there, live there; if you don’t want to marry, don’t marry. Can this really change anything? Can this really change my love for you?”

  “Oh, Arkasha, you don’t know what a wonderful man you are!”

  “No, no, I just love you, that’s all.”

  “You know, never in my life have I witnessed such understanding, such a combination of mind and spirit as you have. My God, how many years I’ve lived on this earth without knowing you!”

  “Why regret this? You have met me: that is what’s important.”

  That evening Arkady Alexandrovich was especially affectionate and tender with Olga Alexandrovna. The brief panic he had experienced during her absence—which proved to have been in vain—had now, with redoubled strength, metamorphosed into an onrush of grateful love. Half an hour later he had completely forgotten his plan to blackmail Lyudmila, and if someone were to have expressed the opinion that he were capable of such a thing, he would truly have thought this person a fool and a scoundrel.

  Some days later he telephoned Lyudmila, and after a brief interlude they met in a large cafe on the Champs-Élysées.