I was going to protest—what’s that to do with anything? Sure, I understand—what happened to her on TV affected her much more deeply than she admits even to herself: she has no concept of herself outside of her work. She simply doesn’t have an alternative role at hand; shake her awake in the middle of the night and ask, “Who are you?” And she’ll say, “Journalist!” She’s got all her eggs in one basket, as they say, and now that she’s had the basket taken away, my girl feels like she’s had her whole life stolen and can’t think about anything else. I understand exactly how she feels; I’m not an idiot. How could I not, really, after I’d gone through the same agonies myself—alright, maybe not exactly the same. I was twenty-five then and it actually seemed kind of cool to try something new, dabble in antiques—why not (just for the time being, I thought!)? Lolly’s situation’s totally different, and when you’re staring down forty there’s nothing cool about it.
But only when she snorted her filly’s snort and said the thing about the stamp, which she’d already had in her passport once before, and then what am I doing (she didn’t say this but she might as well have) filling my—and her—head with this nonsense when she’s got some real problems on her plate, did it dawn on me that our notions of marriage are totally different. I am a Catholic, after all; never mind I haven’t been to mass in ages. And that for her it’s like this part of life’s been painted over with oil paint—like the window in our school bathroom that was painted halfway up and we boys used to scrape out various inanities on it with our penknives; then at the university, I remember, the bathroom window, exactly the same, and someone had scratched, “God is dead. Nietzsche,” on it and below an oval that was supposed to be a head, with a humongous mustache and hair standing on end, a thicket of straight lines—a portrait of Nietzsche maybe, or maybe the God that was dead.
4. Two Russian copper coins, “denga,” 1708, and “altyn,” 1723, both in good condition.
Jeez. How’d I fall for this junk? Hoboes do better picking through trash—they’d laugh at this “business” of mine….
I should’ve explained to her, like to a child: I’m not after the stamp, Lolly—I want us to be wed. In church, at the altar. I, Adrian, take you, Daryna, as my wife; I, Daryna, take you, Adrian, as my husband. In sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, till death do us part. That’s it, and what’s so fucking mysterious about it? And I would also like it, I would, Lolly, to be totally honest, like at confession. (Which you also did not understand that time I’d gone, why I’d done that, and kept asking like an anthropologist: What does it mean that you felt the need to go to confession? Did you mess up somewhere?) I’ll tell you straight, I would, in fact, like to have a little Lolly-tot race a tricycle around our place raising a ruckus and looking like you and me both at the same time—doesn’t matter a boy or a girl. I would like to hold his little hand in the street, and help him collect his toys scattered in different rooms, and sit at his little bed and read to him, and teach him everything I’ve learned in my life—even if I haven’t learned all that much. And that’s it. And Nietzsche, if I’m not mistaken, died in the loony bin after he’d first spent ten years eating his own shit.
What are you afraid of? You tell me. What?
You little terrified girl with tight little fists, determined to betray none of your fear—I saw you. I knew you to be that girl from that first moment, as soon as I’d spotted you among the backstage chaos of the TV studio that looks like a factory floor and a fossil dig at once—among turned-off cameras, dead like pterodactyls, and the twisted cables underfoot that slithered out of nowhere like pythons in the jungle—where, on the brightly lit stage familiar from your broadcasts, you, just done, were unpinning your microphone and talking to your crew, and all of you steamed with a kind of hot, feverish charge—as if you’d all just tumbled out of a nightclub and didn’t know what to do with the rest of your artificially pumped-up high.
Back then I didn’t know yet that this was the condition required for creating any virtual reality, and the one on the screen above all: to be real, it demands from its creators a constant energy feed, new logs for the fire, new kilocalories of living exhilaration—same as with a lie that has to be refreshed, fed all the time, even if it only means keeping it at the front of your mind with a constant mental effort because left to its own devices it would instantly deflate like any parasitic form of life, like mistletoe when the tree it sucked dry finally falls.
You belonged to the army of those who feed it—with their own blood, the gleam of their eyes and the freshness of their skin, and with time I learned to detect in you and your crew this short-lived, drug-like, camera-induced high; I watched you all come down from it outside the lens’s reach—some faster, others slower, and still others, after several years on TV, turned lethargic and limp, like they’d been unplugged, and came to life only on camera; under the lights, they’d flip their tail a few times, like a fish thrown back into water, and then go back into suspended animation.
Back then I knew none of this, and the only thing that stunned me, blinded me, was your sharply lit shape, like an Egyptian figurine in tight black jeans. Before, I had no idea how blatantly the screen can lie: how close-ups make everyone’s faces look equally wide, when in real life you are so fragile and fine—delicate, as Granny Lina liked to say, the highest compliment she could pay a woman. And you seemed to me then not the queen of that other-side kingdom but the opposite—the girl sacrifice, a lamb with your eyes and lips blackened à la Monica Bellucci, like a child who’d painted herself with her mother’s makeup. When I came closer, the crown of your head came exactly up to my lips, and it was like someone gave me a push in that instant, saying into my ear, Here, Adrian, is a woman made to your measure.
I should protect you now, but I don’t know how. That’s the thing, my girl. More important—don’t know if that’s what you really want. In all your childhood photos that I have seen—from the little Lolly with a big bow perched above her comically Socratic forehead, to the teenager with mouse-tail braids, who is, everywhere, shying away from the camera like a small animal wanting to hide (as if you could sense, even back then, that the camera lies)—your little hands are squeezed into fists. As if you did all your growing up like that—in the constant state of red alert. My little warrior. These fists of yours—thumbs tucked under the folded fingers—are all I see these days: you’ve squeezed yourself into a fist, just like that, folded yourself in, and locked me out. Some work is being done in there, inside you, and I am not privy to it.
Can anyone ever understand a woman completely? And do women even understand themselves?
It’s not like you’ve deliberately pushed me away from your problems—no, you told me about what happened in great detail, and you listened very intently, without your usual “contortions,” when I tried to demystify for you how business works in our godforsaken country where government itself is merely a kind of business, and television is also business, and your entire journalistic guild serves, as even I can see from the sidelines, as a mere tip of the iceberg, one of the many means the real players have of laundering their dough—a plug, in a word. A gag. You didn’t like that word; you bit your lip, winced with a pained expression, and recoiled too abruptly in the next instant, when I, stirred by tenderness, reached out to stroke your cheek. You were already closed before me, tense and cocked like a gun, and this short wordless exchange cut me to the quick, almost as if you’d rejected me as a man. And maybe even worse.
There’s one thing I realized, Lolly: you’re a strong woman—much stronger than you appear and you think yourself to be. It is only people of real strength who, on the ruins of their lives’ script, do not rush to grasp the hand extended to them but instead react the way you did: instinctively isolate themselves, escape inward, like a sick wolf that leaves the pack and runs into the forest—to find the herb that can heal him or to die trying. You poor little wolf, what are we going to do with you, huh?
I know you need to find new fo
oting, build your razed little hut anew, from the foundation up. If I hand you the building materials you need, you’ll take them, of course—from me and from anyone else, from anywhere, as long as you can make use of them. And any other kind of help I can offer you’ll also accept gratefully: you’ll drink, say, the bedtime tea with honey I make you, nuzzle my shoulder, and tell me I’m sweet. But you won’t come to my little hut, which, by the way, wasn’t built overnight either and took just as much work as yours—you won’t come live in it. Mine or anyone else’s.
Build Me a House of Straw but One I Can Call My Own. That was the title of this really nice piece I found last summer, a wonderful folk-art painting—from the Cherkassy region, the traditional “a kozak and a girl near a well” subject, circa 1950. Could’ve been late forties even. I did fine with it, primitive art is in vogue these days. And the piece was a real classic, fit for a catalog: the kozak in a long red zupan, the girl wearing a wreath with ribbons, the well with a sweep, the white dappled horse, white house on a green field, and below, yellow on green, in naïve unpracticed lettering—that title. Blows your mind when you think about how people lived back then: kolkhozes, slavery, stone age; wore trousers made from tent-capes; ground a handful of pilfered grain on a hand mill to keep from starving—and when they had a free moment, they still ground alizarin crimson and ocher into thinned poppy-seed oil and painted the world that no longer existed. A world they’d had taken away from them, left only in a line of a song. The abandoned voice, the cry in the wilderness, like the fife in the subway at night. Build a house of straw. There’s some silent tenacity in that, like there is in those tightly squeezed fists: as if to say if there isn’t a way to build even with straw, I’ll at least paint that house of mine—paint it and put it up in my room. The last territory to call one’s own: 30 by 20 centimeters, in a homemade frame, from here to here—this is mine.
I know—you’re of the same ilk as those nameless village painters. You’re one of those who wish to change the world—not adapt to it.
And I, it would appear, am a conformist.
And that’s the way the toad farts.
Shit, the fuck I want those fucking coins!
Adrian Ambrozich, as my Yulichka says (She still wears a miniskirt over her G-strings. Is she still nurturing the hope that one day I will lose it and lunge at her with a hungry growl, or does she consider this to be appropriate dress for a secretary at a successful firm?), Adrian Ambrozievich, you’re an asshole. Yes, my dear, and man enough to admit it. And don’t you go consoling yourself with the fact that everyone else is just the same, or even worse. If they’re not assholes, they’re goons. Either one or the other, and sometimes both. Take your pick, as they say. And tick your ballot accordingly, damn it.
Because really, what’s this house I call my own? When the Soviet military-industrial complex went down the drain, taking all our science with it, all I managed to catch was a different train. That’s if I tell it like it is, as at confession, instead of strutting my feathers the way I keep doing for Lolly—keep fanning my tail, not too much, but who wouldn’t want the woman he loves to think him just a bit better than he really is? Praise me, Lolly, let me know you’re proud of me—such a cool cat I am, got everything running just so.
The truth is that back then, in the nineties, I simply got lucky—took me years to appreciate how lucky I got. I was lucky to have contacts among the people who later learned to call themselves art dealers, was lucky that I’d grown up knowing my way around the junk they were picking up for a song every Sunday at the Sinny Market—you wouldn’t believe what turned up, what wonders could be had for a few pennies. Back in his National Bank days Yushchenko went there every weekend, like he was on the clock, and now he’s got one of the country’s best collections of folk antiques and is running for president (and God help him because those bitches got us by the balls already!—every day a new rule from tax inspection, they’ll squash us, small businesses, like bugs for these elections!).
And my guys dragged stuff from that weekly dump without looking, like raccoons, often not even knowing from which side to open a snuff box, or that a Secession writing table, albeit crippled into a legless bench (which was what they thought they were buying), could have a secret drawer (like the one where we found a sheaf of yellowed old letters, which I guessed in a flash to be love notes—the letters were from before WWI, written in Polish, and that’s how we stumbled into a whole other Kyiv, one the Bolsheviks thought they erased without a trace: the one of Polish nobility that had lived there since the fifteenth century and thought the city their own, and for whom, at the dawn of the twentieth century, Vladislav Gorodetsky set out to build on Vasylkivska Street a new cathedral with the fashionable concrete puffery, only they never got any use out of it. I could not really read those letters, but I had this strange feeling they’d been written to me, personally—back then I was dating Tatyana and kept getting ready to say to her what she kept waiting for me to say—that I loved her; I’d even convinced myself that I did, in fact, love her, but left her apartment every time still not having said it, and when I found the letters something inside me cracked—I got this hunch, that ran wider and wider like a fissure, that the true love of my life was still ahead, and not that far, actually: the letters promised Lolly to me).
For me, it is the world of objects I grew up with—I recognize their musty smells, the traces of tallow drips on their surfaces, the black dots on ineptly polished silver like dirt under the nails—as if I’m back in my grandpa and granny’s apartment, crowded with cracked ancient chests of drawers, and for that reason always sort of shadowy. When they returned to Lviv in 1955, they couldn’t live in the family’s townhouse on Krupyarska because it’d been taken over by a KGB mayor and his brood, but our family still managed to preserve some of its furnishings and wares—and in that, too, I was lucky.
When the university sent me, with a kick in the ass, into the big world, after the instruments at the research lab where I worked got cut off for unpaid electricity bills, never mind paying anyone’s salaries, and I didn’t even have enough for cigarettes, and one day caught myself watching for butts as I walked, it was then I got scared, scared to a cold sweat: I had no idea a person could be debased so easily and that this person could be me! The entire social matrix in which I’d grown up burst like a soap bubble, and the only solid thing I could latch on to, to keep from going down with it, was that world of old things that my ancestors had preserved—my family legacy, why not? There it is, finally, the right word: I began to live on my legacy; I am, basically, just another rat-ass rentier—not a self-made man. I was simply lucky enough to discover I had a legacy—that the knowledge and skills that had quietly imprinted themselves on me when I was little suddenly acquired real value, measured in hard currency.
Cigarette cases, candle tongs, pocket watches, lidded inkwells, and carved umbrella handles (ivory, be so kind as to observe!—I would say to customers in my grandpa’s voice)—I knew it all by touch. I could even sew on a Singer foot-pedal machine because I’d fixed one of them for Granny Lina when I was a teen; and before the market sorted itself out, in the boggy chaos of the time, I somehow came to command the reputation of a freaking guru, and once acquired, a reputation’s as hard to shed as it is to get. By the time the bog solidified and set like concrete, I was already on the inside and had my own two feet to stand on. Had I started a few years later, I wouldn’t have gotten as much as a sniff at the business without some venture capital, so yet again—I got lucky.
And I got unbelievably, fantastically lucky with one of my first partners, our department’s ex-Komsomol organizer, Lyonchik Kolodub, who out of the goodness of his big heart gave us his philandering digs, a one-room efficiency on the ground floor of an old-Kyiv townhouse. He’d bragged he bought it back in 1991 for two grand, exactly one-hundredth of what it’s worth today, but back in 1991 two grand for a regular person was as mythical a sum as a million bucks is today; it was never clear whence it could have come
to a man like Lyonchik Kolodub—rat, boozer, womanizer (or, as he would tell you—a hero of the sexual battle front), and an absolute zero as a physicist who, ever since his freshman year, had aimed at a Komsomol career for the single reason of being utterly unfit for anything else.
The puzzle solved itself when one day Lyonchik vanished in an unknown direction, taking, rumor had it, the former district committee’s till along for the ride—people said he eloped all the way to Latin America, and I’m inclined to believe it: for all his faults, Lyonchik did have a romantic strain; he had vision and a love of adventure, which, after all, were the things that made him fun. (Once, when drunk, he confided to us that his grandpa was a Gypsy who the Germans hung for a stolen chicken—at the university it was believed that Lyonchik’s ancestor was a partisan almost as legendary as Kovpak and died a hero fighting the Nazis. Lyonchik played this spiel like a saxophone for the whole five years of Komsomol meetings at the university.)
Who knows. At the bottom of his rat’s soul he may have been dreaming of a Gypsy baron’s grandeur—of having his villa, acquired with the Komsomol dues, guarded by swarthy and jolly saber-toothed cutthroats in Che Guevara T-shirts, instead of the bored and shapeless Ukrainian cops who all look like farmhands so much more than pirates. Maybe his hot blood yearned for the beat of salsa tunes, and the vision of a cocoa-colored ass barely covered with feathers beckoned to him from across distant oceans, like the longed-for reward for all of his Komsy ratting, which, as it later turned out, he could have saved himself the trouble of doing because it did nothing to help the Soviets in the end—or maybe that was precisely why he eloped: because unlike the rest of our Komsy-to-business-converts who’ve already filled our parliament, he was ashamed of his past. Whatever the reason, Lyonchik disappeared, leaving us in possession of his apartment with a Venetto mattress on the floor (so thoroughly permeated with sperm and vomit that we had to throw it out)—a place of our own, our own house, a hundred-point lead in this crappy business, all thanks to Lyonchik, may the old goat have peace wherever he is. And if he’s still alive, may God send him a whole swarm of chocolate-skinned girls, and may the bullets of Colombian partisans miss his old goat head. (Many of them are also Marxists and fight for the Communist revolution, so if they take Lyonchik hostage, he, worse comes to worst, can always become their political commissar and recite to them on steamy tropical nights the decisions of the last Soviet Communist Party Congress if he hasn’t forgotten them all, the program of the USSR’s development to 2000 included. Or he’ll teach them to sing “Lenin Is Young Again.” As you would expect of a Gypsy, Lyonchik Kolodub was incredibly musical.)
The Museum of Abandoned Secrets Page 33