I pulled a pair of jeans on over my underpants and opened the two front doors of my flat.
A minute later Sergey knocked at the open door.
‘Come in, come in,’ I said.
‘Sorry to show up this late.’ Sergey made sure he was fully inside the apartment before shaking my hand – some odd superstition about not greeting under a threshold. Since I last saw him, Sergey’s thick stubble had grown to almost a full beard. His eyes were bloodshot. He smelled of vodka.
‘Everything OK?’
‘It’s so hot in here,’ he said.
‘The heating is on high these days. I have to open the windows so as not to boil to death. It cools off later at night.’
‘You’re lucky to live in the centre,’ he said, taking his shoes off. ‘We don’t get that much heating in the northern suburbs.’
I hung his coat behind the door and directed him into the kitchen. ‘You all right?’
‘It’s good for your health to get some cold air into the apartment,’ he said. ‘Even now, in the heart of winter. My mum opens the windows every morning, it helps clean the air and get the infections out of the house.’
‘It would be easier if I could regulate the temperature myself.’
Sergey glanced around the kitchen, as if searching for something. ‘Do you have a beer?’
‘Sure.’ I opened the fridge, took out two bottles of Baltika and a plastic box of salt cucumbers. I sliced a cucumber and arranged the slices on a small plate. Sitting at the table, I moved a pile of books to one side and opened the two bottles.
Sergey stared at his bottle, saying nothing.
‘Do you want a glass?’ I asked.
‘No, thanks. It’s all right.’
‘Davay,’ I said. We clinked our beers.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘in Georgia people never toast with beer.’
I took a sip. ‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sergey said. ‘Bad omen, I suppose. Did you know my father was Georgian?’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘From Gori, like Stalin. Came to Moscow in the late 1960s, to study at MGU. Of course back then it was all the same country so things were easier. Besides, half of Moscow’s intelligentsia were Georgians. Artists, poets, singers. Many came to Moscow.’
‘But your mum is Russian.’
‘Half Ukrainian, half Russian. That makes me a perfect soviet specimen. Except of course there is no Soviet Union any more.’ He glanced down at his Baltika and shook his head.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘I was born in Moscow. I’ve lived all my life in this city, and yet I don’t always feel I belong here. I get stopped in the street all the time by policemen hoping that I’m an illegal immigrant and they can squeeze some rubles out of me.’ He took a sip of beer. ‘They’re kids, these policemen, illiterate drunks who think they’re important just because they wear uniforms.’
I took a piece of cucumber. I could see Sergey’s eyes were watery, tears waiting to be released.
‘It’s about Ira,’ he said, head down, now brushing his thick eyebrows with his thumbs.
‘Is she OK?’
Sergey lifted the beer bottle, drank a few gulps, placed it back on the table. He started to peel the label. ‘She’s fucking another guy.’
‘In what sense?’
‘An American asshole,’ Sergey said. ‘From work. She told me. Well, it’s more that I caught her. My mobile phone ran out of credit so I used her phone to text a friend. When I went to check that my text had been sent, I saw a sent message in English. You know my English is not very good, but I knew what it meant.’
‘Your English is good.’
‘The message said I miss you. It was sent to this guy Robert S, her boss at the firm. So I asked Ira about the message and she started shouting at me, saying that I was breaching her privacy because I had looked at her mobile phone. As if that was the important thing.’
‘I see.’
Sergey was staring at the bottle of beer, tearing strips from the label, placing them next to each other on the table. ‘She told me they had just been flirting and nothing else but, when I insisted, she admitted that they have been sleeping together. For a few weeks.’
Sergey held the bottle to his lips and, as he began drinking, let out a sob. He choked and spat some beer on the table.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, now openly crying.
‘Don’t worry.’ I took a roll of paper towel and handed it to him. He made a ball of paper, wiped the table. Then he tore another piece of paper towel off the roll and blew his nose.
‘I’m so fucking stupid,’ he said.
‘Calm down, man.’
‘I’m wasting my life. I’m not doing anything meaningful. I left university so that I could work and take photos and now I’m not even doing that. Ira is the only thing I have.’
He covered his eyes with one hand and cried.
I searched for something appropriate to say but nothing came to mind.
‘And now she’s gone,’ he said. ‘She just packed a few things and said she’d go to a friend’s place.’
Sergey finished the rest of his beer.
‘Want another one?’ I asked.
‘Please.’
I got another Baltika from the fridge and opened it for him.
Sergey was silent for a while, staring at the samovar on the table.
‘I’m sure the American guy makes tons of money,’ he finally said, shaking his head.
‘I don’t think Ira is the type of woman who cares about that.’
‘Of course she does. They all do. Women don’t give a shit about a smart guy or an interesting partner. All they want is someone who earns enough to buy them stuff. That’s why Russian babas run after foreigners.’
‘But Ira has a good job. She can buy her own stuff.’
Sergey blew his nose again, took a slice of cucumber.
‘Can you talk to her?’ he said. ‘Please.’
‘I don’t think that’s going to change much.’
‘You’re her friend, she’ll listen to you. I want to know why she did it, if she wants to come back to me.’
‘I don’t think my getting involved is going to help you in any way. Maybe it’s better that you speak to her.’
‘Please, talk to her. Please.’
Sergey’s mobile rang. He glanced at it and silenced it without taking the call.
‘It’s my mum,’ he said. ‘She’s been calling the whole day. She’s worried I’m going to kill myself or something.’
‘Maybe you should give her a ring.’
‘Later,’ he said. He looked around the kitchen, as if inspecting the walls. ‘Expats have a great life. With all the money and the good flats, partying all day and meeting Russian girls.’
‘Most of us work as well,’ I said. ‘It’s not all a big party. My research takes up quite a lot of my time.’
From the books on the table Sergey grabbed my Penguin Classics edition of Chekhov’s plays, translated by Elisaveta Fen.
‘I thought you read these things in Russian,’ he said.
‘I like to read them in English as well, just to make sure I’m not missing anything.’
‘Even Chekhov?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you know these plays by heart?’
‘There’s always something new every time you read them. And it’s interesting to see how translators go about concepts that don’t really translate. For example, there is this quote in Three Sisters.’ I took the book from Sergey’s hands and opened it at one of the marked pages. ‘Look here,’ I said, pointing at an underlined paragraph halfway down the page. ‘At the beginning of the first act, Irina says, “If only we could go back to Moscow.” But if you read the Russian original, as Chekhov wrote it, what Irina really says—’
‘I can’t read fiction any more,’ Sergey said abruptly, looking not at my book, but at his beer. ‘Such a waste of time. I haven’t read a novel in years. There are so many interesting things to read about real
life in newspapers and magazines or history books. Why bother reading something that someone made up?’
‘I used to think like that,’ I said, disappointed by Sergey’s lack of interest. ‘But in the end, if you think about it, fiction is not that different from non-fiction. Non-fiction offers a very partial view of reality. When authors choose what to say and what to leave out, they are already distorting facts. Because the biggest chunk of any story, real or fictional, always remains untold.’
‘The book you plan to write about Moscow,’ he said, ‘will it be a memoir or fiction?’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Things either happen or don’t happen.’
‘Not that simple,’ I said. ‘Memory is very selective, it changes the past. In the end, all memoirs are fiction.’
Sergey closed his eyes for a couple of seconds.
‘I guess,’ I said, ‘that if I ever write my book about Moscow, I’ll just bury my own experiences within a fictional story.’
Sergey stood up, anchoring his hand on the wall to keep his balance. ‘Need to go to the toilet,’ he said, tumbling out of the kitchen.
When he came back a couple of minutes later he didn’t sit down. He took the beer and finished it in three or four long gulps.
‘I don’t want to keep you up,’ he said. ‘It’s very late, sorry to drop in on you like that. I’m heading home.’
He walked out of the kitchen, sat on the stool by the entrance and started to put his shoes on.
‘Would you talk to her?’ he said.
‘I’m not sure it’s going to help.’
‘Please.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Sergey put his coat on and we hugged goodbye. He kept hugging me for a few seconds, his beard scratching my neck. I patted his back, which was, I imagined, the manly and appropriate thing to do. When he had left the flat I cleared the beers from the kitchen, wiped the table and put the salt cucumbers back in the fridge.
32
LENA WAS NOT REPLYING to my messages or phone calls. As the days got colder and darker, I started to accept that she was no longer there, at the other end of the phone, waiting for my call.
Something strange happened to me. Now, when I was alone at home trying to watch a film, I would picture Lena lying at my side. Often, I would find myself staring at the Indian tapestry she’d given me, or at the empty couch, exchanging words with an imaginary Lena – comments about whatever I was watching: this is funny, ridiculous, I don’t get it – then trying to imagine what Lena would have said in return.
Perhaps these divagations of my mind were due to the fact that, precisely at that time, I’d started to sleep badly. Regardless of when I went to sleep, even after a long vodka night, I would wake up early in the morning. As soon as I regained the smallest spark of consciousness – an awareness of who I was and where I was – my brain would be bombarded with dozens of fresh thoughts that grew out of control and then I couldn’t get back to sleep. Lying on the couch, my eyes open, I often ended up thinking about Lena.
I also thought about Lena after a bad night out, when I hadn’t met any promising girls and it was time to go home. As the music in the last club of the night stopped and the lights went on, and people gathered on the street, and new couples kissed, and phone numbers were exchanged, and taxis were shared – as the night was ending and a new Moscow day was about to begin – I would stand alone in the street and think about Lena. But I would not think about the drama or the tears. I would think about her body and I would visualise the exact moment when she unfastened her bra for the first time and offered her perfect breasts to me. This vivid image would produce a sharp pain in my chest. The night gone, I would take a taxi home, crash on my couch and wank myself to sleep.
33
IT WAS DARK OUTSIDE, freezing, close to minus twenty. I walked down Tverskaya, wearing my heavy coat, scarf, hat and thermal gloves. I turned left at Kamergersky – the cold seeping up through the soles of my winter shoes, reaching my feet. By the time I arrived at Pirogi, my nose was frozen numb.
Inside it was warm and lively – all the tables were occupied by young people drinking beer, eating, talking loudly. I walked towards the back room, where the books were sold, but couldn’t see Ira.
The day after Sergey’s unannounced visit, I’d called Ira to see how she was doing. She’d suggested meeting on Thursday for dinner.
I walked down the stairs into the basement rooms and found her sitting at a small table at the back. In spite of her make-up, she looked tired, the bags under her greyish eyes darker than usual. We kissed hello. After taking my winter gear off, I sat at the table.
‘Have you ordered yet?’ I asked.
‘Only tea. I was waiting for you. We should order right away, it usually takes ages in here.’
She beckoned the waitress. We both ordered mushroom soup, which Ira said was very good, then kotlety, salad and a bowl of pelmeni.
‘So,’ I said with a smile, ‘what have you done to poor Seriozha?’
‘What did he tell you exactly?’
‘That you are sleeping with an American guy from work.’
‘It’s more complicated than that.’
‘He was pretty drunk when we met. He didn’t look great.’
‘I’m sorry that he came to your place like that,’ she said.
‘It’s OK, I just felt sorry for him.’
One of the other tables in the room was occupied by two girls in almost identical woolly brown sweaters. I noticed one of them staring in our direction, with a red lipstick smile. For a moment I wished I was with Colin, instead of Ira, so that we could chat the two girls up.
‘This isn’t any easier for me,’ Ira was saying.
‘So, what happened?’
‘Not much,’ Ira said. ‘There’s this guy at work. We became friends and he made it clear that he was interested in me. Then we went out a couple of times. And we started to have a thing. Nothing serious.’
‘Who is he?’
‘His name is Rob. One of the consultants.’ Ira unbuttoned her cardigan, revealing a tight black top with unusually deep cleavage.
‘Were you seeing him the last time we met?’ I asked. ‘You know, when we had lunch at MGU.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I think I tried to tell you, but you didn’t seem interested.’
The waitress brought two bowls. The cold from the street remained in my bones. I took my spoon and went straight for the soup.
‘That was quick service,’ Ira said.
‘Moscow is changing after all. You cheat on Sergey. Quick service at Pirogi. What’s going on?’
‘Not funny.’
‘This is delicious,’ I said.
‘I told you.’
‘Creamy and tasty.’
‘They make it with white mushrooms.’
We savoured the mushroom soup in silence. The dyev with the red lipstick kept staring at me. So did her friend now. They giggled and I wondered if they thought Ira and I were a couple. I hoped they realised she was just a friend.
‘So,’ I said. ‘Who’s this Rob? Married with kids?’
‘Nope. Young, single. A babnik, like you.’ Ira ate some soup. ‘You might have met him in your nightclubs, he goes out with other expats.’
‘I don’t really hang out with Americans. Except Colin, of course, but he’s been Europeanised.’
‘Rob’s fresh from New York. His first time abroad. He’s been in Moscow for four months.’
‘These things happen,’ I said, hoping these words would close the subject. ‘I just thought you were happy with Sergey.’
‘This has nothing to do with Sergey.’ Ira pulled her black top down, readjusting her cleavage.
‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘It’s fine. These things happen.’
I had promised Sergey I would talk to Ira. Done. Now we could move on.
‘Really, it’s not ab
out Sergey,’ Ira insisted.
I looked at the other table. The dyevs were emptying a jug of beer and seemed to be having a good time. If only Colin were here. Even Diego would do.
Ira was looking at me with an angry expression, as if reading my thoughts.
‘But it does have to do with Sergey,’ I said, trying to pick up the conversation where she’d left off. ‘He was your boyfriend and you started to fuck someone else.’
‘I can’t believe my ears, Martin. Are you giving me lessons on fidelity?’
‘I just mean . . . I don’t know.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I know you’re trying to help.’
She placed her spoon on the empty plate. ‘You know, Martin, I think sometimes you forget I’m a woman. I’m not only your friend but also a woman, even if, for whatever reason, that’s not how you see me. I need attention and courtship. Someone to give me compliments. Rob likes me, he makes me feel appreciated, as a woman.’
As a woman. Kak zhenschina.
‘So it’s a serious thing, the American guy and you?’
‘Of course not,’ Ira said. ‘He’s an expat, he just wants to have fun, like all of you. He probably has other women on the side. But that’s not the point. I know he’s not crazy about me, but at least he cares enough to make an effort. Women need that. We need to feel that men try hard to get us.’
‘And buy flowers.’
‘It has nothing to do with flowers,’ Ira said. ‘It’s about feeling wanted.’
‘But Sergey worships you. He’s mad about you. And you understand each other so well. Ira, you don’t need other people to know how much you are worth.’
‘But I do,’ she said. ‘I do need other people to tell me. I know I’m good enough to be Sergey’s girlfriend or to be your “just friend”. But maybe that’s not enough for me.’
I finished my soup, pushed my plate aside. I took a sip of beer, trying not to look at the girls on the other table. ‘What I’m saying is that sometimes it’s better to be with someone who really appreciates you for who you are than with someone who just wants to sleep with you and have a good time.’
‘Sergey is a great guy,’ she said, ‘but I don’t want someone I need to take care of. I want someone who takes care of me. Sergey spends all his time complaining about his problems but doing nothing about them. Getting drunk is all he does. In the end, no woman wants that kind of man, Martin. At least before he was more fun to be around, but now he’s so gloomy.’
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