Back to Moscow

by Guillermo Erades

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked through the door. ‘We’re going to be late.’

  When she came out of the bathroom, Tatyana was wearing tons of make-up and a bizarre hairdo, her beautiful curly hair all tied up in a knot on her head.

  Truth was, I loved Tatyana best in the mornings, when she’d just woken up and was wearing one of my old T-shirts – the green of her sleepy eyes a miracle every time, her cheeks warm and rosy. Tatyana didn’t need make-up. You look so pretty like this, I’d told her a few times. But she insisted that a girl needed to wear make-up all the time to look prilichnaya, decent. By now I had given up.

  I gazed at her face, unnecessarily caked in powder. ‘You look gorgeous,’ I said, kissing her on the cheek, careful not to spoil her lipstick.

  We made it to the theatre just in time to find our seats. They were in the third row, close to the action. The lights went out and the actors appeared on the stage. I found the play hard to follow. I’d expected a simple plot, a dog that becomes a human, but the Russian was complicated and, as I used my imagination to fill in the gaps in my understanding, the story in my head became darker and darker, chillingly interrupted every time the audience burst out laughing at jokes that I kept missing.

  Tatyana was sitting with her back upright, her eyes fixed on the stage, completely absorbed by the action. Even with her hair like this she looked beautiful. She was wearing an overly sweet and pungent perfume which I didn’t recognise and which stuck in my throat. I was afraid the perfume could also be smelled by the people around us, even by the actors on the stage. I told myself that I would buy Tatyana a new perfume, something more subtle, when the occasion presented itself.

  And so it was, at that precise moment, watching an adaptation of The Heart of a Dog at the Stanislavsky theatre, that I realised Tatyana had somehow become my girlfriend. Why would I care about buying her perfume otherwise?

  After the play finished we followed the crowd into the street. People gathered on the pavement of Tverskaya, discussing the show. I was flooded by a sense of well-being, thinking about Tatyana, my girlfriend, but also about going to the theatre, which for some reason I regarded as something exceptional – kulturno, intelligentno – something I should have done more often. I knew all the bars and clubs in Moscow, but hardly any theatres. Maybe I could take Tatyana out more often, I told myself, and we could also watch Chekhov plays, which would be easier for me to follow. With these thoughts in my head, we walked into the French Café next door and sat at a small table by the window. My initial plan had been to stop at the kiosks in Pushkinskaya after the play and buy a couple of blinis for dinner, but since Tatyana had made such an effort to look special, I felt the French Café would be more appropriate.

  ‘I’m so happy we came to the theatre,’ Tatyana said, holding my hand. ‘Such a beautiful show. Thank you, Martin.’

  She was radiant.

  It was so easy to make her happy. She enjoyed reading books, cooking, watching movies, going to the theatre. All Tatyana wanted from life, she had told me, was good health, friends, family, a man. It was as if, by limiting the things she cared about, Tatyana had distilled life to its essentials. When I was with her, the rest of my existence seemed unnecessarily complicated. Even when I asked her about Russian books, her answers betrayed a simplicity that had to be admired. ‘I enjoyed reading Anna Karenina,’ she told me one day, ‘but I didn’t like the ending.’ That was all Tatyana had to say about Tolstoy’s masterpiece, that she didn’t like the ending, as if she were talking about the latest Hollywood blockbuster.

  Now she was my girlfriend, and that made me her man. A couple of times, when referring to me, she had in fact used those very words, my man, but she hadn’t used the usual Russian word for man, muzhchina, but muzhik, which, as had been explained to me, implied a degree of added masculinity and roughness. Tatyana pronounced the word in a natural manner, without irony, moi muzhik, despite the fact that we had only been seeing each other for a few weeks and had never talked about the nature of our relationship.

  Yet, despite accepting Tatyana’s role in my life, I wondered about the implications of having a girlfriend, about the unwritten set of rules that falls upon two individuals whose existence has thus far been unknown to each other. And, every time the brothers dragged me off for a night out, I faced a series of connected and inevitable truths: that attraction is a fickle and capricious motherfucker; that even the selfless affection of someone who really cares for you can’t compare to the liberating excitement of meeting someone new; and that, if I wanted to preserve my feelings for Tatyana, to stop her from becoming a cause of frustration, I had no choice but to keep considering myself a free man.

  43

  AFTER A LONG AND EXHAUSTING night with the brothers, I spent the morning at home, lying on the couch with a killer hangover, watching DVDs I’d bought on my last Gorbushka run. I had lunch, slept for a couple of hours, had coffee, tried to read a bit.

  When Tatyana arrived in the early evening, as well as fresh clothes and cosmetics, she was lugging a bag of groceries. She kissed me hello, changed her clothes, disappeared into the kitchen. Soon, the homely smell of boiled cabbage wafted into the living room.

  She was making golubtsy. ‘My babushka’s recipe,’ Tatyana had said when she cooked cabbage rolls for the first time, about a week after we’d met. I’d said that I really liked them and, as a result, we were now eating stuffed cabbage rolls once a week. They were juicy and meaty and had a citrus aftertaste, which came, Tatyana said, from the grated orange zest added to the mince, her babushka’s secret.

  We sat for dinner. The smell of boiled cabbage somehow matched the new decoration of my kitchen. Two weeks after meeting Tatyana, I had hung a miniature painting on the wood-clad wall, next to the samovar. The painting – which I’d bought in the Old Arbat – depicted a colourful Russian winter scene, with children sledging and throwing snowballs. Above the samovar and the painting, on the kitchen shelf, I had placed lacquered wooden spoons and honey pots I had bought at Izmaylovsky Park. I thought the Russian handicrafts – black, red and gold – gave my kitchen the look of a Siberian izba, rural and traditional. The perfect setting for my evenings with Tatyana.

  As we ate the golubtsy, I wondered how to tell Tatyana that I planned to go out again with the brothers on Friday. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it so I was waiting for a way to drop the information into the conversation. Except, we were not having a conversation.

  ‘This is very tasty,’ I said.

  Tatyana smiled, picking at her cabbage roll without really eating it, saying nothing. She was quieter than usual, visibly worried.

  ‘I might go out tomorrow night with some friends,’ I finally said. ‘You know, the guys from football.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Tatyana placed her fork on the plate. ‘Martin, can I ask you something?’ She was blushing, her pale forehead covered in pinkish stains. ‘I need to ask you a favour. But please do not feel obliged to say yes. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I think I have no other choice.’

  Her voice was trembling.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Katya and I had a fight,’ she said.

  Katya was her flatmate, a friend from Novosibirsk who had come to Moscow a few months before Tatyana. They shared a small flat in the outskirts, at one of the last metro stops on the orange line.

  ‘A fight about what?’

  ‘We’re no longer talking to each other,’ Tatyana said. ‘She’s going out with guys all the time and then she brings them home. It’s not very nice, you know. Our place is very small, I can hear every time she has sex. They are always different guys. I asked her not to bring guys home and she got angry, told me it was none of my business.’

  ‘I see.’

  Tatyana took a sip of juice and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. ‘I told her that if we lived together we had to respect each other.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘She asked me to move out.’

  I set my fork down
too. ‘In what sense?’

  ‘She said she wants me to leave the apartment immediately. The contract is under her name. I was just paying her my share.’

  ‘But she can’t kick you out like that.’

  ‘If she had a boyfriend,’ Tatyana said, ‘that would be fine by me. But they are all different guys, you know, foreigners or older guys. I no longer feel comfortable at home.’

  Tatyana was now staring down at her plate, avoiding my eyes, her blonde curls dangling over her food.

  ‘I’m sure you can sort out things with Katya,’ I said. ‘You are old friends.’ Then, pointing at my empty plate, ‘Are there any more?’

  ‘Of course.’ Tatyana stood up, took my plate and served me two more cabbage parcels. ‘Katya has changed since she came to Moscow,’ she said. ‘All she thinks about now is going out to clubs and meeting men. She’s not the same.’

  ‘Moscow changes people.’

  ‘Why does everything have to be so hard in Moscow?’ Tatyana’s eyes were moist.

  I poured some juice into her glass.

  ‘People are so mean here,’ she went on. ‘Back in Siberia people are nice to each other, friendly. Here in Moscow, everybody pushes you in the metro, in the street, nobody cares about anybody.’

  I forked a piece of cabbage roll. ‘Moscow’s a jungle.’

  ‘Martin, you know I cannot afford to rent my own apartment. A friend at work said I could stay with her for a couple of weeks until I find something. But she lives with her family and has two small children.’

  I stood up, opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of beer. ‘Are you sure you can’t sort out things with Katya? Friendships go through rough patches. I’m sure you can both find a way to go on living together.’

  ‘Martin, I don’t want to live with her any more.’

  I stood leaning on the kitchen bench, took a sip of beer. One cabbage roll remained on my plate.

  ‘I know this is a lot to ask,’ Tatyana said, now almost crying, ‘but would you mind if I moved in here for a few days a week while I looked for a permanent place to stay?’

  ‘What do you mean a few days a week?’

  ‘I don’t want to be a burden,’ Tatyana said. ‘I know you enjoy being alone, to read your books and go out with your friends. I thought maybe I could just stay here from Monday to Friday, so that I can go to work. It’s so convenient from here, only two metro stops. On Fridays I could take the elektrichka after work and spend the weekend at my aunt’s.’

  ‘Have you told your aunt about this?’

  ‘Yes. She offered to let me stay with her all the time but, you know, her place is two hours away from Moscow. I can’t spend four hours on the train every day.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I don’t want to interfere with your life and your friends. This is just for a few weeks until I find something more permanent.’

  Her lips were trembling. An unexpected warm feeling climbed up from my stomach. I kissed her on the cheek. Tatyana burst into tears.

  Suddenly I hated Katya, whom I’d never met, for bringing guys home and hurting Tatyana.

  I held Tatyana in my arms. She was breathing heavily. For a few seconds I wanted to tell her, don’t worry, you can stay with me as long as you want, also during weekends. Let’s live together. Let’s give it a serious try. But those were not the words that came out of my mouth.

  ‘A few days a week would be fine,’ I said. ‘You can stay here from Monday to Friday. No problem.’

  Tatyana breathed deeply and I realised how difficult it had been for her to ask. She kissed me, took hold of my face and looked straight into my eyes. ‘Are you sure? Martin, I really don’t want you to do it if you don’t feel good about it. I know we have only known each other for a little while.’

  The green of her moist eyes was almost transparent.

  ‘Stop crying,’ I said, wiping her cheeks with my fingers. ‘Moscow doesn’t believe in tears.’

  She smiled. ‘Martin, I adore you.’

  ‘We can move your stuff here on Sunday.’

  ‘You know I can’t afford to pay half the rent you pay, but I can help with a bit and also with the groceries.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  I finished the cabbage. Tatyana made tea and we moved to the living room to watch a movie. She fell asleep before the end.

  Next morning, after Tatyana had left for work, I opened the balcony door and stepped outside with a cup of coffee. It was sunny, the roofs of Moscow gleaming under a clear sky. I took a deep breath, the warmth of the air taking me by surprise. Summer had arrived.

  Sipping my coffee, listening to the clamour of the city, I looked forward to the warm days – going out with the brothers, nights on the restaurant terraces, the party boat – but also, I now realised, to Sunday evenings, to having Tatyana back at home. As far as I could see, I was looking forward to every single day that was coming to me. Standing on the balcony, I felt lightness in my heart, a sense of plenitude. And for a few minutes, gazing at the urban horizon, contemplating the arrival of summer in Moscow, I believed in happiness.

  PART FIVE

  Liza’s Choice

  44

  IN NEST OF THE GENTRY, Turgenev nails the quintessential Tatyana esque heroine. Liza is young, naive, pure-hearted. She lives with her mother and aunt in a provincial city, enjoying the simple life of the Russian gentry, which involves, Ivan Sergeyevich tells us, a lot of piano-playing, tea-drinking, book-reading, church-going. She’s particularly pious, Liza, raised under the influence of her Russian peasant nanny.

  Liza finds herself with two suitors. Panshin is a young officer: handsome, entertaining, respectful, charmant. Even if somehow superficial, Panshin possesses plenty of social and artistic skills, and a promising career ahead of him. By any standards, a good catch. To top this off, Panshin enjoys the full approval of Liza’s mother.

  Liza’s other suitor, Lavretsky, is an older landowner: thoughtful, melancholic, married.

  Lavretsky, the protagonist of the book, had been living in Paris with his wife, Varvara Pavlovna, and has just returned to Russia on his own after discovering that she had been cheating on him with a Frenchman. In sharp contrast to the very Russian Liza, Ivan Sergeyevich depicts Varvara Pav lovna as a flirtatious socialite, a man-eater, a femme fatale who is shamelessly Europeanised.

  Back at home, Lavretsky rediscovers the beauty of the Russian countryside and its people. He starts to work on his neglected properties, making plans to provide for his peasants. As he adapts to his new surroundings, he’s impressed by Liza’s pure heart. He regrets that her goodness and beauty are to be lost to the superficial Panshin, whom he sees as a charlatan, undeserving of Liza. Gradually, Lavretsky, still hurt from his Paris debacle, develops feelings for Liza. Perhaps, he thinks, he could enjoy a second chance to renew his faith in love. The problem is that, as a married man, he’s not in a position to act upon his romantic interest. This is the case until one fine day, flipping through the newspapers he receives from Paris, Lavretsky reads with astonishment that his estranged wife has died. He is now a free man.

  Lavretsky tells Liza about the death of his wife and makes his own feelings clear. Meanwhile, Panshin proposes to Liza and she asks for time to think about it.

  Now, Liza has a choice.

  Russian as she is, Liza finds herself attracted not to the young charming officer, but to the older melancholic widower. Her decision is made on the spur of the moment, when, during a furtive night-time encounter, she lets Lavretsky steal a kiss. This being nineteenth-century Russia, the kiss kind of seals their mutual intentions.

  Happy ending? Not so fast. Now comes destiny, always capricious and stubborn, returning in the form of Varvara Pavlovna, who unexpectedly shows up in the provincial town, with her fashionable Parisian clothes and refined manners – the announcement of her death having been a mistake born of a baseless rumour. She asks for her husband’s forgiveness.

  Varvara Pavlovna’s return means that Lavre
tsky is no longer free – death being in those days pretty much the only way out of a marriage. Lavretsky has to give up on Liza, and Liza – whose heart had been set on Lavretsky – is condemned to live without love.

  But why had Liza chosen Lavretsky? Even if Varvara Pavlovna had really been dead, anyone could see that Panshin offered a more promising future.

  Ivan Sergeyevich doesn’t linger on Liza’s choice and yet this choice stands at the core of the novel. Because, for some reason, Liza chooses the option that will clearly make her less happy.

  Happiness on Earth does not depend on us, Liza says, as she retreats into a state of melancholy.

  Liza’s choice tells us a great deal about the Mysterious Russian Soul. Liza shows us that toska, a deep spiritual sorrow, is worth pursuing in itself. Beautiful, self-inflicted pain.

  Liza’s sheer beauty as a character derives from her suffering, her tragic destiny, her Russianness. Even Dostoyevsky, in the Pushkin Speech, mentions Turgenev’s Liza as the one female character capable of standing up to Pushkin’s Tatyana.

  At the end of the story, Liza enters a monastery, embracing a life of sacrifice and privation.

  ‘Happiness was not for me,’ she says, explaining her decision. ‘Even when I had hopes for happiness, my heart was always heavy.’

  45

  AS SUMMER HIT MOSCOW, a troop of corpulent babushkas took over the stairs of the metro entrance in Pushkinskaya. They sat every morning on tiny stools, leaning against the wall next to the newspaper stands, selling flowers, jam, honey, salt cucumbers, pickled mushrooms. They kept their flowers, which were tied with rubber bands, inside buckets of water or plastic bottles that had been cut in half. I never bought flowers but I liked the home-made jams, especially strawberry, and so did Tatyana. I would buy one or two jars, and, every night, drinking tea after dinner, Tatyana and I would eat the jam with a shared spoon, straight from the jar.