Back to Moscow

by Guillermo Erades

  Tatyana was now spending five nights a week in my flat. I’d emptied three drawers and given her half the hanging space in the wardrobe, but she had more clothes than I’d imagined – most of which she never wore – so she also kept two bulging suitcases in a corner of the living room.

  Most nights we stayed at home but sometimes, on Wednesdays or Thursdays usually, we went out to the theatre or to eat sushi. Every Friday morning, Tatyana took an overnight bag with her and, after work, she went to her aunt’s to spend the weekend.

  ‘Sounds like you got yourself a part-time girlfriend,’ Colin said when I told him about the arrangement.

  In the mornings, after Tatyana was gone, I would take a shower, dress, and go for walks around the centre. I would walk for an hour or so and, when I got tired, I would sit in cafés, reading Russian books, taking notes.

  One warm day in July, I was in Coffee Beans, on the leather couch by the window, trying to read yet another chunk of War and Peace. I was unable to focus on the task – distracted by a parade of miniskirts and high heels in Tverskaya – when one of the parading dyevs entered the café, bought a cup of coffee, and sat at a small table in front of me. Dark hair, brown eyes. She was wearing a white summer dress with colourful flowers. Out of her handbag she took a book and placed it on her table. She sipped at her coffee – a cappuccino, I noticed, as she licked the foam off her upper lip – opened the book and held it on her lap. Our eyes met a couple of times and she smiled. I smiled back.

  Two months earlier I would have initiated a conversation straight away. But now things were different. Even if I had resolved to feel free, an unwelcome change that having a girlfriend had brought to my life was guilt. I felt guilty, not about seeing other girls on the weekend, which was necessary if I wanted to sustain my relationship with Tatyana, but about having to lie. The stories I made up to account for my weekends made me uncomfortable, especially since Tatyana believed every word I said. Her blind trust only made me see her as vulnerable, in need of protection. My protection. As a result, the more I lied to her, the stronger my feelings for her became.

  The dyev with the flowery dress stared at me and I felt my entire body heating up. I could no longer keep my eyes on my book. It crossed my mind that, at that moment, it would be best to stand up, leave the café, forget about her. Let it be 1905. I’d done this before so I knew that, if I moved on – if I walked away and tried to fill my mind with different thoughts – in an hour or so I would beat the urge to be with the dyev with the flowery dress.

  She went for a second cappuccino and returned to her table.

  In my head, I summoned the image of Tatyana and tried to remember how I felt when I’d first laid eyes on her, in Kamergersky. Surely something like this. I knew that what I felt for the dyev in the flowery dress, the ferocious desire crawling up from my stomach, was not a long-lasting feeling. I knew this. I knew this. I knew this. But this knowledge was rational, self-imposed, totally useless.

  Next thing I knew, the dyev was talking to me.

  ‘Do you mind keeping an eye on my stuff for a minute?’ she said.

  Her voice was deeper than I had imagined.

  ‘Please,’ I said, nodding.

  After a couple of minutes she came back from the toilet. She had put on fresh make-up.

  ‘I love the coffee in this place,’ I said.

  Her smile revealed perfect white teeth. ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘Tolstoy,’ I said, holding the book up.

  ‘War and Peace, interesno. We were forced to read it in school, but I never finished it. Such a long book.’

  I smiled.

  ‘I prefer modern writers,’ she said. ‘Do you know Akunin or Pelevin?’

  ‘I’ve heard about them. Haven’t read anything yet.’

  ‘Vika, by the way.’

  ‘Martin.’ I took my book and my empty mug and moved to her table.

  Twenty minutes later we were wandering down Tverskaya. The air was warm, the pavement full of people strolling leisurely, in summery clothes. The scent of coconut oil rising from Vika’s tanned shoulders provoked in me a flash of feeling, a half-memory of salty beaches and childhood summers. When we reached Kamergersky, we turned left and passed Chekhov’s statue – where I tried not to think about Tatyana – and walked among tables and chairs that were now busy with people gathering for lunch.

  Vika asked for my coming-to-Russia story, and, for no particular reason, I decided not to tell her about my research. Instead, I told her that I was in business, that my business partner owned a car dealership in Prospekt Mira.

  ‘And you don’t have your own car?’ she asked.

  ‘I prefer to walk.’

  ‘What about long distances?’

  ‘Moscow has the best metro system in the world.’

  Vika smiled, partly satisfied, but obviously puzzled that I was able to afford but did not own a car. Then she told me she was studying journalism. She wanted to become a foreign correspondent.

  Vika was petite but, unlike Tatyana, she walked with determination and self-confidence. At the end of the pereulok we turned left and walked along Bolshaya Dmitrovka, keeping on the shaded side of the street. We then reached the Boulevard and walked down along the central dirt path. I was looking for a place to sit, but all the benches were occupied by young people drinking beer, smoking and kissing. Then I spotted an empty bench in the shade. We walked towards it, and, without saying a word, took a seat. Vika sat on my right and I put my right leg through the space between the seat and the back.

  ‘It’s so nice that we met,’ she said.

  ‘Sudba,’ I said, sliding myself closer to her.

  We kissed. I wrapped my hands around her waist, pulled her against me. My entire body was electrified. My hands, which I no longer seemed to control, began to move up and down her body. We went on kissing and I found myself fantasising that Vika was not someone I’d just met but my actual girlfriend. The thought filled me with an unexpected sense of well-being. After a few minutes we took a breather. I was sweaty. Vika was blushing.

  ‘This is so weird,’ she said, smiling.

  I had four hours before Tatyana came back from work.

  ‘I live nearby,’ I heard myself saying. ‘Would you like to come to my place for a cup of tea?’

  She remained silent for a moment, staring at the ground, which was strewn with the empty shells of sunflower seeds.

  ‘Maybe better if I don’t come,’ she said.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I really like you.’

  ‘I like you too.’

  We kissed again.

  ‘Maybe we can meet tonight and go to the cinema?’ Vika said with a wide smile, her brown eyes sparkling.

  I wanted to say yes. I wanted to take Vika to the cinema. I wanted to kiss her in the darkness and, after the film, I wanted to take her to Café Maki. I wanted us to drink loads of wine, share a plate of blinis with preserved strawberries and mascarpone. And, after that, I wanted her to come to my place for tea.

  ‘I can’t tonight,’ I said, feeling a squeeze in my chest.

  Vika looked confused, disappointed.

  ‘Maybe we could meet over the weekend?’ I said.

  ‘Sure, that would be nice.’

  We exchanged phone numbers and walked down the Boulevard, towards the metro. We kissed one more time, said do svidaniya.

  As I walked home, I texted Yulya Karma, who I hadn’t seen for a while, and asked her if she was free to meet for a quick cup of tea.

  46

  FOR THREE DAYS I’D been picturing Vika in the flowery dress she wore when we met, so when, on Saturday morning, underneath Pushkin’s statue, I was approached by a girl wearing sunglasses and a bright yellow dress, it took me a few seconds to realise it was her.

  ‘You no longer remember how I look?’ Vika said, lifting her sunglasses.

  ‘Of course. You look beautiful.’

  She laughed and kissed me on the cheek.

  It was
a sunny morning and Muscovites had taken to the streets en masse. At least ten other couples had agreed to meet by Pushkin at the same time.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ I said.

  We crossed the perekhod, emerged on the other side of Tverskaya, and passed through the terrace of McDonald’s, where all the tables were occupied. We reached the Boulevard and strolled down the path, under the trees, as we had done the day we met.

  ‘I remember the first time I went to McDonald’s,’ Vika said. ‘Just after it opened, during the perestroika.’

  ‘You must have been young.’

  ‘I was a little girl. A friend in school had gone and he told us about the Happy Meal. For days and days I asked my mum to take me to McDonald’s. Finally, one day, she took me and my cousin. When we arrived, the queue was so long that people were waiting outside the restaurant, all the way to Tverskaya.’ Vika pointed back, to the corner of Tverskaya and the Boulevard. ‘We had to wait for at least three hours.’

  ‘Three hours for McDonald’s?’

  ‘It was the first McDonald’s in the Soviet Union, everybody wanted to try it. It was something exotic, from the West. Everything that came from the West was considered superior. Besides, people were used to queues at the time.’

  ‘I’ve heard,’ I said.

  ‘We had to stand in the queue for so long, I was exhausted. And the worst thing was, by the time we arrived at the counter, there were no Happy Meals left.’

  ‘What did you have?’

  ‘A cheeseburger.’

  ‘Liked it?’

  ‘I was so disappointed,’ she said. ‘All I really wanted was the box with the toy.’

  It was always a pleasant walk along the Boulevard, especially in summer, if you ignored the lanes of traffic on either side and the drunks on the benches. We passed other couples, dyevs carrying bouquets of flowers, men holding bottles of Baltika. Vika walked slowly, as if savouring every step, her sandals treading elegantly along an imaginary straight line ahead of her. She took my arm. I let her hold it a minute, then withdrew it.

  At the junction of the Boulevard and Malaya Nikitskaya, we crossed the road into a small park that ended in a circular open space with a gravel path and a few benches. Vika wiped the surface of one of the benches with a paper tissue, we sat down.

  ‘That’s where they got married,’ she said, pointing at the yellowish church across the street.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Pushkin and Natalya.That’s why they made this fountain.’

  The benches formed a circle around a fountain, at the centre of which stood a bizarre shrine with a golden dome and thick Greek columns. It looked like a tacky burial monument and, although I’d passed in front of it many times during my walks, I’d never noticed the statues sheltered by the golden dome. Now, as Vika pointed inside, I realised the statue was none other than Aleksandr Sergeyevich himself, standing next his wife, Natalya Nikolaevna.

  ‘It’s so romantic,’ Vika said. ‘Pushkin, Natalya, such a beautiful love story.’ She took her sunglasses off and threw them into her handbag. Her lovely eyes were framed by long eyelashes, thick with mascara.

  ‘It is,’ I said, ‘except, she was a bit of a slut, wasn’t she?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know, she was cheating on Pushkin and all that.’

  ‘We don’t know that.’ Vika inched away from me, seemingly annoyed by my remark.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘we don’t know. But I always assumed that if Aleksandr Sergeyevich challenged D’Anthès to a duel it was because something must have being going on. Why would Pushkin risk his life if his wife was not cheating on him?’

  ‘To defend her honour.’

  ‘So you think D’Anthès and Natalya didn’t have a thing?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Vika said, fiddling with her glossy hair. ‘Natalya loved Pushkin very much.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean she couldn’t have had a little fling with the French guy.’

  I squeezed Vika’s arm and laughed, but Vika remained serious.

  ‘If you truly love someone,’ Vika said, ‘you would not want to be with another person.’

  We remained silent for a couple of minutes. A duel, I thought, what a stupid way to die. And yet how beautiful and poetic. Pushkin. Lermontov.

  I wrapped my arm around Vika’s waist. She closed her eyes and threw her head back, facing the sun. I kissed her. She kissed me back. I could hear the heavy traffic, as our kissing got faster and deeper.

  Now my hands were under her dress and I was kissing her neck and shoulders, with the bitter taste of suntan lotion. Abruptly she pushed me away. ‘Ne nado,’ she said. Then she took a deep breath and laughed. She opened her handbag, took out a small mirror and put on some lipstick. People on other benches paid us no attention.

  ‘Nu, tak,’ she said.

  ‘Tak,’ I said. ‘Let’s walk.’

  ‘Davay.’

  As I stood up I realised I was all sweaty, my shirt stuck to my back. We walked into Malaya Nikitskaya, then turned right through Spiridonovka and meandered among the quiet streets and alleys of this old part of town. I knew these streets well because they headed towards the back of my building. We walked in silence, my entire body aching with expectation. I put an arm around Vika and slipped a finger under the strap of her dress. Her skin felt soft.

  As we turned a corner into one of the smaller pereuloks, we bumped into a Caucasian fruit seller, sitting sleepily on the shaded pavement, next to a large cage brimming with enormous watermelons. I bought one of the smallest melons, which he handed me in a black plastic bag.

  We carried on and soon we were at the garden entrance to Scandinavia.

  ‘This is where I live,’ I said, casually, as if it was only by chance that we’d arrived at my building. With one hand I was carrying the watermelon, with the other I was pointing at the balconies on the top floor.

  ‘Nice place.’

  ‘Let’s go up for a cup of tea,’ I said and, not waiting for an answer, I grabbed her hand and led her towards the door of my building.

  47

  THE OFFICIAL VERSION – AS I first heard it from Lyudmila Aleksandrovna – is that Aleksandr Sergeyevich was going through tough times. On top of financial difficulties, he was bored of aristocratic life in Peter, and, for some reason, pissed off at the tsar. It was at that low moment in his life that his enemies spread a rumour that linked D’Anthès, a French exile and notorious womaniser, to Natalya Nikolaevna, Pushkin’s beautiful wife. So Aleksandr Sergeyevich, who was not only the greatest of poets but also an honourable gentleman, challenged D’Anthès to a duel.

  Of course, when I first heard the story, I assumed there was more to it, some facts buried in order to avoid a scandal. You can be as Russian and romantic as you want, but you don’t go around asking someone to shoot you with a gun for nothing.

  In any case, despite attempts by his friends to avert the duel, on the fateful morning of 27 January 1837, Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin met D’Anthès in a forest outside Peter. Pushkin got shot in the stomach and fell, bleeding, on the snow. He was taken back home to Peter, put to bed. After two days of agony, he died. He was thirty-seven.

  When I went up to Peter for a weekend I visited Pushkin’s last apartment, a museum these days, and was shown around by a very old and very devoted guide. She narrated the story of Pushkin’s final days with enormous dedication, interpreting the voices of the different characters, as if telling a fairy tale to a child. I found myself absorbed in the storytelling and, as I listened to the monologue that the guide must have repeated thousands of times, I could picture Aleksandr Sergeyevich vividly, in his flat, but also in the forest, pointing the gun, receiving the shot, falling in the snow, firing a shot that only wounded D’Anthès’ arm. By the time the babushka had finished her narration, all the museum visitors were standing around her, next to the exhibit of a gun similar to the ones used by Pushkin and D’Anthès.

  As far as I could tell, Russians are d
ivided on Pushkin’s wife. Some, like Vika or Lyudmila Aleksandrovna, seemed to believe the official version, the beautiful love story depicted in statues and monuments across the country – such as the golden statue of Aleksandr Sergeyevich and Natalya in the middle of the Old Arbat, at whose feet young Moscow lovers lay bouquets of flowers.

  Others think differently. All these years, entire generations of more cynical Russians have blamed Natalya for Pushkin’s death.

  In the end, we will never know what really happened between Natalya and D’Anthès. Besides, in the eyes of most Russians, causing Pushkin’s death is not Natalya’s worst sin. Natalya is most loathed for not understanding Pushkin’s greatness, for taking him lightly. For that, she cannot be forgiven.

  Yet, Pushkin’s self-induced death doesn’t make much sense. From a historical and artistic perspective he was a successful man. Why did he risk his precious life in a stupid duel? Fuck knows. But whatever his reasons, his early death assured him the kind of glory older people don’t attain. It made him an instant legend. And whether D’Anthès was banging Natalya or not is, to a certain extent, irrelevant.

  Perhaps, if Aleksandr Sergeyevich was unhappy at the time, he thought that risking his life was worth a shot and that, whatever the outcome of his duel, at least things would no longer be the same.

  48

  BEING ON THE TOP floor, on summer days my flat was always hot. I had left the balcony doors open and now flies were circling in the middle of the living room. Except they weren’t exactly circling. Moscow flies had a peculiar way of moving around – they flew in straight lines, turning in sharp corners, drawing geometrical figures in the air, as if avoiding walls that were invisible to my eyes.

  Vika and I lay sweating on the couch. I was observing the flies, trying to remember a passage from Turgenev’s Nest of the Gentry, where Marfa Timofeevna, the bitter old lady, says something about envying the simple life of flies until she’d heard a fly complaining in a spider’s web.