A Question of Return

by Robert Carr

  We dine each night at the captain’s table. Korotkov is overwhelmed by our presence on the boat—undoubtedly by Boris Leonidovich’s more than mine—and is all smiles and suggestions about how to make our trip more pleasant. He had a samovar sent to our room and he wondered whether we’d like to have breakfast or lunch there. “It can be arranged. Not dinner, though. No, I prefer to have the honour and pleasure of your company for dinner. Ah, Marietta will be delighted to meet you, Boris Leonidovich. She’s the one in our family who keeps the literature torch brightly lit. I’m not smart enough for such things, but she is. Oh, yes, she is.”

  Marietta is Marietta Alexeyevna Korotkova, the captain’s wife, and she will come aboard in Yaroslavl, where the Korotkovs live. He has telegraphed her, and she’s dropping everything to join the trip. He, Korotkov, hopes that we don’t mind his indiscretion. His plump face is all humble smiles and excuses. I suspect that behind the perpetual diffidence and modesty there is a man who knows his mind.

  Korotkov’s second in command is a fan of Oleg Vinograd and has endless questions about who feeds me the stories, which must, he’s certain, be based on reality.

  7

  Laukhin called the gallery just before noon, after he’d tried Audrey’s apartment the previous evening and early that morning without getting an answer. Lezzard picked up the phone. Audrey was in Owen Sound, meeting with a reclusive artist. “Come over later this afternoon,” he said. “We’ll find a tipple, somewhere. What’s the point in pining alone? There is nothing a drink will not cure. Are you done with the second half of the galleys?”

  “Please tell Audrey I called.”

  He went home and worked on the Tsvetayeva bundle, but made little progress. Still, he wasn’t unhappy with what he had. Much of the material had been translated and massaged into reasonable shape. The initial four excerpts had become ten. He had added two new ones, a small dinner at the Laukhins, the first in their new apartment on Lavrushinsky Lane, and a visit his father made to an ailing Pasternak while the poet was recovering from his first heart attack, and divided the lengthy account of the journey to Yelabuga into five shorter excerpts. The Yelabuga entries were in decent shape, but there was still a fair amount of work to do on Brodelshchikova’s story, and improving rough spots throughout. Not too much polish, though, because—Ben was of the same opinion—the raw entries were compelling.

  The handwritten sheets he had were legible enough, although much erased and cut and pasted. Ben still needed to type in the word processor the last seven excerpts of the bundle and do a first rough translation of an entry Laukhin initially thought he’d leave out but was now thinking of including—Pasternak’s story of his visit to Bolshevo. He had asked Ben for the first translation weeks ago, but had seen nothing yet. Everything was agonizingly slow with Ben these days because malicious Marion was playing games with him.

  * * *

  His father’s description of the journey up the Kama River to Yelabuga was long-winded and often lyrical. He couldn’t make up his mind whether to cut certain passages. Did they contribute to the appreciation of the trip and its drama? Add colour and texture? Perhaps, but it often seemed excessive. And then, there was the space limitation.

  It was not clear to him what caused the stylistic change. Had it been the boat trip itself on the wide, solemn river? The sight of decrepit towns and villages and mournful woods past their peak fall colours? The melancholy of the riverboat, with its monotonous noise, its slow progress and routine? Had it been the overwhelming presence of the great poet, and Pasternak’s guilt-laden recollections? Or the intimation that he, Pavel Laukhin, was approaching his last years?

  He kept staring at his father’s notes in a dreamy daze, unable or unwilling to decide. He imagined taking the same boat trip with Audrey, under Pavel Laukhin’s approving guidance and Pasternak’s lecherous eyes. He told himself he had rediscovered the masochistic pleasures of unrequited love, the unexpected and long-forgotten delights of a pining heart.

  Audrey finally answered the phone around ten o’clock that night. She had just got back, and sounded tired and remote. The trip to Owen Sound had been a waste of time.

  Laukhin begged for a date. “Surely I deserve it, Audrey, a proper date, a reward for being persistent.”

  “You mean dinner?” she asked after a long pause.

  “Yes, dinner.”

  “All right. We’ll go to Martha’s favourite eatery.”

  “Let’s not go to a restaurant, Audrey. I can cook, you know, and the result is usually edible. I’ll do something Russian. This Saturday?”

  More silence at the other end, but he knew he had finally won when she asked, “Authentic Russian?”

  He could barely whisper, “Yes, of course.” And he barely heard her say that she was flying to London for a few days—her father was not doing well—but the following weekend might work. “I’ll call you as soon as I get back,” she added. “Art, are you still there? Having second thoughts already?”

  * * *

  What exactly had happened to him in such a short time? And at his age? Not that forty-nine was old, not these days. Maybe a bit old compared to Audrey, fourteen years younger, if what he had put together about her was right. The time had not been that short either. It had been three months since he first went to the gallery. The one thing age brought to one’s arsenal was patience.

  He resolved to give serious thought to the dinner with Audrey. He’d lied, he was a lousy cook, but he might be able to get something from a Russian store, at least a soup. He could get take-out from Balalaika, if the restaurant was still around, and reheat it at home. Something simple that he could pass off as his own. Well, he might admit he’d bought the soup. He could also ask Efim’s wife to make something for him.

  Was his torment with Audrey near an end? She’d agreed to come to his home for dinner, and, without a doubt, that meant something. Without a doubt? He’d been in New York and then Boston, and had not seen Audrey in more than two weeks. The last time he had—he’d walked her from the gallery to Martha’s apartment, not far at all, in an ugly highrise on Prince Arthur Avenue—she’d talked about moving back to London and about how much her father needed her. “I would have gone back earlier, but Josiane’s recovery has been very slow. It’s not that Father is not looked after, but he thinks I should move back to London. He says that the few months I lived with him after I left Nicholas have spoiled him.”

  “Nicholas wants me back too,” she added when they were in front of her building.

  “Do you want him back?”

  She didn’t answer immediately, then said, “The stars are just not aligned, Art.”

  What exactly did that mean? He must have looked downcast, because she kissed him on the cheek before running into her building.

  * * *

  He worked feverishly the entire weekend, finished the introduction—he would read it through in a few days, once he was distant enough to be critical—and went back to the galleys. On Friday, Ben had left another segment of the trip, a short one, and Laukhin worked on it too. He had expected a lot more from Ben, and decided to have a serious talk with him on Monday. Not that he knew what to say.

  On Monday, though, Ben didn’t show up for his weekly hour. Laukhin called the graduate residence. A man with a heavy Indian accent answered and went searching for Ben. He returned quickly and said he had knocked on Ben’s door but there had been no answer. No, he had not seen Ben that morning. Laukhin asked to speak with Paul Karman, but Paul had just gone out. It made sense, Laukhin thought, Paul would have left for his tutorial, which followed Ben’s. When Paul came into his office, some fifteen minutes later, Laukhin asked him if he had seen Ben recently.

  “He went home for the weekend,” Paul said.

  “To Corby Falls? He has time for trips?”

  “His cousin was in town on Friday and he drove up with her.”

  “He’s behind with the work on the bundle. Way behind.”

  “He’s in love.”


  Laukhin swore. “It’s what you people call ‘letting down the side.’ No, it’s more than that, it’s treason. Article 58-1(a), death or ten years prison with confiscation of property. I’ll take over his shack on Clara Lake.” He threw up his hands and let them flop on his thighs. “On second thought, I won’t do anything. Becoming a Russian scholar is punishment enough.”

  That night he had more bad news. Audrey called and insisted that they go out to a restaurant on Saturday.

  “What’s happened, Audrey? I did nothing this week but read cook books.”

  “A restaurant would be better.”

  “Why the change of mind?”

  “Please don’t push me,” she said. “I just got back home and I’m too tired to argue. I’ll make the reservation.”

  * * *

  They walked from Martha’s apartment, up Bedford Street at first, then along the stretch of Davenport that slowly curves north, and then up the quiet, winding Poplar Plains Road, the best part of the walk. His heart was apprehensive and heavy, and he hardly said anything as they made their way to the restaurant.

  Sipping his double vodka, Laukhin asked how her trip went. She shrugged and said, “My father’s not well, and my husband misses me—or so he claims.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Yes, I saw Nicholas. He came up for a visit and stayed for dinner. He and Father get along well. Always have.”

  Audrey seemed to be elsewhere, wistful, pensive, as if fretting about an intractable problem. She began talking about her mother. How did Martha learn about this discretely located restaurant, with its unexpected view of Toronto’s skyline? Did Dirk bring her here? One of her Toronto friends? The place she came after—or before—a romantic assignation? A pleasant restaurant, she had to give it to her. A classy, expensive French eatery, the kind Martha approved of, with discreet waiters, and a menu on which the English translations were afterthoughts in a small font size. Nicholas had taken her to a similar place in London on their first date, and she’d been impressed. Nicholas himself had impressed her too: the respectful manner in which the maitre d’ had greeted him by name; the way he discussed—in accented but fluent French—les choix du jour with Carmelo, the old Columbian waiter who, according to Nicholas, had lived many years in France; the way he asked her permission to order for her. She fell for him—for his manners and looks, for being tall, svelte, suave. After Martha met him—she came to London for their engagement party—she said, “Audrey darling, he’s a thinner and younger version of your father. He even speaks like him. I expected more imagination from you.” And, after she delivered that little dart, she plunged in another, “I don’t know, there’s something fishy about him.”

  So that was what had been preoccupying Audrey—she had decided to talk about her husband and her marriage, and she had not known how to go about it.

  Audrey went on. She was no fool, Martha, but she, Audrey, had never been inclined to pay attention to her. Nicholas’s insistence that they get married as soon as possible might have raised Martha’s suspicion. In time, too late, Audrey did find out what was fishy about Nicholas. He was confused as to the gender of those he liked to sleep with. He thought, when he married her, that he’d straighten out, and very likely believed he was in love with her. He knew, too, that having a wife would help his career.

  They ordered and the waiter smiled and nodded several times, as if their choices were extremely wise. The waiters were all young, Laukhin thought—not Carmelo’s age—and, in their buttoned-up, tight-fitting uniforms, they functioned like a competent and disciplined boat crew, an impression likely triggered by the odd layout of the place, with an upper deck as you walked into the restaurant, and stairs with heavy iron railings leading to a lower level. Their table was near the glass wall facing south onto the dark blue night and, far away, the lights of Toronto’s skyscrapers and the red needle of the tower near the lake. Peering in the light strewn darkness he had the feeling he was in an underwater boat, a modern yet run-down Nautilus in which the captain—like Nemo did for Professor Aronnax—had parted the drapes of a gigantic porthole to make his evening more agreeable.

  Audrey’s voice reached him as if from afar. How naïve she’d been. It was laughable, now that she thought about it. She’d had had no idea. She had been in love with him, and impressed by his Cambridge degree, eminent family, promising career, amusing friends, good looks. When the penny finally dropped—well, more of a lengthy slide, since it took years—she moved out. Not immediately, because he told her he’d change. He didn’t. He begged her to stay, and promised (again) to change. Even now he was asking her to reconsider and return, again promising to change.

  She’d been quite down after she left Nicholas, and felt stupid for not seeing the obvious earlier, even more stupid for still hoping after she did. Hoping for almost three years.

  When she left Nicholas last fall she went back to the flat near Covent Garden where she’d grown up. “Your room is waiting for you,” her father said when she told him about her decision. He couldn’t hide his delight at seeing her back. “With you here,” he declared, “dark thoughts will be easier to contemplate.” He wasn’t too sorry she had left Nicholas, although he had always liked his son-in-law, nor was he interested in her reasons. He would have liked a grandchild, a granddaughter if he had his choice, but he’d get on without one a while longer because, as he said to her, rather mysteriously, “There’ll be other opportunities.”

  Martha’s comment, when Audrey rang her a few days later to let her know she had moved back with her father, had been equally calm. “You’ll soon find solid ground again.” She added that she was sure that Audrey could stay with her father for as long as she wanted.

  The waiter brought their appetizers and the bottle of wine Audrey chose.

  There had been another thing—she had wanted a child, badly. Always had. She thought that a child would make life easier for her, whether she left Nicholas or not. He was understanding, and tried his best during awkward, sweaty nights, but she didn’t get pregnant. They went to doctors and were told to keep trying. It was mainly her, they were told. It would be hard, but not impossible. That brought her down, too.

  After she left him, Nicholas rang her almost everyday to persuade her to come back. He loved her and needed her. What he proposed, although he never stated it clearly, was an open marriage held together by a strong friendship. She was torn and confused and felt inadequate, as would, she assumed, any wife whose husband preferred men. That’s when Martha suggested she go to Toronto for a few months, to get some distance while considering her future. She had even found a job for her—so that she wouldn’t have too much time to brood—at a fine art gallery. The owner, Jean Lezzard, was in need of temporary help. Martha and Dirk had been buying art from him for many years, and Audrey had met him once during a visit to Martha in Toronto. He had seemed, at the time, an interesting and knowledgeable man, although rather abrupt. She thought she could learn from him about the local art scene and about running a small gallery. The idea of opening her own gallery intrigued her, and Martha had been encouraging. She was willing to finance her.

  She had followed Martha’s advice but only after her father encouraged her to go. “Your mother has the right idea, Audrey,” he said. “Don’t worry about me. You’ll be back soon, anyway.”

  Laukhin drank steadily throughout Audrey’s long story. Not because he was fond of the wine—he had never enjoyed wine much—but because he didn’t like where her speech was going. From time to time he stared past her, to the far wall where there were faded images of clowns, vaguely akin to some of Chemakoff’s prints—an exhausted, feeble Chemakoff.

  The waiter came with their main courses. Audrey said she felt somewhat guilty—Laukhin would have been much further ahead with his father’s journal if he had spent less time with her at the gallery. Not that she ever minded his presence, she hastened to add.

  “That was cruel,” he said.

  “It came out wrong.”
>
  She stared at her plate in the silence that followed. “Do you like Toronto?” she asked after a while.

  “It kind of grows on you.”

  She nodded. “Are you keen on staying?”

  “Staying?”

  “Staying, living in Toronto.”

  “I have a good setup here for my work, and three very good students.”

  He had ordered duck, but after a few bites realized he wasn’t hungry. She removed the backbone from her fish and he watched her handiwork with admiration.

  “How did it happen, Art?” Audrey asked, looking at him. “I mean … leaving your wife?”

  Oh God—again? “This is an abrupt change of subject,” he said.

  “I’d like to know.”

  “Things were not right between us. They’d been bad for some time.”

  “Some time?”

  “Several years.”

  “But it wasn’t only your wife, Art.”

  “Sorry?”

  “She was pregnant. When you left, she was pregnant with your child. Things could not have been that bad.”

  It was what he had feared all along. “It’s complicated,” he said.

  “You’ve said that before. It doesn’t seem at all complicated to me.”

  He sighed. “One day you’ll understand.”

  “What’s there to understand? I bought the last issue of the Paris Review at Heathrow when I saw your name on it, and read your interview. You were just as evasive in the interview as you are now with me.”

  What an ass he’d been! He should have deleted that part of the interview. He had thought about it, but there was nothing new there, nothing that had not been thoroughly aired seven years earlier, so he’d left it in. What an ass!

  When he didn’t answer, she refused to let go. “Did you leave her or not?”

  He fought the impulse to tell her the truth and said, “Yes.”

  “Pregnant?”

  “Yes.”

  Audrey shook her head in dismay.