A Question of Return

by Robert Carr

  Aksakov couldn’t take his eyes off Zhelenin’s wife. The canard was delicious, and a thin trail of the flavourful pink sauce found a way under her lower lip. Zhelenin bent toward her, and with his napkin delicately blotted it. Miriam smiled happily at her husband, and pushed aside a lock of hair pasted to her damp forehead.

  On the last train to Paris that night, Aksakov said, “They seemed very happy together, the Zhelenins. Did you see how he looked after her? Oh, Tyoma, she was such a beauty thirty years ago. Do you remember her? No? I do. I was sixteen or seventeen, and in love with Miriam Emmanuilovna, a young, shivering, unspoken love. It was her great uncle who got the family out. He made a large donation to the French Communist Party, Maurice Thorez made a few phone calls, and in a couple of weeks they were gone.” Laukhin asked his friend where he had heard the story, but Aksakov was unwilling to say or unable to remember. More likely the latter—he could hardly walk by the time they got to his hotel. He asked about his friend Fedya Malgunov whom he’d not seen in years, but didn’t wait for an answer. He said he and Fedya had been in high school together, and that Fedya had been in love with Miriam Emmanuilovna too.

  “We have nothing from you, Artyom Pavlovich, not a single line,” Zhelenin said. His baritone voice sounded as if he was across the street.

  “I sent you something about my father a month ago, Viktor Efremovich, after your last phone call.”

  “Our readers want your poetry.”

  “I’m not writing poetry these days—well, these years. Haven’t in a long time.”

  A pause at the other end of the line. “There’s Poets in Heaven, isn’t there?”

  “There isn’t.”

  “Sorry? What’s the title in Russian?”

  “There’s no title.”

  “Oh.” Another long pause at the other end. “Well, we’d very much like to publish Poets in Heaven.”

  “It’s not possible.”

  “Have you promised it to Kontinent? Those bastards gobble up everything. They had a long Zladsky poem in their last issue. Have you promised it to them? Somewhere else?”

  “No.”

  “Some of our readers saw the English translation, and many more want to read it in the original Russian. Well, everybody, in fact.”

  “It doesn’t exist.”

  “It doesn’t … Forgive me, Artyom Pavlovich, what doesn’t exist?”

  “The original Russian version.”

  “What do you mean? It wasn’t written in English, I know that. The long article in Vanity Fair—I have it in front of me—says that the author, Fedya Malgunov, translated the poem.”

  “It’s not ready for publication. It may never be. It’s a poem that’s unfinished and, even worse, unsatisfactory to me.”

  “The English translation was satisfactory?”

  Ah, the irony. “No, of course not,” Laukhin said trying to stay calm. “Both the translation and its publication happened without my consent.” As he heard himself say this, it dawned on Laukhin that he had said the same thing at the Writers Union when Sunless Seasons appeared in Germany.

  There was a chuckle at the other end. “These kinds of words, Artyom Pavlovich, they don’t make much sense out here.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  Another long pause. “How could that happen? Why didn’t you protest?”

  He should have stayed at his worktable, not run downstairs to pick up the phone. “Viktor Efremovich, it’s a long story, and rather silly. I told it all in a Paris Review interview. Buy the latest issue.”

  Long silence. Then, “You promised it to that shit, Maksimov.”

  Laukhin saw no point in continuing the argument. People heard what they wanted to hear. He said, wearily, “Viktor Efremovich, please.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter, we have the original Russian.”

  “What? You can’t possibly have it.”

  “We do.”

  “If you have a copy of what Fedya Malgunov used for his translation, it’s an illegally obtained copy.”

  “It’s not illegal—we bought it.” He spoke quickly, his voice raised, which was unlike Zhelenin. Clearly it bothered him that his integrity was being questioned.

  “Who did you buy it from?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “It’s illegal because you didn’t buy it from me or from my agent.”

  Zhelenin paused, and his next words were calm. “Illegal is a big word, Artyom Pavlovich. You can’t use it if you keep giving copies to all your friends.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “You should check your memory.”

  “My agent will sue Sintesy.”

  He heard another chuckle at the other end, this time a very satisfied one.

  “He won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Sintesy has nothing of value. Ha!” Zhelenin was enjoying this.

  “We’ll sue you, Viktor Efremovich.”

  “You’ll get a pair of jeans out of it. Used.”

  A distant click, and Paris was in his ears no more. Where on earth had Zhelenin gotten a copy of what he gave Fedya Malgunov? He was certain it was the version of Poets in Heaven he’d given Fedya, or a copy of it. It could not have been anyone else, despite what Zhelenin said. Why did he say that? The only explanation was that Fedya gave his copy, or a copy of his copy, to a friend of theirs who had, in turn, given it—no, sold it—to Sintesy. The only friends he could think of were Dieter and Andrey Aksakov. He’d call both of them and check. But first he’d have to call Bart and ask him to send a stern letter to Sintesy.

  So much heartache for a failed poem. He should have burned all copies and versions of it long ago. Why keep at it for so long? Was it an unwillingness to accept that he could no longer write verse? When Erika Belov-Wang asked him if he was writing poetry these days, he’d said that he did and he didn’t. Meaning? Verses, or images, or even a few words whose sound he liked still came to him, but all he did now was jot them down in a notebook. That was all? Just about. Well, he was still tinkering with Poets in Heaven, but he didn’t tell her that. Anyway, it happened less and less lately, and he had not touched the poem in almost a year. Odd that this exchange with Erika Belov-Wang was not in the transcript of the interview. He didn’t recall telling her to leave it out. Maybe it happened over lunch, when her tape recorder was off, and she forgot all about it.

  Ewa Kucharsky told him he took so long on his father’s journal because he couldn’t imagine what he’d do afterward. “You fear you’d only be repeating yourself,” she said. He had dismissed the idea. In fact, he got angry with her. “How would you know? How would you know better than I do?” But Ewa knew him quite well, and there might have been something in what she said—otherwise why did he get so upset? Seven years spent on one volume? He could have found a way to work more quickly, but, subconsciously, had not wanted to or had feared to. Ewa was probably right in saying he had no idea what he would do next. Well, he might indeed be finished as a poet—not such a tragedy, he had already written the best of what he had in him.

  Could Zladsky have given the Russian version of Poets in Heaven to Zhelenin? Fedya had known Zladsky. No, it was unlikely. Zhelenin said it had been a friend and he knew that he and Zladsky were far from being friends. Zladsky’s comments about Laukhin in the interview had been the gossip of Russian literati everywhere. Little, callous Zladsky. He could feel the venom in Zladsky’s words, imagine saliva gathering in the corners of his mouth as he let go, eyes bulging at the flabbergasted interviewer. “Laukhin grew up with a gostinaya—a living room. Do you know what that means in the Soviet Union, to have a gostinaya? Do you have any idea? My parents and I had one room. One room! Just one!”

  This was a long festering hatred, far beyond the natural competitive urge or the envy writers or poets felt toward each other, beyond the struggle to make a living abroad, where hardly anybody read one’s work. It was a desire to harm, as if they had carried their worst customs with them abroad—their de
light in intrigue and backstabbing. Where did it come from? He barely knew Zladsky. They met once in Leningrad, in somebody’s kitchen, where they spoke briefly. They met again a few years later, in Moscow, in front of the Yunost office. Laukhin and his wife just happened to be walking by, and Zladsky and Aksakov were coming out of a meeting which, judging from their faces, had not gone well. Aksakov was gloomy, and Laukhin understood from the few words he said that it had been an attempt to have one of Zladsky’s poems accepted by the editorial board. Zladsky had taken the overnight train from Leningrad for the meeting. They exchanged a few words that time too, lies about how much they admired each other’s poems, the few they could get their hands on. Aksakov thought Laukhin was going in and, puffing from his cigarette, allowed himself a joke. “Two beggars in one day,” he said, “one after another.” Laukhin said they were just passing by. Aksakov hugged Tanya and introduced her to Zladsky, then put his arms around the shoulders of the two poets and said, “If it were up to me I’d publish no one else but the two of you. But … I won’t give up the fight, no, I won’t.” The third and last time he met Zladsky was in New York, a dozen years later, at a private gathering again, but this time in an apartment large enough for them to stare at each other from a distance, nod and half-smile, and then ignore each other.

  What was beyond unpardonable, though, was what little man Zladsky did to Aksakov, somebody he had known well for years, a friend. Aksakov’s new novel, the one that was eventually translated into English as The Slackening, had been considered by Faber Lemaire for translation into English and publication in 1980, just as Aksakov was settling in the US. The book, already translated and published in The Netherlands, had been highly recommended to Faber Lemaire, but they decided to get Zladsky’s opinion as well on the book’s original manuscript. And the opinion was such that they passed on the book. Laukhin heard the story from Aksakov three years later, in a crowded pub in London. At Bart’s request, Laukhin had flown there to calm down his London publisher. Aksakov happened to be there as well “to check on a few opportunities,” as he said rather mysteriously. He was taking the train to Paris the following day, and from there to Frankfurt. “It’s probably nothing,” he said when Laukhin wanted to know more. “At least I’m not paying out of my own pocket.”

  “I never learned what he wrote in his reader’s opinion,” Aksakov told Laukhin. “I didn’t even know he’d been approached by Faber Lemaire for an opinion—my good friend Zladsky didn’t bother to let me know. I was surprised by the rejection, especially after all the good things I’d heard about my novel. I don’t recall exactly what crap Faber Lemaire wrote to me—the usual vague and polite words. Last fall I taught a course in New York, and I heard a rumour that Zladsky had been telling people that my book was shit. I heard it at first from a few Russians, and so I told myself, typical émigré intrigue, pay no attention to it. Then I heard the same thing from Olga. She wasn’t Russian—I’m not even sure her real name was Olga—but she was going at the time through a Russian period. A bit eccentric. Married, lovely woman, smelled of wildflower honey. She was a part-time reader for Faber Lemaire, and we had a brief thing together. She dumped me rather quickly, unfortunately. Couldn’t look at my bad Soviet teeth, but I’m sure there were other reasons. I asked Olga why Faber Lemaire rejected my book. She didn’t know, but said she’d try to find out. And she did. She told me Zladsky had given it a thumbs down. She couldn’t get her hands on his report, but talked to somebody who had read it at the time. I confronted my pal Zladsky this spring. I said, ‘Yasha, dear friend, why didn’t you tell me you read my novel for Faber Lemaire?’ ‘Who told you?’ ‘Never mind who told me.’ ‘I was warned not to talk about it.’ ‘Ah. And what did you say in your report?’ He hesitated. ‘It wasn’t … wasn’t my cup of tea.’ ‘Not your cup of tea. Oh, Yasha, what would we do without cliches.’ ‘Look, Andrey, they wanted my opinion. I had to give it to them, the truth. Literature … it’s all we have, it’s a sacred trust. I don’t have to like everything you write.’ I couldn’t breathe for a long time, Tyoma. But eventually I managed to tell him what I thought. ‘Listen, you little shit,’ I said, ‘don’t tell me about sacred trust. I have a hard time making a living here, a foreigner who can barely speak English teaching young morons how to write like geniuses. You know damn well an English-language publication with a major American house is the ticket, the only one. The largest market, friend Yasha. It triggers translations in other countries. Have you thought of that? Sacred trust? What’s more sacred than a friend in need? Couldn’t you say you had no time to read the damned book? I mean, if you were so repelled by the novel. Fuck you, Yasha Zladsky. To think of the arguments and fights I had at Yunost for your stupid poems. At the end Polevoi barred me from his office. He told his secretary he’d fire her if he ever saw my face again. I did it because I had some influence there, and because you were my friend. Not because I loved your shitty chastushki.’ I should have punched him, Tyoma. I should have broken his knees.”

  Laukhin nodded understandingly and expressed outrage, but he kept a skeptical view of the whole thing. Was Aksakov exaggerating to improve the story? Was there something in their past to explain Zladsky’s cruelty?

  Zladsky’s attack on him, Laukhin, came a few months later. Aksakov rang him the following day from Philadelphia. “Hello, gastinaya-man. Yes, yes, I read it this morning. Ha! Had the time of my life. A gastinaya growing up, and a seasoned globetrotter. No, not a globetrotter. What did he call you—a frequent traveller? Not bad, not bad at all. It’s too much, Tyoma, too much. I’m only calling to say that our ways are parting from now on.”

  “It’s not funny, Andrey.”

  “Oh, Tyoma, it’s funny, hysterically funny. He’s a genius, our little man, the best. He’s unbeatable at bludgeoning friends, and he has a vicious disregard for the truth. That’s what he brought with him from the old country.”

  Yes, they were very good at it, his countrymen, that was what defined them. It had made the Soviet Union possible, all that cruelty and hatred and brutal personal attacks and schadenfreude. A German word, but the Germans were bungling amateurs compared to Russians. He thought of Zhelenin’s conflict with Maksimov, and of his fights with the publishers of Veche and Russkaya Misl, and God only knew with who else or what else.

  He heard Aksakov telling him he was moving to London. He’d teach at Queen Mary College for a year, then he’d see. Andre Deutsch had agreed to publish The Slackening, and that was the main reason he was moving. The publisher wanted him nearby, and he wanted to be nearby too. “At the very least to keep things moving. And I don’t want another Faber Lemaire disaster—another friend’s help without my knowledge. It’s my big chance, Tyoma, and I can’t have another fuckup. The Germans are interested too, and I hear encouraging noises from Paris. I’ll be close enough to remind them all of my existence. I’ll send Yasha Zladsky a copy of The Slackening in English. No, five copies, each with the same handwritten dedication, ‘A shitty book to a shitty friend.’”

  * * *

  When he finally opened the green folder, it was almost five o’clock. He intended to work late into the evening. Audrey was still in his head, dancing on his cortex, but the walk, the shower, Larissa’s letter, and the call from Zhelenin had slowed her to a lighter step—a quiet, ironic minuet.

  Monday, 10 October 1955

  Another day of remorse. The whole day. Boris Leonidovich has never been in worse shape. I have to give it to him—he takes remorse to heroic heights.

  “How could I, Pavel Nikolayevich? How could I not tell Marina Ivanovna, scream at her, not to come back? What blindness overtook me? Wasn’t it obvious already ours was a monstrous regime? Did I still have illusions?” He paused, as if considering the question for the first time. “Must have—after all, I was pleading with my own parents to come back as late as 1939.”

  He told the story of meeting with Tsvetayeva during his last trip to Paris. It was 1935, June or July. He had been literally dragged out of his sic
kbed to join the already large Soviet delegation attending the Congress of Writers in Defence of Culture. It was all because of Malraux who, disappointed by not seeing him and Babel among the Soviet writers who had already arrived, insisted to the head of the Soviet delegation that they attend. The congress was held in a small theatre, Salle de la Mutualité, not far from Notre-Dame. Tsvetayeva was living in Paris at the time, and she came to meet him.

  She didn’t look good. She had never been a beautiful woman, but there had been a boyish prettiness about her. He had fallen in love with her earlier, not for her looks but for her genius and her passionate, indomitable, direct nature. But when she came to his hotel in Paris—she sought him out, not the other way around—she looked terrible. He was not sure whether she was ill or just showing the years of poverty and unhappiness. The clothes she had on didn’t help—a black dress, now greyish from too much wear and washing, clearly too warm for the summer weather.