by Maxim Osipov
“A main feature of provincial life: lack of real-life experience, especially among women.”
Only we wrote future rather than feature, because we were in such a rush.
“More?” we asked.
“Yes plz!”
“Serious, principled approach to life: had Tatiana been born in Saint Petersburg, she wouldn’t have displayed the sincerity we see in any of her declarations of love to Onegin.
“Austerity and simplicity—not valued in city life. Onegin lives by the laws of the city, which presuppose neither sincerity nor depth. Through reckless negligence he kills Lensky, devastates Tatiana.
“Yet it certainly seems that—just as in city life—provincial life has its share of arrogance, foolishness, and frivolity, in open and grotesque forms. So it would be misguided,” we advised Polina, “to idealize country life.”
She thanked us; it was already time for her to rewrite the final draft. Afterwards Verochka and I sat and thought for a while: Onegin’s time in the provinces reads remarkably like the story of our dacha owners.
When it’s hot, the less sophisticated among them walk around half-naked. They wouldn’t do that in Moscow. And the more cultured ones don’t mean to offend us, yet somehow they still do. The Petersburgers are a bit different: they at least introduce themselves by their name and patronymic, whereas the Muscovites seem only to have first names nowadays. Somewhere out in the big cities dissertations are being defended, books are being published; something real is happening, with intellectuals slapping one other in the face, but here—how could anyone take our homely, warm, slightly mud-flecked life seriously? They’re flippant: flippant in love, flippant in their behavior. They’ll pop in to see me on their way up from the river, then head straight on to the pelmennaya to sit, or—as they say now—hang. Then summer will end, and that’ll be it: “Let us know when you plan on visiting us in the Big Smoke.”
I know that I myself am prone to terrifying bouts of lethargy in all its forms: emotional, spiritual, physical. I don’t wish to be a teacher of morality—my own subject keeps my hands full as it is—but certain memories just make me so angry. And no matter how hard I find this monk’s life I lead, no matter how little my life has been touched by the joys of a woman’s love, since Verochka came into my life I’ve turned my back on what I once had. But to go back to being an amusement for the female dacha owners— a provincial teacher of literature, a man with passions, go on, I could go for some of that! Why hasn’t someone else snapped him up?—no. That’s not a life I’m sad to leave behind.
Now. About Verochka. Verochka was so lovely that every single man—except the most common drunkard—would stop, turn his head, sometimes even follow her down the street. In her gestures, her movements—her hands, her head, her shoulders—there wasn’t the slightest trace of awkwardness or tension, never. She was in my class from when she was fourteen until she graduated—I only teach the older classes. “Why do we need negatives—at least explain to me why!” was the first thing I heard her say. “Wouldn’t it be so much simpler just to say: I unwant, I unlove?” I looked at her intently, and in that moment I felt a sense of foreboding: here was a classical tragic heroine. Or is what came afterwards interfering with my memory?
Verochka really wanted to be close to me. And yes, I loved her. Of course I loved her. But even so, it was I who cut her off when she tried to tell me how she felt: she was my student, and then there was our age difference, and besides, perhaps it wasn’t really me she wanted to get close to—perhaps it was just the literature, the poetry. “You’ve got this all from books, Verochka, and books are the cure for it too.” That was all I could say. But Verochka didn’t stop coming to my house for tea. It was all very simple: we were neighbors, we had our unstructured, provincial days.
Ksenia, her mother, was jealous of her, and she used to send Verochka’s father—Communist Zhidkov, as we called him—to parent evenings, though he no longer lived with them by that point. He used to be secretary of the District Party Committee—by our standards, a position of considerable standing. But then Ksenia dumped him, and he got sick, started drinking, turned himself a grayish color—ashen—and it became impossible to talk to him anymore. I imagine he must be dead now.
But Verochka—what essays she wrote on Dostoyevsky! Sometimes a bit far-fetched, perhaps, but they showed a great deal of talent. One of them I remember almost entirely by heart. It was about Porfiry, head of investigations in Crime and Punishment, he of the liquid glint in his eyes: it talked about the surprise we feel when “they” are revealed to be human; and about how Porfiry is the only character with no surname, yet it is he who saves Raskolnikov, he and Sonia save him—justice and mercy, two divine acts! Verochka’s essay on The Storm was also one of the most interesting I have ever read on Ostrovsky’s play: it was about Katya Kabanova in comparison to Anna Karenina. And about weak, inconsistent men.
Every teacher of literature dreams of his or her students becoming literary scholars, so I encouraged Verochka: go on, apply to study literature. I had Moscow in mind, but she chose Petersburg, and no matter how much I tried to dissuade her—boredom, granite, bitter cold à la Pushkin4—no matter how often I asked her to reread Tolstoy’s opinion of the city, she wouldn’t listen. She was the daughter of officials, an only child at that—she wasn’t used to being refused anything. I like to think that in days gone by it was the Verochkas of this world who became socialist revolutionaries, dissidents . . . whenever I spoke against Petersburg, she would simply laugh and recite Akhmatova: But we would not exchange, not for the world / this splendid granite city of glory and misfortune5. . . But for Verochka, as it turned out, Petersburg was a city of only misfortune.
Ksenia didn’t approve of Verochka studying literature—she wanted to make a lawyer out of her: good money, work at a big law firm, marriage to a foreigner. Happiness, along the trodden path. We know, we’ve heard. Naturally, Verochka never judged her mother; she simply said that Ksenia was “different.” Verochka didn’t go straight to university (she didn’t like to lose or fail at anything): she spent a whole year preparing for it. And of course, when it came to literature, that was with me.
I do not know, and do not wish to know, the details of her death. Student halls, flats, depraved Petersburg boys—cruel, witty boys—splitting up with someone, getting back together again. The Petersburg cultural underground: an evil crowd. Her letters soon became somehow not hers, not Verochka’s. She had moved to Petersburg for high culture, but instead she dropped out of university, and then it all began: helping the deprived, the downtrodden. She got it into her head that she would help the misfortunate discover the splendors of life: music, art, beauty. Those with nowhere left to go—how could she possibly have coped? Among them there are, apparently, different sorts, but their influence was clearly negative. I’ve heard there was violence, too. One of her so-called protégés. The versions vary: some said that it was pills she took, others—poison. But how could Verochka have gotten hold of poison?
I didn’t even go to her funeral. Pakhomova, our principal, made sure I wouldn’t be able to: she sent me into the city, for professional development. She probably pitied me, in her own way. Father Alexander didn’t want to perform the service, given the circumstances, but of course Ksenia got the better of him. Verochka’s death served no one. No one. And the crux of it all: life’s there to be lived, but I was too concerned about being good. I should have married her, and only then let her go to Petersburg—or anywhere else.
“Married her . . . as if,” sneers Ksenia, “you’d have had to grow a pair first, you weed. Ugh.” She stops reading for a moment, rubs her hand. There is a large mole on it, sprouted over with hair. With all her emotion, it is pulsating, itching. She pulls down her sleeve to cover it.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” asks Isaikin—tall, stooping: her current husband.
“Go on, open up, the customers are waiting,” Ksenia retorts.
He’s a poor man. The auto shop belongs to her too. “The right ti
res for the right people”—the slogan is the sum of Isaikin’s work. The right spark plugs, the right oil. She should send him packing, but their marriage, though a bad one, was made in the eyes of God. And what God has joined together. . . Yes, God owes her a lot. For her daughter. For everything.
Now to finish reading this scumbag.
As I’ve mentioned Ksenia, I ought to say something about power more generally. All the power in our town has been sucked up by small, unsightly people. They’re on edge, the lot of them, not because they’re ugly, but because it’s only through theft that they have come to wield such power. And yes, we have accepted them—but in this town, is there anyone we wouldn’t have accepted? First Communist Zhidkov, now Pasha Tsytsyn and his local self-government—each time all we’re thinking is: Maybe this one will actually do something about our roads? Pasha, Ksenia, and the judge have their fingers in every pie. Ksenia is their spiritual leader, their ayatollah, very devout. That fool Pasha was elected at some point, though it’s been a long time since we’ve had any elections here—now it’s the local deputies who appoint their leader. And then there’s the judge, Yegor Savvich Rukosuyev, quite simply the richest man in town. As his patronymic would suggest, he certainly is savvy: half the land around town is Rukosuyev land, I hardly need say more. But as it happens, I’ve heard the judge isn’t such a bad man. That’s more than can be said of Ksenia: rumor is she’s sacking her Tajik workers. It’s as though she gets a kick out of cruelty, like a teenager who tortures cats.
The school cleaner stole money from our jackets, and it was with great sadness that we let her go: she had been one of us, just like us, but she had changed—she was a thief. But if Pasha came creeping into my pockets, it honestly couldn’t make me think any worse of him: Pasha’s different, he’s one of them. Are elections really any better than theft, when they always end up in power? And that’s the way things are here, yet they still care what we’re thinking—whether it is about them or in general. Take our priest—he’s around five or so years my junior; we call him Alexander the Third because we had two Father Alexanders before him. Anyway, he was ordained according to the rules, and—besides it being impossible to make out a word he says—I imagine he performs his duty by the book. The point is, this Alexander hasn’t usurped anything—he’s nothing to fear. Or, take me, a teacher: I do my best to do everything by the book. I want to be respected, of course, but when I’m walking past a classroom, do I stop outside the door to listen to what’s being said about me? No. But had I gotten my job through theft, I certainly would. And that’s precisely what they’ll be doing—if they don’t already, that is.
Yet, in reality, what are the authorities to me? We have light, we have running water—it may be a bit erratic, but it still runs. It’s just this setup they have, it . . . No, enough, I only wrote that to distract myself, to stop myself from thinking about Verochka. What was I so afraid of then? Of committing some crime—some theft—by marrying her? Limp justifications. Our life here, of course, would have been impossible. If I look beyond my self-pity, I was afraid of love—that, and the pain I associate with it. Or worse: I was afraid of all the fuss. That’s if I disregard self-pity entirely.
Ksenia turns over the last page. “Go to hell!” she exclaims, then, “Oh Lord, forgive me. But you, you intellectuals, you took my daughter, you destroyed our country—that’s all that you achieved.”
Once there had been Socialism, and Ksenia had done her duty, believing and not believing, like everyone else. She had her country; she had her daughter. They had ideals, and things to respect and fear. Then Socialism was no more; the country fell apart; new standards emerged. She knew what had to be done: she had herself christened—her daughter too—and she helped to restore the old church. Ye shall know them by their business. And then? Her daughter died. No daughter, no nation. Some reward. It was beyond all comprehension.
The Heavenly Father owes her; yes, he owes her big-time. As for her, she’s aware of her debts. She has worked, and will continue to do so, never relying on any guarantees. She said that she would restore the church—and did just that. She has promised a new chapel—and a new chapel there will be. Whom has she promised, exactly? It hardly matters. She’s promised the town, everyone, herself. Ha, the ayatollah, that’s who she is, all right.
The plan for the chapel has been agreed on with Alexander the Third. The priest had initially shrugged the plan off: “No one comes to church as it is. We’d be better off buying a bell.” But she had gone back to see him again and again, until one day she was met by the scene of her priest parked in front of the TV, eating cabbage and watching a film: swearing, shouting, shooting. He tried to crack a joke: “Evil shall slay the wicked . . .” but she caught his guilty look. “Oh, Father,” she thought to herself, “is this what our Fridays have come to?” She then paid a visit to the archpriest and the bishop, both times bearing gifts. And now she has the priest right where she wants him. She clenches her fist. Her mole has started to itch again. Worries, all worries.
The priest is a mumbler. Can’t give a clear answer to a single question. My strength is made perfect in weakness . . . So what, does that mean he can relax, do something nice for himself? What sort of strength is to be found in weakness? Nothing could be easier than spouting empty words. People like him can’t be relied on for anything—nor can her neighbor, the teacher—no, it’s all on her, all on Ksenia.
“So,” she thinks, “we’ll put the chapel behind the house, right there.” Now she knows exactly where it needs to go, “We’ll move that neighbor of ours. He’s an outsider in this town. Poetry, prose . . . We’ll work out who’s been commissioning this prose he’s been writing, and then we’ll work out something of our own with them. Did Pakhomova read it all, I wonder? Yes, most likely. Damn, I have to be more careful. Reckon with every last one of these monsters. Pasha too, that little shrimp. A meter tall in hat and shoes, yet so conceited! Always talking about himself in the third person: ‘The head of the administration promises you . . .’ ”
It’s all on her, all on Ksenia: the town, the house, her businesses. She doesn’t have the strength for it all, but what else can she do? It’s her cross to bear.
•
The pelmennaya works like this: from May to September the dacha owners are in town—lots of them—so Ksenia opens the terrace; from October to April it’s a simpler clientele, just locals. They serve Central Asian dishes—shurpa, manti, plov—and there are vegetarian options too, for Lent. Now that Lent has started, it’s the Lenten menu being pushed. But the main dish is, of course, dumplings—pelmeni—straight from the wholesaler. When they’re almost past their sell-by date you can get them real cheap.
There are two permanent employees: a cashier and a cook, both elderly Russians, Isaikin’s relatives. For everything else there are Tajiks. They too have a sell-by date; good for one season only. Their probation period lasts three months. If there’s any cause for complaint: Get your things and off you go, auf Wiedersehen. During the probation period the Tajiks aren’t paid, although they do get food and lodging—once Ksenia even called an ambulance for one of them, after he had burnt his hand. More Tajiks are needed in summer, but in winter only one or two. And, as it happens, not all Tajiks are the same. One has stuck around.
Her name is Roxana Ibragimova, thirty-five years of age. Her voice is deep: “In Russian, my name is Roxana.” No one has heard her say anything more. Roxana. What sort of name is that? “Roxana, Oksana, Ksana . . .” Ksenia thinks to herself, “Well, how about that—we’re almost namesakes!” Roxana is tall, slim, and presents herself well; she’s not like the others—not at all. Long black hair. Very beautiful. “If you made more of an effort you could find yourself a husband,” Ksenia once told her. “After all, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” Ksenia had laughed, but then immediately stifled it, such was the look this Roxana had given her. For a moment her eyes had flashed with fire, then instantly cooled.
Ksenia had later come t
o understand just what this fire meant: one evening, a young man from the gas station—another Central Asian—was drinking beer out on the terrace. Roxana was serving him. He reached out to try to touch her, hey sweetie. She jerked away, but that fire had already ignited—and what a fire it was. She uttered something—fast, guttural, no more than a few sounds. The man slumped and left, his beer only half-drunk. Ksenia, standing by the door, had seen everything and decided on the spot: Roxana can stay, and she can get paid. And so Roxana has been here since August, living in the utility room behind the kitchen, where it’s warm. It’s a space of only about four square meters, but she has almost no belongings.
Ksenia hands Roxana some see-through plastic folders: the menus are all dirty, they need to be changed.
“These pages need replacing, can you handle it?”
Roxana looks up, her eyelashes flicker slightly. Silence.
Roxana does everything in silence. Back in August, a man had come looking for her. One of the Muscovites. Said that she’s been teaching his children Russian. Clearly couldn’t think of anything more convincing. Roxana had refused to speak to him, and quite right too.
As for the dirty menus, she’ll handle them; she always gets things done. She deserves a raise. Yes, Ksenia feels drawn to Roxana. It’s a shame she doesn’t speak.
“Happy Women’s Day, Roxanochka!” Ksenia exclaims.
Roxana shows no surprise, no acknowledgment, simply doesn’t respond at all.
•
The hospital—the council—the courthouse. All are close, within walking distance.
Zhidkov, Ksenia’s ex, is in the hospital. Has been for the past six months. His house has no heat, and there’s no one to check in on him. What other choice was there—a nursing home? It’s not like he’s got much time left . . . He can go back home in summer, if he lasts that long.
Zhidkov has been behaving strangely again: last night he got into the nurses’ station and phoned for an ambulance, “I’m in pain, I can’t breathe!” But the ER is in the same building, a few floors down.