Rock, Paper, Scissors

by Maxim Osipov

•

  The rest I recall piecemeal. Fedyunin races across the back row and slips into the foyer. “The rat,” Valentina Genrikhovna pronounces distinctly. Gubaryev sits on the floor, not far from the door, his bald head drooping. The fight has gone out of him: hiding his face, knees crouched up, trembling. He’s tucked the revolver under his legs. Someone has draped a jacket over Gubaryev’s shoulders and placed a glass of water beside him. People approach, but not too closely, talk quietly—when will they take him away, already? Due to the fact that Gubaryev has developed a limp, some speculate that Slavochka had managed to wound him. Not true. Slavochka had shot into the air, shattered the projector. Gubaryev had tripped over the weight holding down one of the scenery flats; we’d all stubbed our toes against those weights over the years. Nothing to cry over. He’d walk it off.

  I go to tell Lyubochka what happened. She waves me away, turns around. The tears come only in the evening. Fortunately, I manage to keep her upstairs.

  •

  “Fourteen meters, eighty centimeters.” I help Irina Vadimovna measure the distance between the flats.

  Irina Vadimovna, a lieutenant of the Investigative Committee, is anywhere between thirty and fifty years of age. Judging by her appearance, she’s closer to fifty; but in her manner of speech, she seems much younger. She asks: “Why not go plug each other out in the street?” And supplies her own answer: “’Course, in this weather you’ll freeze your balls off before you can say, ‘Shoot!’ ”

  Yes, Eternity isn’t Pyatigorsk, where poor Lermontov met his end, but it isn’t a question of weather. Fedyunin, historical reenactments. I never saw that man again. He had come to the wake, expounded on an officer’s honor, the code duello: it’s against the rules, of course, to duel with a single revolver, taking turns, but then again, the men had shared more than just a gun. And the shot into the air was the second mortal insult that Gubaryev had been made to suffer. Prokopyevich took Fedyunin aside, told him something, and after that the fellow disappeared for good.

  “You’re kidding me.” Irina Vadimovna is shocked when we tell her where the idea for the duel had come from. “An officer’s honor, in the twenty-first century. That’s a laugh.”

  •

  Gubaryev and Slavochka were taken away towards evening. I barely remember the next few days—time suddenly sped up. Lyuba couldn’t talk at all. I would bring her food, which she sometimes ate and sometimes left untouched. Prokopyevich ordered us to post an announcement: “The theater is moving to a new facility and all performances are canceled.” We had always respected Prokopyevich, but only now did we give him his full due. He went up to Severogorsk, made the official rounds, and on the ninth day returned with Slavochka’s ashes. We take the urn up to Lyuba’s room together and place it on the windowsill. Lyuba cries for some time; we stand beside her. And we agree to make arrangements for Slavochka’s burial when the weather turns warmer. His relatives might turn up by then; we’d sent a telegram to his hometown.

  Prokopyevich says something to the effect that we ourselves don’t know where we’ll be when the weather turns warmer: strange, he usually avoids platitudes. We invite Lyuba to come down to the canteen, for a wake. No, she doesn’t want to be seen in her present condition. In that case I too will probably come down later. I follow Prokopyevich into the corridor. He nods at the door: “Actress. Thinking about appearances. She’ll be fine.”

  God willing, Gennady Prokopyevich. I want to thank him for what he’s done. He stops me.

  “I’ll be taking off. You’re in charge now.”

  But what do we do? What can we stage without Slavochka and the others? The old repertoire—Who the Hell Knows, the thing about the crocodile? Everything seems to take on a new, inappropriate meaning.

  “Alexander Ivanovich, relax, will you? The real question is what can I do with all those fish . . . Never mind, just a joke. I mean, you know the news.”

  I nod. I really did think I knew the news.

  •

  “Telling the truth is easy and pleasant, so let’s be frank.” Irina Vadimovna had managed to get statements from many others before she met with me.

  She takes measurements, writes them down; I help by holding down the tape measure. It’s interesting to watch Irina Vadimovna move, putting pressure on the whole foot with each step, involuntarily raising her arms: very different from how actresses walk onstage. Just an observation. It’s hard for me to be here, even though the set is gone and everything’s been cleaned up. You know, I say to Irina Vadimovna, you’ve been on your feet all day. Let’s go get some supper.

  We feed her. There was a lot left over after the wake.

  “How about a drink? After talking to your Schwalbe, my head feels like a lead balloon. First she tries to sell me a bill of goods, claims her two boyfriends were rehearsing something. Oh, sure, with live ammunition. An occupational injury, right? And if that’s true, where’s the second heater? Doesn’t add up. Then she tells me it’s all her doing. So I ask, Ms. Schwalbe, did you knock off Vorobyev? Are you prepared to take the blame?”

  Poor Lyuba. She must really feel that way. She has to tell the whole story.

  “We don’t need the whole story. Have a talk with her. The fact that Gubaryev used to kiss each one of her fingers hasn’t the slightest bearing on the investigation.”

  Other women never accorded much respect to Lyubochka. We ask what awaits Gubaryev.

  “Murder without aggravating circumstances: six to fifteen years. What did you think, he’d be exiled to the Caucasus, like some dueling aristocrat? Now, if the victim had also shot at him, he might have gotten less than the minimum. Does he have small children? Don’t worry—men like your Gubaryev get on pretty well in prison: he’s famous, they’ve seen him on TV. Let’s just hope he doesn’t get too used to the criminal life—he’s a fine shot. And you’ll see, when the press gets wind of it, they’ll make a hero out of him. All right, I’ve wasted enough time blabbing with you. Time to get back to the station.”

  I hand Irina Vadimovna her coat and lead her to the exit, where there’s a large portrait of Slavochka. We pause.

  “A shame.” She sighs. “But at least he managed to live a little. My son’s twenty-five. What’s he doing with his life? Nothing. Dodging the service. Spends all day in front of the PlayStation. Never had a girlfriend. Hard to say which one’s better off, am I right?”

  •

  I come back to the canteen, sit down. It’s all too much for me. Valentina Genrikhovna sits down beside me: “Alexander Ivanovich, I’m leaving.” She laughs: “I’m going abroad.” She has a brother in Mariupol. “Well, it is another country, isn’t it?”

  Yes, of course, we have to go on living, don’t we? I suddenly sense just how tired I am. But I still have to check on Lyubochka.

  “What about you, Alexander Ivanovich? Have you thought of anything?”

  In what respect? I feel I can’t go on talking. My head is spinning.

  “The town is being evicted.” She clasps her hands: “You mean you didn’t know? People are packing up their things, sending them off—the post office is a madhouse! Haven’t you noticed the crowds at the station?”

  I find it hard to think today. Is it possible to evict a whole town? I suppose it is, if Valentina Genrikhovna says so. Why would she want to lie to me? I never received any instructions. I’ll think it through tomorrow—now I’d better lie down.

  “Alexander Ivanovich, do you ever get the feeling that we’ve lived someone else’s life? That this whole theater isn’t our true story?”

  I don’t know. What would I have done instead? Taught literature? Everything happens for a reason. I rise, ask her forgiveness. I must have reeled.

  “Oh dear, let me give you a hand,” she offers. “I’ll take you to your room.”

  No need, no need. I can manage.

  “You’re a good man, Alexander Ivanovich. The best I’ve ever had the fortune to meet.”

  That was Valentina Genrikhovna’s goodbye. And I cou
ldn’t even thank her, didn’t even ask for her new address.

  •

  Everyone has been sent home. Only Lyubochka and I are left. How do we keep ourselves busy? We don’t, really. We’ve tried cards, chess. In the evenings we sit in the canteen, laugh about this and that. We make no plans, don’t talk about the past, and sleep both night and day. No, we aren’t busy. Just wasting electricity.

  In earlier years, I used to like it when the actors went on vacation. I’d manage to do so much: read books and magazines, discover new plays, receive guests from out of town—we’d have visits from folk ensembles, amateur competitions. And now it’s as if we ourselves have gone on tour. For how long?

  •

  Forty days since Slavochka’s death. We sit together for a while, drink a little wine, then go down to the auditorium for some reason.

  “Alexander Ivanovich, it looks like it’s over. We won’t be coming back here. Time to pack things up.”

  Hold on, Lyubochka, what if it gets sorted out somehow? We shouldn’t have come here. She allows me to lead her out, but I notice the look of pity in her eyes.

  I lie in the dark and think. One shot! What if the gun had misfired? What if Gubaryev hadn’t hurt himself on the weight? Maybe he would have spared Slavochka and also fired into the air. And he wouldn’t be behind bars now. The “duel” would have been hushed up and we’d have put on Oedipus in the evening. And then, who knows, we might have taken it on the road. It had shaped up into a fine staging.

  Nonsense, I tell myself—historical reenactment. It’s impossible, downright insulting to think that things happen by chance, that human life is determined by a series of trifles. Slavochka couldn’t help but fall for Lyuba, Gubaryev couldn’t help but shoot to kill, and it wasn’t by chance that I’d suggested Oedipus to Prokopyevich: it wasn’t just because he had mentioned Greece.

  And so I fall asleep, thinking these thoughts, and in the morning I receive the notice: By decree of this or that, Eternity is to be liquidated. Optimization, resource management, development of new lands—the letters dance before my eyes. I try to arrange them into some meaningful order, and hear a voice, clear as day:

  What expiation means he? What’s amiss?

  Banishment, or the shedding blood for blood.

  This stain of blood makes shipwreck of our state.19

  Slavochka’s voice. Unmistakable.

  AFTER ETERNITY

  Music played on the platform, then we moved off. I remember the flakes of snow in the beam of a searchlight, and a communal sigh when the town suddenly sank back into the darkness. “Mother asks you not to chop down the cherry orchard until she’s gone,” recited Hairspring. “They’ve switched off the transformer substation,” someone who knew such things responded. There were tears, of course. I went to fetch some boiling water for tea and bumped into Anna Arkadyevna. She was standing in the vestibule, in almost total darkness, and didn’t see me. Around her shoulders was her favorite wrap, which she called, for some reason, “a wrap with a reputation.” She was standing there, smoking and singing some quiet song, punctuated by sobs.

  In those days people were being sent off to Severogorsk by the trainload—no other way to do it. They were put up in hotels, hostels, even in schools and institutes. The first available apartments went to those with children; more would be built for the rest of us, just as soon as possible. According to rumors, some people had to be dragged to the train by force. What’s the alternative? You can’t abandon people without light, water, heat. By the time they caught on to the plot, it would be too late. I myself only tumbled to the truth quite late in the day. Eternity is no more, gone. How? Just gone.

  The theater people were evacuated at the last moment. We were given two carriages, with compartments—another stroke of luck. I sit opposite Lyuba, moving backwards. We’re alone in the compartment, with our things—mainly Lyuba’s—in the overhead racks.

  “Alexander Ivanovich, you have a wonderful gift for avoiding clutter,” Valentina Genrikhovna used to say.

  I prefer, I would tell her, to work only with props that fit neatly into my suitcase. There it is, in the overhead rack—metal corners, wooden ribs—still in great shape. I remember how easy it was, all those years ago, to race up the stairs with that suitcase in my hand . . . And now I’ve managed to drag it to the station, hoist it up into the rack.

  The train is moving slowly. Snow and gloom outside the window. Yes, the chain of events has linked up. It began with greed, the exploitation of the classics, then—forbidden passion, and then a crime. The heroes have been punished with death and penal servitude, while we, the extras and the chorus, have been sent into exile. Can anyone of sound mind insist that life lacks a plot?

  I rise, glance at the luggage. The urn—where’s the urn? Lyubochka’s eyes, which are already unusually large, open wide in horror: she forgot it on the windowsill! It would be indecent to blame her; she herself is in despair. We rationalize: now no one will disturb Slavochka’s peace. He lived a good life in his room, didn’t he?

  I sit back down and close my eyes. Another event to be inserted in the chain. It couldn’t have been by chance that we left Slavochka’s remains in the theater . . .

  “Alexander Ivanovich!” Lyuba pauses for a long time. “I think I’m pregnant.” Another pause. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  What does I think mean? I’m afraid to ask. That would be good, wouldn’t it?

  “You think it would?”

  •

  The train stops, not for the first time: a blizzard, the rails are covered with snow. I pace along the corridor, thinking. The conductor comes up to me: “What’s the matter, Grandpa, can’t sleep?”

  I rather like it: Grandpa. I return to the compartment, look at Lyubochka, cover her with a blanket. This time we stop for an especially long time, waiting for the snow-clearing equipment. From then on, it’s stop-and-go. We arrive towards morning.

  Severogorsk: tall houses, apartment blocks, a huge administrative building, pipes sending up smoke. A proper city: a sports arena, a detention facility—where, incidentally, Gubaryev, Lyubochka’s lawful husband, is still being held. “Well, time to go, then?” The actors pull their bags down from the racks, take them out of their compartment. Now we’ll probably be issued our new addresses and head for our new homes. We’ll pay each other visits, reminisce. “It would be nice if they put us all in the same neighborhood.” “Are the apartments furnished? Modern appliances?” “Where have you ever seen such an apartment?” I don’t participate in these conversations, nor does anyone really try to involve me in them any longer. “Take it easy”—is that what Gennady Prokopyevich advised? Everything happens quickly in the theater. Retired, Grandpa.

  My thoughts are elsewhere. I didn’t shut my eyes for a second all night—spent it looking at Lyuba as she slept, adjusting her blanket. What will she name the baby: Maybe Sasha? It’s a good name, universal. I’ll teach it a tongue twister: “Shy Sasha sashays in her sashes.” Or mother’s, about Ararat.

  The new arrivals are asked to gather in the station building. Lyubochka takes a long time getting ready—she’s very slow these days. By the time we enter the building, there’s so much noise you can’t make anything out: some are threatening to call the police, others the press, and yet others to sort things out their own way. The woman official begs everyone to quiet down, to put themselves in her position.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you are being called on to act humanely!” Anna Arkadyevna’s tragic laughter first gives way to a coughing fit, then to sobbing.

  The news is this: we are to stay on the train—they have nowhere else to put us. “Consider this an agitprop train, as in the war. Agitprop brigades didn’t leave their trains for years.” But the war’s over, isn’t it? An evasive answer: “For some.”

  From my point of view, and I’m even afraid to admit it—this isn’t so terrible: the carriage is warm, well lit, there’s plenty of room. We’ll be attached to the station dining room,
given coupons for three meals a day. There’s a working shower in the hall for passengers with children, and you can at least use it at night. Don’t cry, Lyubochka, please. In the little carriage in which I began my life, there was no such comfort in sight. Did you hear that? If the power is cut off, they’ll issue us coal briquettes. Coal briquettes! We couldn’t even have dreamed of that back then. And the first-aid post at the station is open around the clock.

  Lyubochka’s forehead breaks out in red blotches—no time to waste. I make my way through the crowd and, without considering the volume of my voice, tell everyone that Lyuba is expecting. For some reason, this provokes laughter. Actors are like children—they can be cruel.

  The woman in uniform shrugs: “I’m sorry, I can’t birth her an apartment.”

  A solution will soon be found: Lyuba will be sent to the hospital, to save the pregnancy. She’ll lie there a while, calm down, undergo analysis, no hurry. I escort her back to the car. She gives me her forehead to kiss, smiles in parting.

  •

  It turns out I was right: life in a modern train carriage isn’t that bad. Quiet, warm, plenty of food. At first the constant stream of announcements was a distraction: train so-and-so, coming in from so-and-so. But you soon get used to it, stop noticing. The station is in the center of town, everything is near at hand: shops, laundry, even a swimming pool. For those who hadn’t left Eternity in years, there is much that is new to explore. Some make the rounds of all the government offices, make scenes, seek compensation for lost property; others look for work, call acquaintances. I find myself doing less and less, but reading more and more—aimlessly, disinterestedly—and even memorizing poems again. I’ll walk over to the station, have breakfast, exchange a few words with familiar faces, find out the news, and then back to the bunk, to read.

  Of course, there are fewer and fewer familiar faces. Hairspring vanished straightaway: word was that she went off to Petersburg, to the white-toothed director. They had developed a liking for each other when she was rehearsing Laura with him. Anna Arkadyevna was invited to work at a children’s theater in Syktyvkar.