Fish- a History of One Migration

by Peter Aleshkovsky

“Two days ago. He asked about you, by the way.”

  “When are they discharging him?”

  “Ask Skull, he’s the one who keeps him there. We’re just waiting.”

  And she walked away to her apartment, clicking her heels, red-headed bitch. She did visit Anton regularly, two or three times a week. Valentin Yegorovich went once a week, so the boy didn’t feel completely abandoned in his imprisonment. He wanted to prepare for his freedom and made a lot of effort.

  Mark Grigoriyevich now came to see his Natalia for three or four days twice a month. This broke his touring schedule, and he quarreled with both his impresario and his wife. When he saw me ironing men’s shirts one day, he asked who they belonged to. I gave him a straight answer; I had nothing to be ashamed of. This had an unexpected effect: Mark Grigoriyevich began to pester me with stories about his Natalia. The girl insisted they get married, but Mark Grigoriyevich could not leave his wife. The wife was ill.

  “And she’s been with me for twenty-seven years, she can’t come back to Russia and I don’t have a right to just leave her there in Italy, to fend for herself. Vera, what should I do?”

  “Break up with Natalia.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  He would jump up, dash around the kitchen, then throw himself back onto the chair and remain there in mournful silence. I didn’t share much about my relationship with Valentin Yegorovich, and nipped in the bud his attempts to find out more. We focused on suffering through the Natalia situation. Natalia suffered in Moscow, his wife suffered in Milan, and Mark Grigoriyevich suffered in both places.

  Finally, the ticking bomb exploded: Natalia gave him an ultimatum. Mark Grigoriyevich found the will to refuse it.

  He came home sick as a dog, fell onto the bed without taking his clothes off, and cried until late at night, when I finally convinced him to undress, take a bath, and go to sleep. I sat by him the entire evening—he asked me not to leave him. He lay, face in the pillow, hiding his tears; now and then he would calm down a little, and then he’d start sobbing again. He was mourning the life he would never have again.

  In the morning, on his way back to Italy, he squeezed my shoulder warmly and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Vera, Vera…”

  Then he turned and left, and did not come back to Moscow until the end of the summer.

  I told Valentin Yegorovich about his tragedy, and the man’s answer stunned me:

  “What a hysterical wimp! So he cried a little and then forgot all about it. He avoided taking responsibility.”

  He said it angrily, sharply, not looking straight at me. I did not know what he meant by “taking responsibility” and became scared: I took the sentiment personally. At night, I was filled with doubts, and he wasn’t there to dispel them. I slept poorly.

  . 13 .

  I have had many chances to observe that our judgments of other people are very superficial. We snatch up one trait, convince ourselves that it’s the center of another’s being, and rest in conviction that we’ve got the person figured out. The speed of modern interactions does not leave us room to consider a person deeply; first impressions suffice, and perhaps it’s to the best, or else we’d all drive each other crazy. When you love someone, you forgive them their shortcomings and overlook anything that you don’t need. The scary part starts when you begin to second-guess yourself.

  One morning, having tidied up Valentin Yegorovich’s apartment, I set out for the store and the pharmacy. The door to the concierge’s tiny room was ajar, and I poked my head in to say hello to Polina Petrovna. I found the old lady lying on her daybed, staring at the wall.

  “Polina Petrovna, are you not feeling well?”

  “Vera, is that you?”

  Her little eyes slowly found mine. Her lips, pressed into a thread-thin line, forced out the words, “Oksana died.”

  Oksana was her prostitute daughter. I entered and sat at the edge of the daybed. Not looking at me, she started to talk, as if to herself.

  “Where do I go now? I should go home. But here I’m with people, and who needs me there? Dad always said, ‘Watch, remember, report.’ So I watched. There’s no one to report to, but I know it all, the whole building, everyone. I don’t even want to, and I watch anyway, I watch and remember, just in case. Dad served at Kanalstroy[6] out around Dmitrov. I was born in a camp, in North Labor Station, in the guards’ shed. Later, they gave Dad a cottage when he got his major’s star... Grandpa swept the yard for a Duchess, and Dad made his way to an NKVD major—that was as good as an army colonel. Now I have this apartment all to myself, exactly when I don’t need it. Time to go.”

  “You have a grandson. Why don’t you let him live with you if you don’t want to leave?”

  “He’s got a place, his wife is rich. Two whole rooms. It’s time I went—I don’t have any strength, I barely walk. You think I’d trust you to keep the stairs clean if I could manage myself? I checked on you first—you wash well, you respect work. Take my place here, I’ll leave in peace—I’ll have left the building in good hands.”

  “Thank you, Polina Petrovna, but I’m not cut out for this kind of work.”

  “You want more money? Or you think Kolchin will marry you? Trust me: it’s better alone, without passions. I know it from experience. I told Oksana as much, but she didn’t listen to me, and was burned up by her passions.”

  “What do you know about Valentin Yegorovich? Tell me!”

  “No, Vera, I don’t sell information. I have my honor, and I know my place, I’m just too worn out. It’s the end. And you don’t have to believe me. One person sees one thing, another—another, and I just observe. You go on where you were going, I’ll make up my mind. I’ve always made my decisions alone, ever since they put Dad up to the wall. Only he was no Enemy of the People. He was the people.”

  She didn’t need me. Even with nothing to lose, she did not take off her mask, only allowed me to glimpse her real face. She has been frozen still with loneliness, and no desire for human warmth burned in her. I left. The old woman’s words turned in my mind. She knew something about Valentin Yegorovich that she did not think I needed to know. She knew, but she didn’t tell: empty gossip was one thing, and important information was quite another.

  I felt sorry for her that day, but my pity was probably wasted: the hag recovered from her grief, buried her wayward daughter and went nowhere. She creaked and moaned, but she did her job. She rented out the apartment so it wouldn’t just sit there vacant. Eventually, I did learnt what it was that she hinted at, but I still have no idea how she could have found out.

  . 14 .

  August nineteenth. I fixed this day in my memory. I spent a lot of time on Grandma, so I called him later than usual, close to noon. Valentin Yegorovich didn’t answer, and I presumed he had left for the day. Grandma finally fell asleep—we had a very busy night. I rushed upstairs thinking I’d give his place a quick tidying-up. As always, I opened the door with my key. I heard loud music coming from his room. Valentin Yegorovich liked British rock—“in honor of my youth,” he said. Did this mean he was at home? I dashed to his room—for some reason the idea of him having a heart attack lodged in my mind, although he had no complaints about his heart. I threw the door open. They were in bed—he and Yulka—and at first they didn’t even notice me. The speakers blared full blast, and I knew it must have been at Yulka’s request. She didn’t go as far as the bathroom without her ear-phones.

  The rush of air from the opened door reached them, or perhaps he felt my presence with his back, and he turned sharply towards me. After him, Yulka saw me too. Valentin Yegorovich rolled away, bounced to his feet like a rubber ball, and stepped towards me. He was naked, angry, and foreign; he stood there silently, glaring at me. I looked away. My heart sank and a wave of old, stagnant terror flooded my body. He reminded me of Gennady in Kharabali: the same insanity and merciless will were in his eyes. Another pair of eyes, Yulka’s, carefully took in the battle scene. But there was no battle.

 
; Valentin Yegorovich suddenly slumped his shoulders and noisily exhaled the air he had drawn in to blow me wrathfully away, like the Northern Wind on his favorite map.

  “You shouldn’t have come, Vera.”

  His eyes bored into me. I froze up and couldn’t make a move.

  “You wouldn’t understand. Go.”

  He said it sharply and bitterly. His words hit my face as if he’d slapped me. I looked away. Yulka stared at me indifferently, and her pupils were tiny as pinheads. She had told me she liked to be high when she fucked. This final realization was the last straw.

  Valentin Yegorovich stood his ground, not moving, but banishing me forever with his eyes. I turned and left.

  It took me a long time to recover. I thought about myself and about what he did. Should I blame myself, like I did with Gennady? I realized that they must have been doing this for a while. Did both Yulka and his son live on his support? Or was Yulka manipulating him, the rich daddy? There was no job at any marketing agency, and there could never be. There were drugs that had mangled their humanity and replaced it with lies and indifference. He must have thought he was just helping out, at first. Must have? Did he decide to help me, too? Or did he get sucked in, as if into a bog? Was he now sinking, deeper and deeper, so proud and self-sufficient? He who was hard as the earth’s immutable core?

  A month later, I called him. He answered:

  “How’s life, Verunchik?”

  “And you?”

  “Anton got discharged and blew the gasket right away. He’d been lying all this time. He bided his time, in anticipation—and he finally got it.”

  “Do you want me to stop by?”

  “I’m sorry, I gotta go.”

  That was his way of apologizing. He had no need for me, the cursed fish. No one needed me, except my Grandma. Did she, really? Maybe I had imagined it all, maybe I had deluded myself, and in fact I don’t feel anything special, and I don’t know anything? I fell onto my knees in front of her bed, pressed my forehead into Grandma’s linked hands. It was as if a rock hit a rock. No sparks flew up. She didn’t feel a thing.

  Valentin Yegorovich spoke of responsibility. What did he mean? His pity for me? It can’t be true! And yet he felt compelled to apologize. He was leaving, sinking to the bottom, to the murk and the silence. I did not think I could survive this loss.

  And yet I did. When I could no longer feel my feet and back, when I began to think I would never be anything but an object bent like a scythe, my warmed-up forehead sensed the life-saving call of my Grandma’s inert hands. The signals persisted, grew stronger, and pricked at me like sharp sloe thorns. They pricked just as they did when we were children, and Ninka and I fought our way through orchards to that half-dead horse, an old nag covered in flies.

  I raised my head from her hands, stood up, went to the bathroom and got under a hot shower. I felt myself warm under the tight jets; the water ran down my hair and face, mixed with hot tears and flowed away through the drain’s black hole. Valentin Yegorovich told me of the ancient goddess Aphrodite who emerged a virgin from each fresh ablution in the sea. I understood now the meaning of that old tale.

  The half-dead Grandma Lisichanskaya, mute and paralyzed, gave me more warmth than the scalding water of the shower. I stood under the spout and I didn’t feel the heat: the fire was once again inside me.

  . 15 .

  Petrovna filled me in: Anton and his junkie-buddy attacked a taxi driver one night. They tried to strangle him, but they picked the wrong victim. The man was strong, got away from them, and then beat them up in return. He handed them to the police, himself.

  Valentin Yegorovich paid people off. They did an expert assessment on Anton, deemed him mentally incompetent, and locked him in the loony bin for an indeterminate time.

  “He goes to see him, visits. I asked him, and he said the boy is getting better.”

  I listened and prayed she wouldn’t let anything else slip, but Petrovna had iron discipline, and said no more. Valentin Yegorovich continued to live alone. I saw him a couple times, through my window. He climbed into his car, still trim and strong. I wondered if he could feel my eyes on his back.

  I doubt it.

  Grandma Lisichanskaya passed in her sleep on November 12. It happened in the middle of the night; I was asleep and couldn’t help her. I didn’t grieve for my dear Pavlik or fro my Mom as much as I cried after her passing. Tears poured from my eyes, and I had no will or desire to hold them back.

  A day later, Mark Grigoriyevich arrived. He hugged me, this dear, lost soul, and did not let go for a long time.

  After the wake, he said, “Pack up, Vera, you’ll come to Italy with me. My friends are looking for a nanny for an eight-year-old girl. The Dad is Italian, and the Mom is Russian. The girl is starting to forget the language.”

  I told him that first I had to go to Volochok to see my granddaughter Dasha. She was born two months earlier, and I hadn’t yet had a chance to see her. Svetka and Valerka asked me to baby sit. Viktor Bzhania offered to look for another patient: Moscow had a huge demand for live-in nurses.

  For the last time, I slept in my bed on Begovaya. Mark Grigoriyevich slept in the other room. The Grandma’s nieces would inherit the apartment.

  I didn’t close my eyes that night.

  It was after the break-up with Valentin Yegorovich that I began to reminisce: about Panjakent, Dushanbe, the journey to Kharabali, Volochok, Gennady, my Pavlik’s death, Leyda and Yuku. As long as I did, at my sleeping Grandma’s bedside, time stood still. I lived in the past, and relived it all, over and over, as if I had swallowed a mouthful of kuknar from Nasrulló’s cup again. My self left my body and stood to the side, filled with pain and joy more intensely than in real life. Yet I lost neither will nor reason, and in that was my salvation, in the power of life itself. “Learn only to rejoice!” my Yuku used to say.

  That last night on Begovaya street I reminisced again, and perhaps I did doze off after all, because I saw them all—everyone I had loved and forgiven. We stood together on the fortress hill in Panjakent, the sun was rising, and horses and donkeys grazed around us.

  Father-God, help them and do with me what you will. Amen of the Holy Spirit!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Peter Aleshkovsky was born in 1957 and graduated some two decades later from Moscow State University. He worked for several years as an archaeologist in Central Asia and as a historical preservationist in the Russian North before turning full-time to literature in the mid-1990s.

  He attained literary success with his collection of stories Stargorod, followed by his novels Seagull, Skunk: A Life (translated into English by Glas), Vladimir Chigrintsev and, most recently, The Institute of Dreams.

  Aleshkovsky’s style is decidedly in the realistic tradition, but that does not stop him from investigating the mystical and miraculous in everyday life. His works are richly descriptive and evocative of the uniquely Russian worldview, while at the same time tapping into universal human emotions and experiences. He has three times been short-listed for the Russian Booker Prize, most recently for his novel Fish.

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  Born and raised in the western Ukrainian city of L’viv, translator Nina Shevchuk-Murray holds degrees in English linguistics and Creative Writing. She translates both poetry and prose from the Russian and Ukrainian languages. Her translations and original poetry have been published in a number of literary magazines, including Chtenia: Readings from Russia. With Ladette Randolph, she co-edited the anthology of Nebraska non-fiction, The Big Empty (University of Nebraska Press, 2007).

  NOTES

  part one

  1. The full version reads: “The house makes noise, but the owners are mute. Thieves came and stole the owners, and the house left through the windows.” It is a word game, a riddle. The answer: fishing with a net. [return to text]

  2. A famous girl-hero of World War II. A partizan caught by the Germans, she refused to give up any information, famously yelling just before h
er hanging, “There are two hundred million of us! You can’t hang us all!” [return to text]

  3. plov (pilaf) – a traditional Central Asian dish, made with lamb meat and fat, carrots, onions, spices and rice. [return to text]

  4. A Russian ball and stick game, similar to rounders. [return to text]

  5. A game that is something like a cross between dodgeball and “Red Light Green Light.” [return to text]

  6. Shahristan is a district in Daykundi Province, Afghanistan. [return to text]

  7. “Aunt” is both a term of kin and a term of address to an older person, like “Mrs.” Or “Mr.” [return to text]

  8. The car described here is likely to be GAZ-AA, a 1.5 ton truck manufactured from 1932 to 1936 on the basis of the Ford AA model. [return to text]

  9. arýk – a (usually) small irrigation canal in Central Asia. [return to text]

  10. The Russian word Vera uses refers to epididymides and seems based on the persistent superstition that sitting on a cold surface can lead to sterility. [return to text]

  11. A female donkey. A male is referred to as a “jack.” [return to text]

  12. This city is now called Qurghonteppa. [return to text]

  13. shashlýk – a traditional Central Asian dish of skewered meat grilled over an open fire, usually made with lamb. [return to text]

  14. Chust – a city in the Namagan province of Uzbekistan, famous for its crafts, especially highly tempered, sharp, but brittle knives. [return to text]

  15. A technical college (abbreviated PTU) admits students who have completed 9 grades of secondary education. The PTU curriculum completes requirements for high-school graduation and extends another year or two for vocational schooling. [return to text]

  16. dehkani , pl., from the Persian dehg, land owner – the Central Asian term for independent small farmers. [return to text]