And she snapped her fingers in her most dramatic manner. ‘Just like that. All the sadness, all regrets—let the wind blow them away.’
‘But it was wrong of me,’ I said: ‘On the terrace, earlier. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way in front of everyone—I should have agreed with you: you were right. I am like you—and you did shape me. You made me what I am. I carry you with me in my mind—wherever I go. And what you remember me saying on this path—I still think that: I still want you to be happy again.’
She turned. ‘My child,’ she said: ‘I know all that already. Such a declaration! You look as though you’re about to dissolve in tears. You mustn’t. Be strong. Ride emotion, don’t give in to it. Of course we’re close, of course we aren’t at war with each other. There’s nothing wrong between us—there never could be anything that’s wrong.’
She beckoned. ‘Come. And take my hand this time. What a duel we’ve just been having. We’ll go together now, we’ll walk up here—we’ll look out across the valley and laugh at all the trials life brings. The joys of adulthood. What awaits you.’
I was about to say more.
She put a finger to her lips. ‘No,’ she said: ‘Not a word. Don’t speak. Let me.’
And she resumed her story. This time, though, she was vivid and immediate, her words came flowing out; I could see the scene unfolding as she spoke: see her and Semyonov climbing up the gorge track, he leading, she close behind. Bright sunshine. Pure silence. No birds calling; no sound of man. They paused at the midpoint of their climb. Serghiana looked around. There was a rock face reaching high above them. At that moment a trembling spread through it. A noise came from the heights—it echoed round them—it gained strength: like thunder, far off—but there was no cloud in the sky. Semyonov looked up. She held his hand, and whispered to him. Danger, she was saying, danger—then it was upon them. A boulder crashed down from the cliff above them, rebounded on the rock wall, struck the path before their feet and shattered: another fell, and then another: the whole rock face shook—it made a grinding, cracking sound: more stones came down—behind them; in front of them. Then all was still again. Semyonov looked at her: he held her close. You see, he said to her: we’re safe—nature means us no harm. But she had felt the world’s weight raining down on her in those moments—she was shaking, her heart was pounding, she was full of fear. She knew what had happened. It was an omen: a sign. It was the future made plain. She said nothing to him. She smiled. They even laughed. They climbed on. Their time in the mountains was almost at an end. The next day they set off on their journey back.
Serghiana fell quiet.
‘A sign of what?’ I asked.
‘A sign that heaven’s empty. A proof: that there’s nothing you can do in this world to save yourself. Everything’s arbitrary—the end’s always the same. All we can do is sit and wait. I had no fear left in me after that: the rockfall showed me everything, it used up all my fear of life. I understood then. All must go. Youth, beauty, love—all this around us—everything. The world’s strength is aimed at one goal—to unmake us, step by cunning step, to rain down blows upon us—to destroy.’
‘Go on,’ I said: ‘Go on with the story.’
But at that moment a sound came floating up from far beneath us, from beside the riverbank—a voice: calling, shouting Serghiana’s name. It drew nearer—it was Lipsett, hurrying, panting up the footpath.
‘Why must this fool pursue me so constantly?’ she said.
‘He thinks he’s close to you,’ I whispered back.
‘The sublime needs the ridiculous: that’s how it is—he’s saved us from the past—for now.’
He came up; he overhauled us; he stood there, breathing heavily. ‘Miss Exner sent me,’ he said: ‘In pursuit. She insisted that I find you and bring you back. I told her I wouldn’t fail—and here I am. She’s still waiting for you.’
‘Indeed—and why’s that, Corey?’
‘Don’t you remember? You said last night you’d take her back to Tarasp castle; you said you’d go through with her again.’
‘Did I?’
‘You did: I was there.’
‘She takes everything so literally: just like you, Corey—the American disease.’
‘And then you could go on with her to the party, she said—talk on the drive.’
‘What a thought!’
‘But you’re staying with her, aren’t you—in their chalet?’
‘Even the idea of it—no, impossible!’
We retraced our steps together. Lipsett spent the rest of the day with me in the hotel, and told me his latest batch of stories. The late light streaming through the windows softened; the reception was bathed in a gentle dark.
‘I’ll get ready,’ he said: ‘We’ll go together.’
‘I don’t think I’m invited.’
‘Nonsense. You heard her yesterday—everyone is. Think who you are. After all, you know me—you’re my friend.’
A figure in uniform from the concierge’s desk came up to us. ‘For you,’ he said, and handed me a note. I opened it. Lipsett watched.
‘Who’s it from?’ he asked.
It was in Serghiana’s hand, scrawled on a sheet of hotel notepaper, jumping from Russian to western lettering in her usual style.
‘Get rid of Corey,’ it read: ‘Don’t go to M.L.’s evening. Meet me on the hotel terrace at seven—be prompt.’
‘What’s it say?’ said Lipsett.
‘Nothing much.’
‘Come on, kiddo—tell me.’
‘It’s from Serghiana,’ I said.
‘Of course it is—who else could it be from—but about what?’
‘It’s about a little problem that’s come up,’ I said, and heard the hint of hesitation in my voice.
‘You really are all grown up now, aren’t you?’ said Lipsett: ‘And taking after her and her kind.’
He looked at me for a moment, and left me there. The sun sank beneath the mountains. I went out to the terrace and waited. The air turned colder. Seven came and went. I paced up and down between the fountain and the alley of alpine trees. Half an hour more went by: no sign of Serghiana. No one. I was going through the double-entrance doorway back to the reception when I came face to face with her.
‘I told you to wait for me in the terrace garden,’ she said, and took my arm, and began to steer me back outside.
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to take you to the special lookout Semyonov and I had: a view over all the valley: our secret—our discovery. I wanted to live again in vanished time a moment—too late now.’
‘Because you’re late,’ I said: ‘Very, in fact.’
‘That’s true—but it’s not for you to say so. You were never impolite or inconsiderate before. Another gift from American modernity.’
‘Anything wrong?’
‘Just thoughts. Come—we’ll find a corner table in the dining room: no one will disturb us there—we’ll sit and talk. Here: suitable surroundings, don’t you think?’
A vast, high-ceilinged room: a gallery of sorts: Corinthian columns, chandeliers, mirrored walls, tall windows: a sea of tables, all set with white tablecloths, all empty: paintings in the lunettes atop the columns, stucco figures; a stuffed stag’s head set above the entrance door.
‘What a place!’ I said.
‘Once for the crowned heads of Europe—now for nostalgia seekers and the lost. Where was I in my story?’
‘You were on the path up the gorge: and you’d used up all your fear of life.’
‘I should have saved some. That was the last time we saw the mountains—we left from Zürich station; we travelled back by train: through the Germanies, through Poland, then home. His apartment. Within days it was clear to Semyonov: trouble lay ahead. He delivered his report and findings. He was called in: they interrogated him—they went on deep into the night: polite questioning, detailed: who, where, when. I told myself all this was normal—we were privileged; trusted to travel; there were
always questions on return from the West: it had to be that way—it was that way for everyone. I was still convinced we were untouchable: we’d already come through all our darkness: he’d be safe.’
‘Because of you—or your father’s name?’
‘Because of him—because of who he was. He was a hero of the Soviet Union; a god of science; he had his own institute. His work was vital—he had protectors at the highest level of the party. And he was a believer—a true believer, in his way.’
‘In the revolution?’
‘Absolutely—it was a cause—he’d fought for it. Don’t give that ironic look.’
‘You too?’
‘I don’t know. In those days, perhaps, still, yes—I believed in him.’
A waiter came by.
‘A Kir—two, in fact—the drink of exiles,’ said Serghiana in an offhand way, not looking up.
She continued. Their return; its consequences; the mood among Semyonov’s staff; the rumours circulating, the fears, the upheavals in the academies of science.
‘I don’t want to tell you every detail: how he was taken from me; how I let him go. It was all done by subterfuge: if I told you everything it would wring your heart.’
‘But shouldn’t you?’ I said: ‘Shouldn’t I know properly? The real story—not a soft version, not a children’s sketch.’
‘Is that what you want?’ said Serghiana: ‘Am I turning into a case study for you? A piece of history? A tragic heroine? I’m not that.’
‘Aren’t we talking about the things that made you what you are?’
‘The things I want you to be free of.’
‘But free by knowing?’
‘Maybe so,’ she said then: ‘Maybe that’s the only way.’
‘Then what?’
‘They laid a perfect trap for him. Or for me, through him. I couldn’t see it. I was blind to everything.’
‘You were young.’
‘I had experience. I’d lived through a war! I knew the party and the system. Once, I was near its heart. But I’d failed to learn the simplest lesson of them all: that the people you think nothing of in life are much more dangerous than those with power in their hands.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the ones without power are the takers: they have resentment on their side: resentment, the strongest force of all. If Loewy told you about my husband, he surely told you about his ideas as well: the pretext for his destruction.’
‘He said hardly anything: minerals in asteroids: I don’t think I understood.’
‘You understood perfectly. That was Semyonov’s theory: it explained what he’d found: it was current in those days—it had support. It brought him fresh prominence—before we went away—but then the landscape shifted, as it always does.’
‘In science?’
‘In politics. We’d been back three weeks, no longer: not long at all—all the time we had. How easy it became suddenly to make an attack on him—to pull him down. There was a power struggle underway: it spread everywhere. That was the autumn of the Doctors’ Plot—the start of it. We heard the reports: Semyonov knew one of the first arrested: they were close—true friends. The purge began. Semyonov felt it would be prudent to be away: be out of sight—as if that could help. He wanted to send me to the Caucasus: he brought forward his trip to the dam site on the Angara: to Chukotka as well—the end of the earth—do you have it in your mind? It’s where the Arctic and the Pacific meet: the region where he’d made those sample finds. He sent a letter to the presidium: he read it to me. He was proud of its precise phrasing. I listened to it in silence: I felt my bones go cold. Off it went—and another, to the ministry in Moscow. An official proposal. Can you imagine? How they must have laughed, the ones who wanted to destroy him. He made himself the architect of their plan: He asked them for permission—to enter Dalstroi! To go to Magadan. They didn’t even need to drag him through the Lubyanka. His colleagues tried to warn him: I pleaded with him. He paid no attention: his mind was made up. He set out on that journey of his own free will.’
‘And suspected nothing?’ I asked her—but at that point the maître d’hôtel came up to our table and made a formal bow.
‘Madame Semyonova,’ he said.
Serghiana looked up at him with curiosity, and inclined her head.
‘Permit me,’ he went on, ‘to welcome you here again.’
‘You know me? You remember me?’
‘I remember your visit years ago—how could I not? You made an impression, you and your husband.’
‘In what way?’
‘You were a striking couple—and you went everywhere hand in hand. We had very few guests in those days coming from the Soviet Union: you may have been the first. Every morning, at breakfast, your husband asked me for directions—for the walks you took; and he was always kind to the hotel waiters—he treated all of us as friends.’
‘He was kind to everyone he met,’ said Serghiana.
‘And this is your son?’
‘Of course,’ said Serghiana, in a low voice.
‘And may I bring you anything?’
‘Whatever you think best. Being here again is feast enough.’
She smiled a little. The waiter retreated. She touched a finger to one eye, and then the other.
‘If it was me on the verge of tears,’ I said, ‘you’d tell me not to be so weak and sentimental.’
‘It’s not you—and I’m not shedding tears for myself—it’s you they’re for, my poor child—you.’
‘Why?’
‘You have to ask? There’s no need for me to lament my fate: it’s always before me. I know it well. It was decided in those days: clear September days in Moscow. Semyonov left: he was excited to be going. We said goodbye at the Yaroslavsky station. You don’t know it—it’s a dreary place to leave one’s heart. I went back to Tverskaya, to his apartment. I waited there. I expected the knock on the door. Nothing. Days went by. I tried to read: the words on the page were without meaning for me. When darkness fell I walked up and down the boulevard ring with all the night-time poets and the thieves, and gazed up at the dark windows of the buildings, and imagined all the raids and arrests they’d seen. I tried to picture my husband: where was he; had he been detained already: was he in Irkutsk, and safe: would they snatch him up from the Angara site instead, and tell everyone there he was a wrecker or a saboteur? Another week—then a letter came: it was in his hand—a perfect copy. It lacked our private signal; I knew he hadn’t written it.’
‘It was forged?’
She nodded.
‘But why?’
‘Why not? Who knows—the joy of the deception. I called at the institute. They had no news of him; they were terrified. Where to turn next? What to do? I couldn’t bear the silence all around me. The next morning I went to the Leninka.’
‘Where?’
‘The state library: the best place in all the Soviet Union to be alone in a crowd. I took my place in the reading room for Russian literature. I used to go there often: it’s quiet, and warm. The self dissolves—one can daydream, and feel anonymous and safe. Midway through the morning a man came up and sat in the seat next to mine. He had a thin, anguished face. “Permit me to join you for a moment, Serghiana Ismailovna,” he said in a soft voice, almost a whisper. “Do I know you, comrade?” I asked. “We haven’t met, but you know me well. You could say I’m an archetype.” “In that case,” I said, “I’ve been expecting you for some time. Where is he? Where have you taken him? What have you done with him?” The man looked at me steadily. “Engineer Semyonov? There’s no need for you to feel concern. Your husband’s undertaking his patriotic tasks. We protect him: he’s about to set off on his expedition: he’s perfectly well. And how are your studies at the film school progressing—may I enquire?” “I broke them off when we left for abroad—as I’m sure you know.” “We feel you should resume them.” “We?” “Please,” he said: “Engineer Semyonov and you were away for several months: and on that journey, as you
know well, he made foreign contacts—a number of them. So it may be some time before he’s able to return to Moscow. I think you understand. And we also feel you should keep your views to yourself.” With that, carefully, almost noiselessly, he pushed back his seat and slid away. And that was all. I looked down at the book open on the desk before me: it was The Torrents of Spring—a romance—a tale from the times of innocence. You spoke of lives changing: that was the day my life changed—forever.’
The maître d’hôtel had reappeared as she was telling me this story. He stood to one side of our table, a look of distress on his face.
‘We’re speaking of Semyonov,’ said Serghiana to him: ‘The man you remember. Sit here with us, if you’d like to. Listen in. There’s no one else here—no need for you to stay in character.’
He hesitated, glanced around the dining room, then rested his hands on the back of the chair between us and leaned slightly forward, like a flanking angel in a painting from the Renaissance.
‘No,’ said Serghiana then: ‘Sit down with us at the table. Be one with us.’
He did so.
‘And then what?’ I prompted.
‘What always happens in these affairs. The little variations only underline the story’s shape. Weeks passed. No news. I went back to the school of cinematography: no one there spoke a word to me about Semyonov. My friends were less friendly. My world quickly lost the contours that it used to have. I visited his closest colleagues—they turned me away. There was talk of moving the institute beyond the Urals—in the end they simply shut it down. I knew the name of Semyonov’s great protector on the presidium: I tried to make an appointment to see him: I went to his office: that door was closed to me as well.
‘And so, stage by stage, my hopes dwindled. I went back to the way I was living before I knew Semyonov: it felt as if my time with him had been a dream. I moved into a dormitory block. My studies ended. I began to work. I was in a pure limbo. I was under suspicion; I still had privileges. I was a red general’s daughter, married to a man whose name had disappeared: a member of the special class and one of its victims at the same time. A year went by. Routine remade me. I was working on ethnographic film projects. I liked them; I became proficient. Stalin was gone by then—there was no more Doctors’ Plot. People began to breathe more easily.
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