just by his brothers in arms: it often became a topic for
discussion, too. Needless to say, these discussions carried the highest degree of confidentiality and were told only in the discussants’ memoirs (the general was not the sort of
person to permit himself to be discussed so unceremoni-
ously), but they existed, which means there was a reason
the conversations came about.
For many who had the opportunity to observe the general
in 1920, Larionov made the impression of someone who
was pensive and even slightly aloof. That impression was
all the more unexpected since nothing of the sort had been noticed about him during his previous campaigns. To the
contrary: he embodied action and decisiveness. In fact, those were the very qualities that had made him a general.
In fairness, it should be pointed out that not everyone
noticed, to an equal degree, the change that took place with the general in 1920. Numerous memoirists thus seem to
rely on later impressions and when they underscore the
general’s aloofness, they are obviously exaggerating the
degree of his condition in 1920. Some agree, a bit uncer-
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that the facts could not be denied in 1920, either, in light of the general’s later mentality. By reconciling various testi-mony, as Vladimir Blagoi does in his article ‘Pensiveness: His Special Friend,’ all that can be established with veracity is that General Larionov had revealed a certain contemplativeness by 1920. This quality developed as the years passed, eventually leading to the general’s utter engrossment with the sea.
What ended General Larionov’s activity became the
beginning of historian Solovyov’s activity. A contemplative relationship with the sea did not permit the latter to master one single maritime profession. He was afraid that if his
relationship with the sea was too close, that could lead to disappointment and force him to fall out of love with the
watery element. Standing up to his chest in water, the young researcher experienced doubts (in view of his unstable position, this could also be called wavering) as to whether he and the object of his love were engaged in relations that
were too intimate.
Apart from this wavering, which was completely new to
him, the Petersburg graduate student asked himself yet
again about the correctness of his chosen research topic;
though in some sense the topic had been chosen for him.
He had asked Prof. Nikolsky this same question at one time, when Nikolsky first proposed he work on land-based topics.
‘No matter what a person studies, above all he is studying himself,’ the professor said enigmatically. ‘Keep in mind, young man, that accidental topics do not exist.’
The words left the professor’s lips in a shell of cigarette smoke. The words’ very tangible appearance, coupled with
his teacher’s wisdom, played their role because Solovyov
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decided not to insist on a nautical topic and threw all his passion into researching continental events. After the suggestion to conduct his graduate work on the fate of General
Larionov, Solovyov went to see Prof. Nikolsky again and
asked him the old question about the choice of topic. The
old man no longer smoked because his doctor had forbidden
it. Otherwise, though, his answer was the same as several
years before.
Was Solovyov studying himself by studying General
Larionov’s fate? This was yet another difficult question the historian posed to himself. Sensing that he was beginning to freeze in the water, he knew he lacked the time to resolve the question now. Beyond that, the bather’s motionless standing in the water had already attracted the attention of the few people remaining on the beach. Solovyov decided to leave the question open; he began slowly moving toward shore.
The researcher’s body had taken on a cyanotic tinge and
was covered with goosebumps because he had stayed in the
water so long. His awkward inhibitedness before bathing
had given way to something altogether mechanical that had
no relation to walking. Not one of Solovyov’s joints would bend, and only by force of will did the young man move
his body in the direction of his towel. Solovyov felt much better after drying off. Neither the sea nor the air were cold that evening. Motionlessness (it occurred to Solovyov) is
very unhealthy for a person.
The sun was no longer on the beach. Yalta’s beaches are
surrounded by mountains from the west, so the sun disap-
pears fairly early. It sets beyond the mountain ranges, but for a long time its diffused light still streams over the quieting sea, the stalls for changing clothes, and seagulls pecking at 580VV_txt.indd 68
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watermelon rinds. The city beach after six in the evening is a peculiar beach. Its colors are dim, shot through with the yellowness of a vanishing sun, just as it shoots through
black-and-white photographs of beaches in bygone years.
Maybe, Solovyov asked himself, the Yalta beach in evening
is actually a remnant of what the young Larionov saw? Or
perhaps this was the beach the juvenile Larionov saw, only now, years later, through the depths, as it were, of decades?
Solovyov had forgotten to bring dry underwear with him
so he had to put on his shorts right over his wet swimsuit.
He was, after all, a person without the slightest bit of beach experience. After Solovyov sat down to buckle his sandals, the contour of his swimsuit developed on the back of his
shorts, as if on wrinkled photographic paper. He, however, was unable to see that. He picked up his rucksack and
pensively headed in the direction of the embankment.
As he walked along the waterline, Solovyov looked up
and slowed his pace in surprise. Someone was sitting at the very end of the jetty in a chair that closely resembled the one he had seen in the photograph. That someone was a
lady. And though the distance did not allow Solovyov to
make out all the details, it was obvious that the lady was getting on in years. She was sitting motionless, like Larionov, with her legs crossed, and the breeze was lightly stirring the hem of her long dress. This woman undeniably knew
the value of effective poses.
Solovyov was initially moved to approach the woman,
but he did not make that move. He could not imagine what
he could ask her or how to begin speaking with her. He
did not even have a notion of how one should approach
ladies like her. Should one immediately kiss her hand or
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was it enough to bow slightly? It was entirely possible that this case called for a smart clicking of the heels along with a simple tilt of the head. Solovyov might have decided to
draw nearer to the unknown woman but when he wiped
his sweaty hands on his shorts, he discovered that they, for their part, were wet, too. By now, the trace of the swimsuit had also managed to make its mark distinctly in the front.
His clothing, frivolous in the first place and now dampened besides, excluded any possibility of introducing himself to her. After wavering for an instant, Solovyov dashed home
to change his clothes.
The stairs were so surprised as he flew up that they
managed not to produce a sound, whereas the key, slipping
along the plate nailed around the keyhole, produced an
inconceivable scrape. After managing to unlock the door,
Solovyov flung his rucksack into the corner, tossed off his shorts and swimsuit, and left the house a second later
wearing white, completely dry, pants.
He had hurried in vain. Even from the embankment, it
was obvious that the jetty was deserted. Continuing to walk by force of inertia, Solovyov was puzzled that an older lady in such a long dress could have slipped away in such a short time. And with a chair, too. Now he was not even certain
he had seen her. Solovyov stopped. Today was August 2,
the day on which General Larionov had died. The date had
arisen just as suddenly as the unknown woman on the jetty.
Had she truly been sitting there? In a certain sense, it would have been simpler for Solovyov to regard her appearance
as an optical illusion. At least that would have been less upsetting. Considering the date of the incident, Solovyov
preferred in the end to give it a metaphysical explanation.
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He resolved to consider what he had seen to be the gener-
al’s spirit visiting the jetty.
Solovyov decided to stroll along the famous Yalta embank-
ment before returning home. Twilight was falling and the
first lights were burning on the embankment. These were
old-fashioned streetlamps, in the spirit of the thirties through the fifties, with domed globes sprouting from sprawling
cast-iron branches. Though not an admirer of the fanciful
Soviet Empire style, Solovyov nevertheless had an interest in it, almost a fondness for it. Buildings in that style, which simultaneously resembled nothing but were reminiscent of
everything on Earth, had outlived their empire. From time
to time, guesthouses, camps for Young Pioneers, and centers for artists gazed out of the coastline’s greenery, looking like elders who had lost their way. These were the last structures initiated into the secrets of labor union leisure, and they alone remembered steelmakers’ placid benders, procedure
nurses’ hale and hearty voices, and party activists’ laborious orgasms. The full complement of people who had filled
those walls had departed for nonexistence, just as everyone who had made their way into the aging General Larionov’s
peripheral vision—policemen wearing white shirts secured
with belts, medal-wearers in defiantly wide pants, sellers of hot spiced honey drinks, Pioneer-camp counselors, hip
dressers, and ex-cons—had departed from the Yalta embank-
ment, heading in the same direction.
When he looked at objects characteristic of the epoch,
Solovyov often yearned for times he had not seen; this
surprised even him. He did not aspire to live in those times and he did not consider them either gentle or even interesting, but still he felt a yearning. There was not, however, 580VV_txt.indd 71
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any reason for this feeling to surprise the young man; this was a yearning over something other, a burning desire to make it his own, because that something other was now forever deprived of those who had known it at one time as
their own. Unaware of this, Solovyov experienced the
paternal feeling of the historian who has adopted another
time.
As he walked along the embankment, Solovyov observed
its reflection in the meek sea. Neon signs, amusement rides, and streetlamps quivered in the evening’s ripples, and were occasionally severed by boats, with the penetrating sounds of karaoke in the background. Awaiting him under fabric
awnings were vendors of ice cream, popcorn, and glowing
bracelets. Photographers with apathetic monkeys on leashes waved to him from beneath palm trees. Waitresses in black
skirts and see-through snow-white blouses greeted him at
every restaurant. Solovyov certainly liked the south but he was a reserved young man. He did not visit one single
restaurant or purchase one single glowing bracelet.
Solovyov stopped at the Central Grocery and bought a
stick of cured sausage. After some thought, he also bought bread, cheese, butter, olives, and two bottles of beer. Instead of walking home along the embankment, he took a quiet
parallel street: Chekhov Street. Past the Lutheran church.
Past an unusual building in the Mauritanian style. Past an adult store covered over in red paper. Being an adult,
Solovyov wavered by the store but quickly pulled himself
together and walked on by. Visiting that sort of establishment was a pursuit he considered unworthy of a historian.
Back at home, Solovyov first washed his hands. After the
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flowed from the tap with a pressure surprising for the south, as if it were the Uchan-su Waterfall, which was unknown
to Solovyov, though while on the embankment he had
received several invitations for excursions to see it. After drying his hands with a holey but clean towel, he got down to eating.
Solovyov’s dip in the sea and walk had given him a healthy appetite. He ate up one little sandwich after another,
washing them down with unrefrigerated local beer. The
radio he’d switched on was broadcasting local advertise-
ments. It hung on the wall like a black formless box and
offered ( rototillers for sale, reasonable prices) large non-resort objects rather like itself. It spoke in an aging female voice with a barely detectable southern Russian accent. The radio in Solovyov’s house at the Kilometer 715 station had spoken in roughly the same voice. Only occasionally (when leading morning exercises and reading the national news) did it shift to shameless Moscow tones. It even looked roughly the
same: ebony and clumsy; sometimes speaking, sometimes
singing. The main thing was that it was never silent.
Solovyov began the next morning with a visit to Yalta’s
Executive Committee. He set off for No. 1 Soviet Square
with his graduate student identification. A calm, plump
woman with a large bust met him at the Cultural Department.
She sat in front of Solovyov, positioning her bust on her
arms and her arms on the table. The firmness of her posi-
tion, apparently reflecting the positions culture had
conquered in Yalta, was pacifying. Solovyov forgot all his prepared phrases and stated the aim of his visit in an informal manner. The plump woman did not interrupt. After some
thought, he told the story about his studies of the general 580VV_txt.indd 73
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and—surprising himself—even about graduate student
Kalyuzhny, whose dreamy inaction had cleared the way to
these studies for Solovyov.
The woman in charge of culture in Yalta knew how to
listen. She took in all Solovyov’s stories, remaining both kindly and impassive. A restrained smile never left her face.
When her guest’s eloquence finally ran dry, she responded
with a full speech that, as became clear right away, had
arrived too late.
From her explanations, it followed that Nina Fedorovna
Akinfeeva—the
woman who helped Larionov in the last years
of his life—came to Yalta once a year, for the anniversary of the general’s death. Nina Fedorovna came to the jetty (the functionary released one of her gelatinous arms and pointed toward the window) and sat there for a few hours in honor
of the general. She then disappeared for points unknown and returned to Yalta again the next year.
‘Yesterday was the day the general died,’ said the woman.
Her breasts hung for a short moment, then froze in place
again on her arm, as if in compensation for Akinfeeva’s
traveling nature. Solovyov was upset. He told his conversation partner that he had been a few dozen meters from
Nina Fedorovna (how simple were the names of secrets!)
but had not risked approaching her with wet splotches on
his shorts and so had run off to change his clothes and then
. . . The young man punched his knee in annoyance and
apologized right then and there. The punch and the apology were both accepted with identical degrees of good will.
After allowing the Petersburger to vent his emotions
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of residence, Nina Fedorovna Akinfeeva had not refused
housing space (26.2 square meters) in Yalta but had regis-
tered her daughter there: Zoya Ivanovna Akinfeeva, born
in 1976, unmarried, and a correspondence student at the
Simferopol Pedagogical Institute.
‘Ivanovna is an invented patronymic,’ smiled the plump
woman. ‘Nobody has seen that Ivan.’
Judging from the girl’s dark complexion, it might just
happen that he was not an Ivan at all. Making up for her
own long silence, the senior employee gave an account of
the Akinfeev family’s history.
In the early 1970s, a new resident, Nina F. Akinfeeva,
moved into the communal apartment where General
Larionov lived (how can that be? he lived in a communal
apartment?!) Authorization for the room was issued from
the city’s housing stock and allotted through the Anton
Chekhov Museum, where Akinfeeva, who needed housing,
Solovyov and Larionov Page 8