Solovyov and Larionov

by Eugene Vodolazkin

  touched Solovyov’s ear. ‘For full harmony.’

  Despite the bright sun, it was refreshing on the embank-

  ment. A strong wind was blowing off the sea. Splashes rose over the concrete ledge by the water and settled somewhere far away, on the second tier of the embankment. A small,

  neat rainbow accompanied their flight. The splashes evap-

  orated with improbable speed after shining one final time

  under the pedestrians’ feet.

  Zoya took off her sandals, picked them up, and began

  walking barefoot. Based on her glowing face, Solovyov knew she expected the same of him. Hiding his inner unwillingness, he took off his sandals and carried them in his hands, too. The asphalt turned out to be incredibly hot, so walking on it was almost torture. The squeamish Solovyov experienced no less suffering from the assumption that he was

  most likely walking over someone else’s gobs of spit, dried though they might be. He understood Zoya’s line of

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  thinking, though. This was an essential shot for a romantic movie. Except that shoeless walks in the movies usually

  included rain. Nobody burned the soles of their feet in those situations, and besides, everything generally looked more

  hygienic.

  It was hot for Zoya, too. She bounded all the way to the

  steps leading to the lower embankment, then turned.

  Everything was different on the lower embankment. The

  water had not had a chance to flow back into the sea and

  it quivered on the concrete in huge warm puddles. The surf sloshed over, splashing them from time to time, but that

  was pleasant.

  Near the pier, they went back to the upper level; this was a remnant of the former embankment. The one Chekhov

  knew, with two-story brick houses, curlicue railings on little balconies, and palms in huge pots. From afar, a cupola of

  the St. John Chrysostom Church shone golden, rising over

  Yalta’s greenery. Zoya’s hand directed Solovyov into a gap between buildings and they found themselves by a chairlift.

  Seats for two swung around with a metallic growl, returning from somewhere up high. They approached the platform

  with jerky, paralytic motions and received passengers

  without stopping. After letting Zoya go first, Solovyov

  managed to sit at the last moment. He plopped down hard

  on the seat, and the whole structure began to rock. Of

  course Zoya noticed his agitation, but she didn’t acknowl-

  edge it.

  The surface slowly slid out from under their feet. The

  wooden platform ended, and next came bushes and a tree

  with a rubber sandal on top. Roofs and yards. Flying over

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  out laundry, playing dominos, and punishing children. They were repairing a car, a tiny Zaporozhets that stood on

  wooden trestles. Carefully, finger by finger, wiping their hands with rags, walking off to the side, and pensively

  looking at the car. Life was showing itself in all its diversity.

  Solovyov took Zoya’s hand and experienced a persistent

  sense of déjà vu. At one time he had loved recognizing the past in the present. He saw that almost as a historian’s

  destiny. Later, influenced by Prof. Nikolsky, he rid himself of that unidirectional view of things after learning to recognize the present in the past, too. ‘Contrary to popular

  notions,’ wrote Prof. Nikolsky, ‘time is a two-way street. It is also possible that there is no traffic at all. One should not think tha . . .’ Solovyov looked again at the roofs below.

  Chagall, well, of course. His painting reflected them.

  As they floated over what was formerly Autskaya Street,

  Zoya swung her feet (this, it belatedly struck Solovyov, was how sandals ended up in trees). There was something childlike in the smoothness of the skin on her legs. But they

  were adult, purely feminine, and arousing at the same time.

  Trolleybus rods slid along wires right under their seat. The trolleybus roof proved to be unexpectedly large and peeling.

  Not resembling something intended to be streamlined. Some

  things are not usually seen from above.

  Solovyov felt some inner nervousness when he jumped

  down, but he did not lose face. A view of a strange structure with columns unfolded at the spot where they touched

  down. It might have been considered a cult building if not for its particular resort-area monumentalism, something

  that is an integral part of southern Soviet cities. It is possible this was a Soviet cult: Solovyov imagined himself and his

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  traveling companion as Komsomol members. Elder

  comrades were bringing two young creatures to mysterious

  communist spirits in sacrifice. Against the backdrop of the sea. The hair of those in attendance flopped dramatically

  in the wind. Solovyov wanted to have Zoya amid these

  columns, but made no signal. It was enough for him to

  acknowledge that she would have agreed, without a second

  thought.

  The peak where they now found themselves was no

  longer truly Yalta. Solovyov walked along a path in the

  woods, lagging a little behind Zoya. He liked watching her.

  Zoya knew this and made no attempt to slow her pace. He

  repeated to himself for the hundredth time that this lithe young woman was his, and for the hundredth time this gave

  him a feeling of delight.

  The forest grew thicker, but they were not alone there.

  Branches cracked here and there, multicolored T-shirts

  flashed, and people called out to one another. Not being

  alone gave Solovyov particular pleasure, too. Those accom-

  panying them (they had gathered from throughout the

  area, purposely) saw Zoya’s litheness. Perhaps they sensed her spiritedness. But only he (only he!) truly knew her

  liana-like qualities that drove one insane. Even the first sensations he had experienced with Leeza (Solovyov

  compared everything that happened afterwards with those

  sensations) now seemed adolescent and silly to him. It felt awkward to even recall Leeza now. Awkward not because

  of Leeza (her chances were minimal by comparison with

  Zoya) but because of himself, who had drawn her into

  such an unfavorable comparison. He tried to push Leeza

  out of his consciousness, as one might gently push away

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  a grandmother who had wandered into a party raging in

  the living room. A minute later, he truly had forgotten

  about her.

  They crossed a paved road during their walk downhill.

  They walked past small yards overgrown with grape vines.

  These yards were even smaller than the one where Solovyov

  was housed. They were enclosed by headboards, steam heat

  radiators, prams, and even the doors of a microbus—a

  Playboy bunny blushed saucily on one of those doors.

  Judging from the inscription below it, the car had some

  connection to St. Pauli, Hamburg’s entertainment quarter.

  Solovyov thought about how objects’ fates are sometimes

  more interesting than
humans’. What had that bunny seen

  in its previous life? A light Hamburg rain? Street musicians, asphalt glistening with lights from strip bars, pushy barkers, prostitutes in uniform orange overalls (that arouses), paupers with dogs, and English sailors waddling along the whole

  breadth of the street? Who had the bunny driven around

  St. Pauli? That, in essence, was not important. The bunny’s innocence had been returned to it here, in the quarter where the door now resided. Children were playing in a sandbox.

  It was just a bunny to the new family. Nobody was interested in its past.

  The enclosure, which was entwined with vines, acquired

  an artistic unity. And the aesthetic of a poor but honest

  seaside existence that gratefully accepted everything, saved everything, and did not permit itself to squander headboards. Solovyov peered into one of the little yards. He saw a family lunching under an awning. A woman dishing boiled

  potatoes onto plates. A man with a lucid face who had

  already dispensed the 150 grams of vodka he was ready to

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  swallow. A child on a tricycle. A southern bird unknown to Solovyov that was swinging on a cypress branch and singing, non-stop.

  Zoya stood at a distance and waited patiently. Her friend

  was absorbed by the same romanticism that had become

  the essence of her everyday life, even as a child, something for which she had another word: poverty. Zoya was thinking she knew a seamy side of that romanticism but Solovyov

  did not. That was not the case. Solovyov pictured life in

  these small worlds very well. He himself had grown up in

  one of them. He was not seeking unfamiliar sensations. He

  saw in those small yards a reflection of his childhood.

  They came home (to Solovyov’s) toward evening. At

  Zoya’s insistence, they stopped at the market on the way

  back and bought some meat and vegetables. Now Zoya was

  sautéing meat. Solovyov inhaled its aroma and thought

  about how long it had been since he had eaten home-cooked

  food. Pressing against Zoya from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder, he watched as neat pieces of pork browned all over, sizzling and spattering grease. Zoya had intended to fix something else after cutting vegetables for salad, but Solovyov took the tireless young woman in his arms and

  carried her into the other room. The young man feared he

  would not survive yet another of her merits.

  They washed down the meat with wine diluted with cold

  mineral water. It tasted delicious. The wine had ceased being nectar and its thick crimson color turned a bright pink, but the wine’s flavor now felt more refined. Then Zoya made

  coffee. She said that they needed to be in excellent form

  tonight.

  ‘Why?’ asked Solovyov.

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  ‘Because today we’re going to search for the end of the

  general’s memoirs. I know where it might be.’

  Solovyov looked closely at Zoya. She knew. A wasp flew

  in the window and flew right back out after uncertainly

  circling over the table. Solovyov did not break the extended silence and did not ask where they were going. That would

  only have consolidated the strange hegemony that Zoya had

  begun to establish over him. Let her say it herself if she wanted.

  Zoya washed the dishes and then began getting ready.

  She opened the bag she had brought over the day before;

  something inside clanged like it meant business.

  ‘Here, you carry this.’

  Performing the search in the evening did not trouble her

  in any obvious way. Though (Solovyov cast a glance at the

  mysterious bag) what time could be considered ‘natural’ for this sort of search?

  They left the house at around eight. They took a trol-

  leybus to the bus station then transferred to a small shuttle van. It scrambled up a winding mountain road with a roar

  that was unexpected for a small vehicle, then ended up on

  a highway running parallel to the sea. An evening coolness was already apparent here. One of the passengers slammed

  shut a roof hatch. The only open window was next to

  Solovyov but he had no intention of closing it. He stuck his elbow out, enjoying the cooling Crimean breeze.

  The vehicle stopped at settlements and guest houses. The

  passengers lowered their heads exaggeratedly as they got

  out so as not to hit them on the door frame. Nobody

  boarded. When the vehicle stopped in the forest, there was nobody left but Zoya and Solovyov.

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  ‘Alupka Park,’ said the driver. ‘Last stop.’ As he watched the couple make their way along the little road and stretch their numbed legs, he added, ‘Last van’s at 10:30.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Zoya said, turning. ‘We’ll be leaving on the

  other side.’

  The vehicle turned around right there, on the park’s tree-

  lined alley. A minute later its engine fell silent behind the trees. In the engine’s slow, dying sound there rang something of farewell and additionally, perhaps, something alarming.

  What Solovyov was experiencing was not fear in the usual

  sense. It was the uneasy feeling of one who turns out to

  have bought a one-way ticket. To a huge, drowsy park. With an eccentric traveling companion. With a heavy bag holding unknown contents.

  ‘Count Vorontsov’s Hungarian lover lived with him.’

  A pause. Solovyov was already starting to get used to

  Zoya’s habit of omitting all manner of prefatory discussion.

  Zoya thought it was up to her conversation partner to

  connect the links of the chain that led her to make some

  statement or other. More accurately put, she did not think about this. She had not even contemplated it.

  ‘Vorontsov was old and she acquired yet another lover.

  A young cornet . . . This Lebanese cedar.’ Zoya walked over to a sprawling tree and stroked its unembraceable trunk.

  ‘Everything here was planted at Vorontsov’s order.’

  The Lebanese cedar tree’s bark consisted of what looked

  like large tiles that had just recently been glued on. Ants that were just as large ran along them. A squirrel sat about two meters from Zoya’s hand. Its reddish-brown coat

  blended with the tree trunk, making the squirrel almost

  undetectable. Its arched tail quivered now and then. The

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  squirrel did not run away, staying in place by force of will.

  ‘One time Vorontsov caught them in bed together,’ said

  Zoya, now addressing only the squirrel. ‘When the cornet

  ran out of the bedroom, covered in a sheet . . .’

  Zoya ripped her hand from the tree trunk and the squirrel

  jumped right off, onto the grass. It sat there for an instant, as if deliberating on what it had heard. Solovyov beckoned to it, motioning with his fingers.

  ‘Have you noticed that squirrels are twitchy?’

  He drew a little closer but the animal hid behind the

  nearest cedar, following the cornet’s example.

  ‘The Hungarian woman thought Vorontsov would shoot

  her right then,’ said Zoya, her gaze taking on a rigidity
. ‘She knew his temperament. But he rang the bell and told the

  servant, “Wash madam and change the linens.”’

  Zoya walked right up to Solovyov and hissed into his lips,

  ‘She de-tes-ted him from that day on.’

  Zoya stood so close that it was impossible not to kiss her.

  It was a long, exhausting kiss, filled with gratitude for the information about Vorontsov.

  Walking past a pond with swans, they ended up at Big

  Chaos, a majestic heap of stones brought here at Vorontsov’s order. Zoya began jumping from boulder to boulder,

  climbing higher and higher. Solovyov reluctantly followed

  her. He painstakingly assessed each jump but his foot slipped several times. Stubborn, he did not ask Zoya about today’s plans. Her silence and this ridiculous moving around on the rocks was beginning to irritate him. Zoya stopped when

  the gently sloping ascent ended. Continuing to climb up

  would have been insanity. It even seemed so to Zoya.

  They sat down on one of the rocks. The sun had disap-

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  peared behind the trees long ago but the rock was warm,

  almost hot. There was not a soul around. Sitting on the

  rock in such a strange place, set against the thickening dusk, Solovyov felt like he had gone astray. Having a girlfriend had not made things easier. More likely the opposite.

  It was almost dark when they began climbing down.

  Zoya took a flashlight from the bag she had handed to

  Solovyov and directed its light at the closest boulders.

  Solovyov, whose eyes had already begun to grow accus-

  tomed to the dark, finally lost his orientation. The flashlight distorted the form of the rocks. The angle of the light

  made barely noticeable indentations seem to be huge

  hollows, but Zoya’s beam completely ignored real crevices

  between the rocks. Fantastical shadow play intensified all that: Zoya waved the flashlight from time to time as she

  showed Solovyov the way. Solovyov held on to the bag,

  which was swinging on his shoulder; he did not much

  believe they could descend safely. He was completely wet

  when they finally made it down.

  The flashlight proved far more useful below. It revealed

  trees that had sprouted up suddenly (they had not been