Solovyov and Larionov
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in his life made him shudder—was the main proof. On top
of everything else (Solovyov remembered this in the final
moment and felt drops of sweat on his brow) Leeza’s patro-
nymic was Filippovna. This final proof was already unnecessary—it was superfluous—but Solovyov accepted it
gratefully, too. He did not understand why he had not written to Leeza once in all those years. That was inexplicable.
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No matter what a person studies, he is studying himself.
Thus spoke Prof. Nikolsky. It fascinated Solovyov that the direction of his search was approaching, closer and closer, the line of his own life. He was stunned by the interweaving of material from his research and his own fate, and by their indivisibility and harmony. If he had ever genuinely loved Leeza, then that was what was happening at this very
moment.
Stroking the armrest of his seat on the bus every now
and then, Solovyov imagined her hand. He remembered
the freshness of her lips as his temple sensed the coolness of the window glass. He thought only of Leeza the whole
way to Yalta. He wanted her as never before. Wanted her
as the general’s granddaughter. As the one to transform
him into a relative of her important grandfather. And, of
course, as Leeza, his first woman. The scholar’s coalescence with his material had reached its apogee.
What did he know about Leeza’s parents? Her mother
was a railroad track inspector. A weary woman with hair
as coarse as wire that was always coming out from under
her headscarf. Melting snowflakes glistened on it when
Leeza’s mother came in from the cold. Leeza had different
hair. Very soft. Smelling of sweet smoke because she dried it over the woodstove. Leeza’s mother smelled of fuel oil.
She did her rounds of the tracks depending on her mood.
She could be out for the whole day. Or an hour. It was
impossible to guess in advance how long she would be
absent. It was he who had thought to place the pail by the garden gate as a signal. It could not be used all the time; it would have raised suspicion.
Her father . . . Solovyov remembered him vaguely.
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Remembered he was tall. Unshaven. He began all his
sentences with well. Well, hello. Well, a blizzard. Not an especially distinguishing feature; nobody would have noticed it, if not for Solovyov’s grandmother. You don’t have to say
‘well’ all the time (she would say). He would smile. Ask for three rubles until payday. Don’t worry, everything will turn out well anyway (said Solovyov’s grandmother). She would
give him three rubles. Moistening her fingers with saliva as she counted out each ruble. Rarely did she give just one
bill, a three-note. Banknotes over one ruble made her leery.
Sometimes change popped out of her fingers and he would
gather it off the floor. Occasionally, he would ask permission to sit for a while on the bench. Well, I’ll rest a bit, okay?
He smelled of alcohol. Solovyov did not yet know it was
alcohol. It was the smell of Leeza’s father. Leeza’s father would not go home. He would sit down on the bench, not
taking off his coat. His rabbit-fur hat would slide down his face. He would sleep and be calm. Finally, he disappeared
somewhere. Completely disappeared.
Solovyov arrived in Yalta late that evening. It began to
rain as he was standing at the trolleybus stop. It was raining even though there did not seem to be clouds in the star-strewn sky. Solovyov decided against waiting for the
trolleybus and headed home on foot. The rain was nice after the afternoon heat. It was not a heavy rain; its fine drops reminded him of a thickly condensed fog. By the city market, Solovyov turned on Kirov Street, formerly Autskaya Street.
Music carried from the embankment and every so often a
spotlight beam appeared somewhere overhead. The beam
slid along the tops of the cypress trees and the wet cupolas of the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral.
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Everything on Palmiro Togliatti Street was just as it had
been two days ago. The creaky staircase, the dim bulb under the canopy over the door. It occurred to Solovyov that this resembled a homecoming. After many years. Coming home
as another person. He lingered as he was turning on the
light in the room, as if he feared seeing something unex-
pected there. No, everything was the same. Everything.
Solovyov took the bag off his shoulder. It was heavy. The
cannery director had handed him some examples of their
products when they said their goodbyes. He had called
Solovyov ‘ the very same Solovyov’ again and said he was proud to know him. Neither the director nor Solovyov clarified the meaning of ‘ the very same. ’ Solovyov was, for himself, always
‘the very same.’ He had taken the cans so as not to offend the director. Now he decided to sample them.
Solovyov pulled out one of the cans at random and
opened it. The right-angled can with the lid flying up over it reminded him of a grand piano. It was goby fish in tomato sauce.
Someone rang the doorbell.
It rang again. Solovyov continued looking, focused, at
the fish. Their understated tomatoed existence seemed like the height of orderliness. It did not allow even the thought of having chaos in one’s life. But chaos existed. It had raced into Solovyov’s life and carried him away, into its vortex.
Flinging him into the Kozachenko apartment, into the
Vorontsov Museum, and into the insane nighttime rowing
amidst raging waves. That chaos was Zoya. Solovyov had
no doubt it was Zoya ringing. He stood and looked at his
reflection in the china cabinet. Went to the door. After one more ring, he moved the bolt aside. Taras stood in the
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doorway, ‘I knew you were home. I’ve been watching the
windows.’
Solovyov silently invited him in. Taras moved toward the
center of the room fitfully, as if he were sidestepping. He set his hands on the back of a chair. He stood crookedly,
his head bent toward his shoulder.
‘I have a favor to ask you,’ said Taras. ‘Leave.’
Solovyov remained silent. Somewhere outside, a door
opened, spilling out the sounds of clattering dishes, music, and guests’ cries. A moment later, everything went quiet.
‘Leave. She’s impossible to handle. You’ll be done for
with her.’
‘What about you?’
Taras kept silent.
‘Did you know about the searches in your room?’ asked
Solovyov.
‘I put the papers there myself, where she said to.’
Taras lowered himself slowly onto the chair. For a
moment, Solovyov was afraid Taras was losing conscious-
ness, but he was not.
‘Did you know we’d go to the Vorontsov Palace, too?’
‘Of course. I was there that night.’
Taras looked Solovyov in the eye for the first time. There was nothing in that gaze but sadness. Solovyov turned away,
‘So why did you agree to it?’
‘That’s what she wanted.’ Taras
’s fingers touched the fish can. They slid along the rim of the lid, as if symbolizing Taras’s own rather difficult journey. Solovyov felt like he had become a witness to some sort of drama that he did
not quite understand but that was undoubtedly a drama,
and he started to feel sorry for the man sitting before him.
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‘Do you want some tea?’
‘I got you a ticket for tomorrow, to Petersburg.’
Taras said this without taking his gaze from the fish in
tomato sauce—Taras himself (it occurred to Solovyov) was
essentially one of those fish. Why was he suffering like this with Zoya? Why was he enduring all these passions? Taras
hesitated, then took the ticket from his breast pocket and placed it in front of Solovyov. It was curled. Not wanting to flatten out.
‘I’m not going to Petersburg,’ said Solovyov, sticking the ticket back in Taras’s pocket. ‘But I am leaving. Tomorrow.
And I’ll try not to see Zoya.’
Taras silently offered his hand. It was limp and damp. Of
course, with hands like those Taras could not count on
Zoya’s love.
Solovyov left the house early in the morning. He truly
was going. He did not feel that he owed anything since he
had paid for more days than he had stayed. He left the key to the room with the neighbors.
Solovyov turned onto Chekhov Street instead of going
to the trolleybus. Despite the weight of his bag, he felt like walking part of his route to the bus station. He was saying goodbye to Yalta. Without knowing it himself, Solovyov
was walking along the same route as General Larionov
walked one evening in August, around the 24th, in 1938.
He was walking around in military-style trousers, albeit
without stripes. And a tunic. The general did not stand out in the crowd wearing that clothing. Many people dressed
like soldiers during the thirties. The military style was fash-ionable in that epoch.
The general was walking around without stripes on his
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trousers, but of course it was obvious to everyone that this was a general. His army bearing could be sensed in how he
held his head, the way his shoulders turned, and the confidence with which he treaded, from his heel to his toes. A
military man through and through. Upper echelon of the
officer corps. His arms moved in time with his gait: lightly, confidently, but not swinging. The general displayed restraint in his every action.
At the corner of Botkinskaya and Chekhova Streets, he
stopped at a kiosk selling carbonated water. Water cost ten kopecks without syrup, thirty with syrup. The general asked for water with syrup. He took the glass, which sweated
instantly, and observed the swirling bubbles for a few
seconds. The foam on the surface was exploding with thou-
sands of the very finest droplets; they could just barely be felt when the glass came close to the cheek. The general
delighted in how little bubbles rose behind the thick glass, after springing up within each of the glass’s facets. Oleander blossoms pinkened through the bubbles as if they were in
a magic lantern. Pedestrians slipped past. A bicyclist rode past. A cart with milk canisters. The sharp smell of a horse.
It was hot in Yalta despite the evening hour. The general
delighted in drinking his carbonated water. His Adam’s apple moved in time with his swallows. He took a handkerchief
from his tunic pocket and wiped his sweaty brow. Noiselessly placed the glass on the wooden counter. Elongated contours of growth rings retained remnants of paint. Wasps crawled
along round syrupy spots. The general lifted his glass again, slowly turned it over, and covered one of the wasps. Both
he and the water saleswoman observed the insect’s behavior.
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glass, and touched the top with a buzz. Fell. Clambered up again, climbing along the side, and went still. The general turned the glass over (the gesture of someone releasing
doves), allowing the wasp to fly out. The wasp was in no
hurry. Moving in a spiral, it reached the edge of the glass.
Flew off, dignified. The drinking glasses jingled finely when a truck drove by. The water saleswoman wiped her hands
on her apron.
‘Another glass?’
The general looked pensively at the saleswoman. The
carelessly styled hair, the starched headpiece. He was looking through the saleswoman.
‘No,’ the general said. Focus returned to his gaze. ‘There’s no need.’
Yes, this was August 24. There was no doubt. 1938.
Judging from the stuffiness of the evening, there would be a thunderstorm during the night. The first clouds were
gathering over the Oreanda Hotel. The sun was shedding
its final rays on the St. John Chrysostom Church. The
general was walking along Chekhov Street. He watched
holidaymakers with beach bags, parasols, and towels on
their shoulders. Some were wearing pajamas.
The tango. So light, as if from afar. Swelling. A high male voice soared over an orchestra. A band stage revealed itself behind wrinkled acacia trunks. Woodwinds glinted. And a
banjo glinted. Musicians in white suits and Latin American hats just as white. A trumpeter soloed. He gave all his air to the trumpet, barely able to inhale on time. The embodiment of exhalation. His cheeks were like a caricature but his lips were refined and sensual.
People were dancing by the band stage. Little by little,
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they made way, yielding the space to one couple. He. A
predator with hair the color of a raven’s wing. A belligerently straight part. A roomy, pleated shirt that hung over narrow trousers. A wet stripe on the back. She. A dove in a white dress. When he spun her, her head tilted back slightly. Weak-willed to some extent. All of her in his arms. His leg sank into the froth of her dress. She still managed to elude him.
From Chekhov Street, the general went to Morskaya
Street. To his left, a two-wheeled cart turned with a clatter.
Its wheels skidded slightly on the polished cobblestones.
Grass was breaking its way through a stone drain gutter.
The street led to the sea and the general’s heart filled with joy. Even as a child he had loved streets leading to the sea.
He saw grounds for hope with the sudden appearance of
blueness between two rows of houses.
The general walked up to a pharmacy. It occupied the
first level of a squat two-story building. Oak door, copper doorknob, little bell. Art nouveau style. A spring pulled the heavy door back with a creak. The pharmacy seemed cool
after the street. And quiet. The general appreciated coolness and quiet. He waited until the pharmacist, Kologrivov, came out after hearing the bell. There were small test tubes, little boxes, and vials behind the cabinets’ thick glass. The smell of liquid medicines and Extra tooth powder. The general wanted to have a talk with the pharmacist about causes of
death. About death overall.
Kologrivov welcomed the general. He was a quiet, gray-
haired man with a fleshy nose—the end of his nose looked
bulbous. Blue eyes. The general came here to relax beca
use he found Kologrivov’s calm pleasant. The general usually
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Kologrivov sold medicines. Those who came to the phar-
macy required iodine, Vishnevsky ointment, diarrhea
remedies, cotton wool, bandages, dried chamomile,
condoms, and Condy’s crystals. Rarer: castor oil and fish
oil. They required advice. Pharmacist Kologrivov gave it in a soft voice (he never raised his voice). This gave General Larionov a sense of coziness. He felt as he had in childhood when he would hide among the coats and furs in the
entryway, listening to the servants’ leisurely discussions.
Sometimes he would fall asleep. Sometimes the general fell asleep and Kologrivov would speak with clients in a half-whisper, so as not to wake Larionov.
It was nine in the evening. Kologrivov locked the phar-
macy and invited the general into the adjoining room. There were educational posters hanging there, depicting the
human body at various ages. Michelangelo’s David divided
the ages up to thirty and the ages after thirty. Separate visual aids there highlighted the circulatory system, digestive
system, nervous system, and male skeleton (front view).
With pointer in hand, pharmacist Kologrivov intended to
talk about each of the systems but began his story with the skeleton.
The skeleton, which supports everything, is composed
of 206 bones. The skull—which had always seemed, to the
general, to be something seamless—has 29 (for a total of
235, the general mechanically noted). As Larionov attempted to imagine himself as a skeleton, he groped at his eye socket with a finger. This was far from the first time he had acted this way, something the pharmacist was aware of.
The general interrupted Kologrivov, ‘People say the skull’s contours show through on a person’s face before his death.’
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‘That happens when death sets in by natural means.’
The general nodded and looked pensively at the skeleton.
‘And what if death sets in by unnatural means?’