Solovyov and Larionov
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Solovyov’s window. To Solovyov, the slow procession
that was devoid of anything personal and the continuous,
indistinct rumble seemed to be the embodiment of histo-
ry’s gait. Majestic and pointless, like any concerted
movement.
Looking out the window at the motley crowd, he remem-
bered the black-and-white crowds in revolutionary newsreels.
The spasmodic motions of people walking. The comical
rocking of those standing; in modern filming, you did not
notice that those standing are also moving. Little clouds of steam. They came up suddenly, as if they had been added
in. Disappeared suddenly. The same with cigarette smoke.
People were now walking that same way past the Second
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Cadet Corps (now the Military Space Academy), where the
general once studied.
Football fans wearing Zenith caps were walking past the
Second Cadet Corps. Thousands of dark blue caps.
Thousands of dark blue scarves. They irritated Solovyov
tremendously. And they did not know that a general had
studied here. Solovyov began to feel lonely because of the abundance of people.
This feeling was new for him. He had never yet felt lonely in Petersburg. Even in the absence of friends, this city—with its strange aura and a people unlike in the rest of Russia—
had sated him. He had not felt abandoned before when he
was all by himself. He felt that now, though. It crossed his mind that Leeza had abandoned him, though in actuality it
was the opposite. Solovyov picked up Tolstoy’s Aelita and peered out the window.
Beyond the gate, a wasteland reached to the embankment of the Zhdanovka River. Beyond the river there stood the vague contours of trees on Petrovsky Island. Beyond them, there faded a doleful sunset that could not fade away. Its light touched at the edges of long clouds that seemed like islands reaching into the sky’s green waters. Above them was green sky where a few stars had begun shining. It was quiet on the old Earth. That was the only spot in the book that Solovyov genuinely liked even
though it twice referred to the sky’s green color, for no
reason. Sometimes it even seemed to him that there was
no need to continue.
Solovyov went outside after the sunset had faded.
Interesting, where had the wasteland been, anyway? Or was
it a fantasy of Tolstoy’s, who wrote his novel while still in Germany? Solovyov’s foot grazed a beer can and it rolled
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off the sidewalk with a clink. Had Nikolai Chernyshevsky
seen that wasteland? If he had seen it, that would affirm
that cadet Larionov must have seen it, too.
Solovyov went to the institute the next day. Even as he
was approaching the famous building with its columns, he
caught a glimpse of academician Temriukovich. Temriukovich was walking along, dressed in a Mackintosh raincoat with a fifties cut: it had roomy sleeves (one of them was smudged with whitewash) and its shoulders, which had once been
angular, were now sagging and rumpled. The end of its
untied belt dragged along the ground. Solovyov did not
want to catch up to Temriukovich. Elementary courtesy
would have demanded pointing out the smudged sleeve and
dragging belt to the academician, but something hinted to
the graduate student that there was no point in doing so.
Solovyov slowed his pace and followed the academician.
Solovyov regarded Temriukovich with respect and there
was a special reason for that. It was through Temriukovich’s efforts that the complete collected works of Sergei M.
Solovyov were published during the Soviet era. Despite not being a relative of Sergei Solovyov, graduate student
Solovyov believed in their spiritual kinship and felt favorable toward everyone who was somehow connected to the great
man with whom he shared a surname.
As a scholar, Temriukovich was not one to reach for the
stars, but there was no need in his case anyway. The necessities for the edition he had conceived were painstakingness and diligence in the task, and, to some extent, fortitude. An edition of Sergei Solovyov was not something that was taken for granted in the Soviet Union. As a reward for successful completion of the work, Temriukovich was nominated to
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become an academician. Nobody counted on his being
elected. Above all, candidate Temriukovich.
‘Neither Bakhtin nor Lotman were academicians,’ he had
consoled himself, ‘they weren’t even corresponding
members.’
But Temriukovich’s situation turned out differently from
Mikhail Bakhtin’s and Yuri Lotman’s. Destiny was favorable to Temriukovich, unlike Bakhtin and Lotman. This manifested itself on one occasion, when the members of the
Academy of Sciences had not come to any agreement about
a candidacy. The generally foolproof mechanism—which
had made academicians out of institute directors, members
of the government, oligarchs, and people who were simply
respected—went haywire. By not agreeing amongst them-
selves, the academicians intuitively voted for someone who, to their thinking, had no chance whatsoever of making it.
They voted almost unanimously for Temriukovich.
There was widespread surprise at the moderate joy
displayed by the newly elected academician. A much more
enthusiastic reaction was shown by those who had worked
toward this goal, spending years cultivating Academy
members and trotting from floor to floor of the Academy’s
tall Presidium building with its strange-looking golden top stories that inspired the popular nickname The Cologne Bottle.
Yes, Temriukovich accepted congratulations politely and
expressed satisfaction with the academicians’ vote but—as
noted by corresponding member Pogosyan, who was in
attendance when the results were announced—
Temriukovich’s thoughts were far away.
And that was the simple truth. The new academician’s
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accompanied Temriukovich for the last few years. If his
condition might initially have been described as deep pensiveness, nothing but overt aloofness could describe the current state of affairs. That, however, was still not the worst of it.
Temriukovich’s coworkers began noticing that he was
talking to himself. The first to take notice was Igor Murat, a candidate of historical sciences.
‘Let’s have a look, see what kind of book this is,’
Temriukovich said one day, as he approached a bookcase,
‘probably rubbish.’
The publication that interested the academician was Igor
Murat’s book, The Revolutionary-Democratic Movement in Left-Bank Ukraine During 1861–1891. The author was standing on the other side of the bookcase, unnoticed by Temriukovich.
Murat had just plunged an immersion heater into a glass
of water and was preparing to have tea. Murat froze when
he peered through the shelves and watched the academician
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pick up The Revolutionary-Democratic Movement in Left-Bank Ukraine During 1861–1891. Murat turned his gaze to the heater. It was now impossible to turn it off soundlessly.
Murat listened, speechless, as the academician moistened
his index finger and paged through the book.
‘Shit,’ said Temriukovich with a sigh as he put the book
back. ‘Premium quality shit.’
The water had begun boiling noisily in the glass and
Temriukovich peered around the bookcase. He saw the pale
Murat there.
‘I heard what you were saying about my book,’ whispered
Murat.
‘I didn’t say anything,’ said the unruffled Temriukovich,
‘all I did was think about it.’
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That calmed Murat slightly.
The academician’s oddities continued, though. At first,
he still showed consideration for his coworkers and only
ventured to make sharp remarks when he believed he was
alone. Later, he did not exactly stop noticing those around him but, as Pavel Grebeshkov, the institute’s deputy director of scholarly affairs expressed it, he had crossed the line between internal and external speech. When addressing
listeners, Temriukovich spoke expressively and intelligibly.
He addressed himself in soft, rapid speech, just as theater actors utter texts with the stage direction ‘aside.’
That was the format in which he accused administrative
manager Vladlen Maslo of dishonesty in carrying out multi-
year renovations on the institute’s building. When he tripped over some scaffolding one day, the academician assumed, in an undertone, that Maslo was a thief, which was allegedly why the renovations were so grueling and unsuccessful. This
occurred in the presence of witnesses. Unlike Murat, Maslo appealed to the director immediately, demanding that
Temriukovich be fired from the institute due to his,
Temriukovich’s, mental incompetence. The thought that Maslo could appropriate government funds seemed insane to the
director, too. To the latter’s credit, he did not fire Temriukovich.
‘Temriukovich is a full member of the Russian Academy
of Sciences,’ said the director, ‘and under formal reasoning, I have no grounds for doubting his mental competence.’
And so membership in the Academy of Sciences helped
Temriukovich avoid being fired. He continued coming to
the institute only on required days, as he had been doing
for the last forty years.
After entering the building, Temriukovich headed for the
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coat check. The man at the coat check bent across the
counter to take the academician’s raincoat.
‘Where’d you lean against something, Mikhail Sergeevich?’
the attendant asked.
Temriukovich looked at the smudged sleeve and did not
answer. Addressing himself on the stairs, he said, ‘Can’t a person ever hear anything nice?’
After Temriukovich had disappeared around a corner,
Solovyov went up to the second floor. He went to the
director to inform him that he was back from his trip. Strictly speaking, there was no real necessity to do so; a written
report would have sufficed. But the fact that the trip had taken place in August and in Yalta gave Solovyov no peace.
He remembered the director’s look in parting and he
thought the gaze was ironic. Solovyov wanted to tell the
director personally about his findings, and, first and foremost, the text he had found. The plastic folder with the
general’s memoirs was melting in his hands and growing
slippery; it had nearly fallen on the floor twice. Solovyov wanted rehabilitation. Maybe even encouragement.
The director’s office door was ajar. The director himself
was not visible but his voice was audible. He was telling
someone off: ‘Of all possible feelings, the only thing you have is a grasping reflex.’
After thinking, the director repeated it, syllable by syllable,
‘A gras-ping re-flex.’
A listless objection was heard in response. The words
were indiscernible (what could they be in a case like this?) and all that remained was intonation. Simultaneously ingra-tiating and tedious. A woman was speaking. She calmed the
director a little.
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‘You can’t live on reflexes alone,’ he said conciliatorily.
‘Forgive me, but you can’t be such a reptile.’
This turned out to be an inopportune moment to visit.
Solovyov had wearied instantaneously. He realized he was
not even interested in finding out who, exactly, the director was addressing. Solovyov walked slowly toward the
Twentieth-Century History Department, his department.
Who could be called a reptile? At the end of the corridor, he turned to look back anyway. Tina Zhuk, a graduate
student, was coming out of the director’s office. She had a very loud voice and Solovyov was surprised she had just
been speaking so softly. It turned out that Tina could do so when she tried. Temriukovich was her research advisor. The academician did not like his graduate student and everyone at the institute knew it. Nobody liked her.
In the Twentieth-Century History Department, Solovyov
donated one hundred rubles for a gift for a coworker,
Baksheeva. Baksheeva, a candidate of historical sciences,
had just had a baby and they were giving her an electric
teakettle. The trade union committee chair decided to show Solovyov the electric teakettle after she’d accepted his
money. She placed a finger to her lips, opened the cardboard box, and took out the gift. She, Novoseltseva, had invested her own personal money, at least temporarily, until she had recovered the sum for the teakettle. She showed Solovyov
the list of donors: it was always a big risk to collect money for an item that had already been purchased. Solovyov
flicked the teakettle with his fingernail. The sound turned out to be unexpectedly low and muted. The department
office was empty. Lots of people were still on vacation.
Solovyov saw Temriukovich again on the second floor:
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he was headed toward the administrative offices. Tina Zhuk was walking slightly behind him. When she saw Solovyov,
she pointed at Temriukovich and touched her temple with
her finger.
‘He called me a snake in the grass,’ she whispered to
Solovyov. ‘Can you imagine? He’s already completely lost
it.’
Solovyov observed as Zhuk’s nose began moving in time
with her lips. He had not noticed this before. It was possible this could be explained by her anxiety. Administrative
manager Maslo popped out of the closest door.
‘Solovyov,’ he said, without a hello. ‘We’re going to start taking down the scaffolding in an hour. We’ll need your
help.’
Solovyov nodded to Tina. Temriukovich turned around
as if he had remembered something and began walking in
the opposite direction. Maslo disappeared behind the door
as soon as he saw that.
‘Stole a pi
le and now hides,’ Temriukovich mumbled,
looking at the floor. ‘Vacations on Majorca. And I, a full member of the Academy of Sciences, vacation in the city
of Zelenogorsk. One might ask why!’
‘Because he’s greedy,’ Tina Zhuk answered after the acad-
emician had moved further away. ‘He’s just a glutton. And
senile.’
Solovyov went outside and headed off toward the
University, the famous Twelve Colleges, a long red building that stood perpendicular to the Neva River. Solovyov hoped to find out something about Leeza in that building. Based
on what Yegorovna had said, Leeza had left more than a
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second year now. Solovyov realized he did not know what
department Leeza might have entered. Furthermore, there
was no evidence she had entered a university in Petersburg.
Strictly speaking, there was not even any certainty that Leeza had entered a university anywhere at all.
He was greeted with surprise at the administrative office.
They had no obligation to provide student information to
him.
‘This is very important to me,’ said Solovyov.
When all was said and done, Solovyov was a recent
student himself, so they accommodated him. There turned
out to be three Larionovas at the university. Not one of
them was Yelizaveta. One was studying in the geography
department, the second was in Solovyov’s very own
history department, and the third was in journalism.
Solovyov decided to meet all three just in case there was
an error in the rolls.
He did not have to leave the Twelve Colleges building to
go to the geography department. By checking the schedule,
he learned where the second-year students had classes and
went into the classroom during the break. A map of mineral resources in Siberia, speckled with red spots, hung on the wall. There were many resources. A great many.
Solovyov approached the first table and asked where he
might find Larionova. They showed him. Even from afar,
he knew it was not Leeza and thought about leaving without going up to her. He began taking a step but for some reason looked again at Larionova; her face was dotted with acne.