Solovyov and Larionov
Page 34
It recalled the map of Siberia. This was probably what
prevented him from making a fast exit. If he acted that way, reasoned the young historian, Larionova’s classmates would 580VV_txt.indd 316
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decide her appearance had driven him away. He did not
want to cause Larionova—even if she was not Leeza—addi-
tional distress.
He walked over to her and wanted to explain what,
exactly, had happened but Larionova did not let him say a
word. She took him by the elbow and walked out of the
classroom with him. Larionova continued holding Solovyov
by the elbow in the hallway but did not look up. She had a sweet face, despite the acne.
‘I’m looking for a young woman whose surname is
Larionova,’ said Solovyov, ‘but it turns out it’s not you.’
Larionova nodded. That was how things always worked
out in her life.
Solovyov searched out the second Larionova the next day.
She was writing a term paper on ancient battle tactics but knew nothing about the prominent general who shared her
surname. That surprised Solovyov. In the first instant, the thought even flashed through his mind to tell her about the general and his Thermopylae passions. The history department’s Larionova was tall and broad-shouldered. Of all the Larionovas Solovyov had seen, basically, she deserved to be the general’s granddaughter more than the rest. Despite
that circumstance (or perhaps precisely because of it),
Larionova the second did not inspire Solovyov. He did not
even consider telling her about anything and kept the conversation to a bare minimum.
There turned out to be the most hassle with Larionova
number three. They told Solovyov at the journalism depart-
ment that Larionova was sick, so he went to see her at the dormitory. There was no immediate answer when he
knocked at Larionova’s room. Judging from the noise
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beyond the door, they were celebrating something in the
room. Solovyov had lived in a dormitory for several years
so he knew dorm sounds and smells so well that, based on
the specifics of how they were combined, he could deter-
mine to a high degree of accuracy the reason behind the
festivities. Most frequently, people celebrated birthdays, weddings, and passing exams in dorms. Sometimes they just
drank vodka but there were no good smells for that. In
those cases, they made do with bread, sausage, and mari-
nated cucumbers.
It was not exam time. They were not celebrating a
wedding (Solovyov cracked the door open). Birthday was
left.
‘Come in,’ several guests shouted at once.
Solovyov went in. About ten people were sitting at two
desks that had been pushed together. Two of them were
on chairs, one was on a nightstand, and the rest were on
two beds. One of the beds had needed to be pulled a little toward the table. A portrait of Fidel Castro hung on the
entire wall over the bed that had not been moved.
Solovyov had not expected to recognize the television
news host Makhalov as one of those sitting (as it happened) on the bed under Fidel. Makhalov, who was slightly drunk,
rocked pensively and placed his head on a dark-haired young woman’s shoulder. When Solovyov stated the reason he had
put in an appearance, it emerged that she was Larionova.
Her name was Yekaterina.
Yekaterina was celebrating her birthday. There was a glass bowl of Olivier salad in the middle of the table. A dish of olives right next to the salad. For beverages there was
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plastic cups. Solovyov wanted to leave but they convinced
him to stay and drink to Yekaterina. They convinced him
loudly and spiritedly. Then they forgot about him.
Every now and then Makhalov kissed Yekaterina on the
lips and each time there was a sound like quiet chewing.
That—as well as the salad on their lips—gave their kisses a piquant gastronomical flavor. Makhalov called her by her
full name—Yekaterina—and the others followed suit, calling her that, too, even those who, by all appearances, had long known her well.
Solovyov was sitting on the bed next to Makhalov. Oddly
enough, he did not feel like leaving. Not because he liked it here (it is not very likely he could have said that) but because he did not know where he should go now. He felt
enervated after determining that not one of these Larionovas had anything to do with Leeza. He realized that his searches could be endless. Why, really, was he looking for Leeza only at the University? And why only in Petersburg?
One of the guests was describing how he and his girlfriend had made love on a beach one night in Gurzuf. After a
while, it felt to them as if a whole group of people was
watching. They stopped what they were doing and
approached the observers. Much to their surprise, they
discovered it was rocks. Then they made love on those rocks.
The girlfriend turned out to be Yekaterina.
Makhalov said that, as a rule, television news was a lie.
Moreover, the problem was not the content itself (he drank, and inhaled through his nostrils, pursing his lips) but how it was presented: how much, the order, vocabulary choices, etcetera.
They poured vodka for Solovyov yet again. His little
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plastic cup ended up filled to the brim. To his own surprise, Solovyov drank it all in one gulp and chased it with olives.
Applause rang out. When Solovyov glanced at his little cup, he saw it was full again. Solovyov was no longer sure he
had actually drunk the previous one.
‘Sad though it is, you have to sleep with someone to get
on television,’ said Makhalov.
‘I don’t believe it,’ shouted Yekaterina.
‘Imagine,’ Makhalov sighed, and Solovyov felt Malakhov’s
hand on his knee.
Then a person arrived with a bottle of Metaxa brandy.
Solovyov no longer felt like drinking but they all began
persuading him that he definitely had to try the Metaxa.
Solovyov tried the Metaxa.
Unexpectedly, Makhalov farted loudly and several people
began giggling.
‘We’ll make it through the winter,’ said Makhalov.
Yekaterina nodded with an expression of calm certainty.
The guests drank again. Their motions were growing ever
more chaotic and at some point they themselves disinte-
grated into their component parts: eyes, arms, mouths, and little plastic cups. Solovyov unintentionally leaned back and hit his head on the wall. Fidel was the last person he saw before his head struck.
Solovyov came to late at night. He guessed that it was
late at night from the darkness in the room and the absence of guests. Once his eyes had grown accustomed to the
murkiness, he realized there were at least two people in the room other than him. There was a light disturbance on the
next bed.
Solovyov discerned two silhouettes there: one lying, the
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other sitting. The sitting one was unsuccessfully attempting to revive the lying one by shaking the person’s head and
whispering something in the person’s ear, but the lying
person only defended himself limply. The lying person spoke in a constricted, unintelligible whisper, but from the general tone of the answers, it followed that the person wanted to sleep. Based on a series of indirect indicators, Solovyov
guessed that the attacking side was the birthday girl. This was confirmed when Yekaterina lost her patience and
suddenly said loudly, in a bitter voice, ‘If you don’t want to love me, others will.’
Solovyov tensed up, anticipating something unpleasant.
He hoped the lying person would not allow things to develop under that scenario. In answer, though, the voice resounded just as loudly, ‘Good luck.’
It was Makhalov’s voice. There was not a speck of jeal-
ousy in it.
The aspiring journalist jumped noisily over to Solovyov’s
bed. Solovyov squeezed his eyes shut with all his might.
Yekaterina shook him by the shoulder but he did not wake
up. An instant later, he felt her fingers on the zipper of his jeans. Solovyov could pretend not to wake up but he had
no prerogative to resist if he was asleep.
‘Objectively speaking,’ said Yekaterina, ‘he’s already
prepared to make love to me and that’s despite being sound asleep. Unlike you, who’s awake.’
There were sounds of someone flushing in a bathroom
and, flipflops tapping, returning to their room.
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ Makhalov muttered. ‘That has
nothing to do with you. He’s dreaming of another Larionova.’
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17
Solovyov worked intensively in the archives throughout
September and October. After finishing a section about
events during the first half of 1920, he turned to the second half of that same year. On October 1, the young historian
reached the October period of the Civil War; that seemed
like a good sign to him. He and his material were beginning to resonate with one another.
October (one of Russia’s most unfortunate months)
turned out to be unlucky for the White Movement in
Crimea, too. The White Army was retreating. After suffering defeat near Kakhovka, the army left Northern Taurida,
fighting. The army’s path lay toward Perekop, for which
General Larionov had specific plans.
Solovyov estimated the White Army’s numbers taking
part in defensive battles at approximately 25–27,000 (by
comparison, Dupont’s The Enigma of the Russian General raises them for no reason, speaking of 33–35,000). In
Solovyov’s opinion, the Reds’ forces totaled around 130,000
(Dupont writes of 135–140,000). These figures, however, did not fully take into account the losses the Whites incurred in defending Northern Taurida, something Solovyov particu-580VV_txt.indd 322
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larly noted. He emphasized that only statistics for certain army units could be vouched for with any degree of
certainty:
Consolidated Guard
400 bayonets and
Regiment
sabers, 3 heavy
weapons
13th Infantry Division
1,530 bayonets and sabers,
20 heavy weapons
34th Infantry Division
750 bayonets and sabers,
25 heavy weapons
Kornilov Division
1,860 bayonets and sabers,
23 heavy weapons
Drozdov Division
3,260 bayonets and sabers,
36 heavy weapons
Markov Division
100 bayonets and sabers,
21 heavy weapons
Solovyov explained the Reds’ four- or five-fold superiority over the Whites by the separate peace treaty that the Reds and Poles had concluded behind the general’s back. The
agreement untied the Reds’ hands: after withdrawing their
large forces from the western front, they moved them south, against the White Army. The Whites’ position was becoming
critical.
All that remained for the White Army of the entire, huge
country was a patch of land surrounded by sea. It was
connected to the mainland by the narrow isthmus for which
the retreating army was striving. The White Army’s fate
depended on who reached the isthmus first: if cut off from Crimea, the White Army would not have the slightest
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chance of being saved. This did not just affect the army,
though. The downfall of the White troops would subject
to mortal danger thousands of others who had retreated to
Crimea with those troops. They would not have time to
evacuate.
The general was in a hurry. He had a slight time advan-
tage that he was afraid of losing. After the battles near
Kakhovka, he moved his troops southeast through Northern
Taurida without giving them respite. He was still not giving up. As he reviewed episodes of the Kakhovka combat in his
mind, he was still relying on the power of his soldiers’
desperation and the special courage of the doomed. After
that strange forced march began, however, the general
sensed the beginning of the end for the first time.
This was not an army advancing toward Perekop, it was
an unorganized column of sleepwalkers traveling along the
ice-bound expanse of Northern Taurida. Leaning from his
saddle, the general peered into his soldiers’ faces and saw an expression of mortal exhaustion on those faces. He knew this expression. He had seen it on the faces of those who
froze in snow banks. Of those who stood up straight and
walked into machine gun fire. But never before had he seen this expression on every face. The general was beginning
to understand that he had lost more than just an individual, if very important, battle. It was becoming clearer to him
with every minute that the war, as a whole, had been lost.
His army could no longer fight. The reason was not the
poor uniforms (though they truly were poor) and not the
lack of ammunition (which was, indeed, lacking). This was
not even about the army’s demoralization: the general had
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worse defeats. The reason was that the army had depleted its entire reservoir. It was this very expression that the general used in the telegram he sent to foreign envoys when he was halfway to Perekop. In their response, the envoys requested an urgent meeting. They needed the general’s explanations.
But what was the point of a meeting like that? What, in
actuality, could he explain to them?
After dropping the reins, the general took a sheet of paper and a pencil from his map case. His horse slowed to a walk.
He thought a bit and wrote to the envoys that there was
no more rage in his soldiers’ eyes. There was no joy. There was no fear. There was not even suffering. There was nothing there but an endless wish for repose. How does it happen,
&nb
sp; the general asked, that an object suddenly loses its qualities?
Why does a magnet demagnetize? Why does salt stop being
saline? After reading what he had written, the general folded the sheet in neat quarters and ripped it to pieces. They fell behind his back like large snowflakes.
The soldiers could not warm up. They stuffed straw under
the thin broadcloth of their military overcoats but it did not help. Sometimes the soldiers burned tumbleweeds so they
could at least hold their numbed fingers over them for a
minute. Gusts of wind carried off the tumbleweeds; small
fiery balls scattered along the steppe when dusk was falling.
That wind flung prickly bits of ice into the marchers’ faces and the wind got under their overcoats, removing the last
bit of warmth radiated from the soldiers’ fatigued bodies.
The soldiers wanted to sleep. After two days of uninter-
rupted battle, some fell asleep on their feet. Lulled by the column’s even pace, they closed their eyes involuntarily and continued walking in their sleep. The artillerymen began
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sitting on the gun carriages but the general forbade that.
As they drifted into sleep, they fell from the gun carriages and under the wheels.
The general did not allow them to lie down on the carts.
He pulled from the carts those wounded but still capable
of traveling and forced them to walk. Cursing the general
and his orders, they walked. They held the sides of the carts and left a bloody trail in the snow, but they walked. Their bandages trailed behind them. And they remained alive. The gravely wounded, unable to move, could not warm up. They
shouted that they were freezing. Someone covered them
with coats, mattresses, and rags, but still they could not warm up. The majority of them had frozen by the end of
the march.
As the general straightened an overcoat that dangled from
one of the carts, he touched the firm, oblong object that
was holding the overcoat. It was a frozen soldier’s arm. It held the overcoat in a death grip. The general rode off
abruptly and observed the overcoat trailing behind the cart for a while.
The field kitchens had no provisions. The general ordered
that what little still remained be given to the wounded. But only thin soup remained. This soup could not satiate the