The general looked closely at Kologrivov. He walked over
to him and embraced his shoulders.
‘Well, of course: death comes only to a person’s body.
I’d simply forgotten the most important part.’
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Solovyov continued searching for Leeza. The unexpected
complications he ran into at the university had not stopped him, although they had made him more cautious. The
scholar realized that direct contact with women possessing a surname dear to him harbored its own dangers. He had
already made paper-based correspondence a top priority in
his appeals to other educational institutions because he was able to analyze the responses carefully and keep personal
communications with the Larionovas to a minimum.
Since Solovyov did not know which university city Leeza
might have gone to, he decided to try his luck in Moscow,
too. To some extent, using postal communication methods
also disposed him favorably toward Moscow. Considering
his challenging experience with the search, the postal
method struck the young historian as the safest way to go.
Solovyov wrote a long letter to the rector of Moscow
State University, asking that his request be treated sympathetically. He composed the letter with an informal air, even telling of his childhood friendship with a person he had
(regretably, largely due to his own fault!) lost. To sound more convincing, Solovyov also referred to the readers’
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triangle consisting of himself, Nadezhda Nikiforovna, and
Yelizaveta, the person being sought. Not wishing to create the impression he was a simpleminded person, Solovyov
did not let slip a single word about his designs on Nadezhda Nikiforovna.
For some reason, Solovyov was counting a great deal on
his appeal to MSU so waited impatiently for a response. He did not know exactly how long it took for letters to travel from Petersburg to Moscow but figured they should not
take very long. He still remembered, from a university
course on Russian literature, that Dostoevsky’s letters from Germany took four or five days. Considering that fact—as
well as the technological revolution that had taken place—
Solovyov allocated about two days for letters to travel from Petersburg to Moscow. He assumed the same for the return
journey. Solovyov allotted about three or four days for the Moscow rector to check into his question.
To his surprise, no answer had arrived ten days later. Nor did one arrive twenty days or even a month later. Solovyov wanted to send another letter to Moscow but feared being
pushy. So as not to lose time, he decided to look for Leeza in other Petersburg educational institutions. Solovyov was flabbergasted when he opened a directory for college applicants. The number of educational institutions was beyond
the bounds of reason.
Solovyov appealed first to the Herzen State Pedagogical
University, which had still been called an institute not long before. This establishment—where opportunities had broadened after the renaming—not only found a Yelizaveta
Larionova among its ranks but also allowed Solovyov to
take a look at her personal records.
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Solovyov heard his heart beating as he entered the dean’s
office at the philology department. It reverberated out from under the ceiling, where two workers nailing up a cable seemed to be echoing his heart. Solovyov was asked to wait a little.
In case they checked biographical data, he had the years Leeza had started and graduated from high school. They were the
same as his years. What else could be in the document? He
crossed his arms over his chest to muffle his heartbeats. The sad-faced workers slowed their pace, too, as they drew a green cable along a pink wall. A woman from the dean’s office
brought a thin folder and extended it to Solovyov.
‘Is this her?’
There was a photograph glued to a left-hand corner of
the form so Solovyov did not need the biographical data.
The photo was not very large, but nothing larger was
required for full clarity.
‘No.’
Solovyov did not give up. He appealed to all institutions, even the very unlikeliest. Sometimes they gave him information over the telephone, sometimes they required a visit.
They hung up rather frequently, suggesting he not pester
them. In those cases, Solovyov beseeched. Insisted. Several times he bought candy for female employees in rectors’
offices. One of them jokingly asked Solovyov how much
she might be able to replace Leeza for him. It felt as if the list of educational institutions would never end.
Another two weeks later, a student named Yelizaveta
Larionova turned up at the Lesgaft Institute of Physical
Education. When Solovyov learned of this by telephone,
he caught a taxi and went to the institute. He simply had
no time to consider Leeza’s association with sports.
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An older, broad-shouldered woman, obviously a former
athlete, greeted him in the administrative offices. She sized up Solovyov and asked his height.
‘One meter, seventy-nine,’ said Solovyov.
During his time searching for Leeza, he had grown out
of the habit of being surprised.
‘Our Yelizaveta is two meters, four,’ said the woman.
After a silence, she added, ‘So you’re not an athlete?’
Solovyov could tell from her face that she was not making
fun of him.
‘I’m a historian,’ he said. ‘Peter the Great was two meters, four. Yelizaveta has a promising future.’
‘She’s a nice girl. She’s on the city basketball team.’
She straightened a lamp on the desk. Her face was serious, as before.
Notification of a registered letter from Moscow arrived
at the very end of October. Solovyov discovered it in his
mailbox when he returned from the library. He was invited
to bring his passport to the post office to receive the letter.
As he closed the box, Solovyov thought this kind of solem-
nity must mean something in and of itself; there would be
no point in sending a negative answer by registered mail.
He was at the post office ten minutes before it opened.
Addressee Solovyov’s heart was beating as never before.
After signing for the letter, he tore open the envelope right there at the window and proceeded to read it. It was signed by the vice rector for general affairs (the surname was
feminine) and reported that a Yelizaveta Filippovna Larionova truly was studying at MSU. Following that, however, was
the supposition—and here the letter’s tone became less
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historian was seeking. This Moscow Yelizaveta was 39 years old and working toward her second degree. At the end of
the letter, the vice rector wished Solovyov success in his search and expressed the hope that he would certainly find his Yelizaveta. Judging from the date on the letter, she had
expressed that wish exactly a month ago.
Solovyov started to leave but then returned and demanded
to see the post office manager. When that person appeared, Solovyov silently showed him the postmark. The manager
took his glasses out of his uniform smock and carefully
studied the postmark.
‘A month,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it’s longer. Sometimes
they don’t arrive at all.’
Solovyov looked over the manager’s head. He felt his
hatred boiling. Hatred and despair: the hand on the wall
clock was leading them around in a circle.
‘Dostoevsky’s letters from Germany took five days,’
Solovyov informed the man.
‘Dostoevsky was a genius,’ retorted the manager.
A few days later, Solovyov resorted to yet another option.
He published brief appeals to Leeza in Moscow and
Petersburg newspapers, with a request to telephone (a
number was given). There were quite a few calls in the days following the publication. Four Leezas telephoned, two of
them were Larionovas. A Taisia Larionova telephoned,
saying she was prepared to answer to Leeza if necessary. A woman who did not give her name telephoned. She offered
a discounted portion of Herbalife. The calls ceased roughly a week later.
Solovyov directed all the force of his striving for Leeza
and all the resentment that had accumulated during his
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fruitless searches into his dissertation research about the general. Never before had he worked so much or so passion-ately. He found document after document but they brought
him no closer to Leeza. After catching himself in that
thought, Solovyov realized he subconsciously hoped they
would help him close in. Why?
One day he ran into Temriukovich in the corridor at the
institute.
‘You’re studying General Larionov, if I’m not mistaken?’
said Temriukovich.
‘I am,’ said Solovyov.
He took a few steps toward Temriukovich.
‘I read a folkloric text way back when,’ said Temriukovich,
‘and a strange thought occurred to me: might it be connected with the general?’
Temriukovich fell silent. Solovyov could neither confirm
nor even deny the academician’s thought. He could only
nod respectfully. Temriukovich approached him, right up
close, and Solovyov smelled his rotten breath.
‘How do you regard strange thoughts?’ asked
Temriukovich.
‘Well . . .’ Solovyov backed away slightly. ‘Do you happen to remember where you saw that text?’
‘Where I saw it?’ Temriukovich suddenly burst out
laughing. ‘Do I remember? Well, of course I remember:
Full Russian Folklore Collection. Entries for 1982. Part two of that year’s volume. Starting on approximately page 95.’
Temriukovich’s face fell. He turned slowly and walked
off down the hall.
Solovyov heard him say, ‘Maybe my suggestion will help
that young man.’
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Despite the academician’s hunch, the young man doubted
the utility of the information he had acquired. He remem-
bered it, though, when he happened to be at the public
library, so decided to have a look at the Full Russian Folklore Collection. Much to his surprise, he really did discover the text Temriukovich had referred to, in the second of two
volumes of entries from 1982. It began, in complete accordance with the citation, on page 95 and ended on page 104.
It had been recorded by participants of a folklore expedition, from the words of 89-year-old Timofei Zhzhenka, a resident of the village of Berezovaya Gat in the Chernigov Oblast’s Novgorod-Seversky region.
Timofei Zhzhenka told the folklore expedition’s partic-
ipants about events of some long-ago war. Commentaries
to the text spoke of the impossibility (as commonly
happens in folklore) of clarifying what war was actually
involved. The publishers were inclined to regard its time
of action as the epic period, though they also pointed out, in all honesty, that there was a definite obstacle to that sort of conclusion.
They had in mind the mention of the railroad, something
that, as a rule, was not in epic texts. Futhermore, the narrative opened by referencing a railroad station—Gnadenfeld,
where the events described unfold—something uncharac-
teristic of folklore. Just that name made Solovyov grab hold of the embossed cover of Full Russian Folklore Collection with both hands.
Timofei Zhzhenka used ornate dialectical expressions to
describe a summer night when two armored trains stopped,
almost simultaneously, at the aforementioned station. Two
generals emerged from the two armored trains; this looked
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fully folkloric. Each of them presumed the station was in
his troops’ hands and pensively ( they had things to think about, explained Timofei Zhzhenka) took a walk next to his
armored train. Suddenly, one general ( the general that was ours, according to Timofei’s scant definition) recognized the other in the light of a station streetlamp. Without emerging from the darkness, he signaled to his valet, who was with
him, and they crossed under the carriage to the second
armored train.
Meanwhile, the second general put out his cigarette with
the toe of his boot and began going up into his own train
carriage. When he was standing on the carriage’s platform, he gave the guards permission to go to bed. They did not
need to be told twice; they disappeared into the next
carriage. The guarded man went to his quarters. A minute
later, there was knocking at the second general’s door.
‘What do you want?’ He opened the door abruptly and
was pushed inside.
‘So we meet after all,’ said the one who entered.
He placed the barrel of a Nagan revolver to the forehead
of the carriage’s master and commanded the valet take the
other’s weapon.
‘I’m not afraid of you,’ uttered the man who had been
disarmed.
‘Sit,’ said the one who had entered, nodding at a chair
that stood by a small round table. Several sheets of paper lay on it, under a spill-proof inkwell. For some reason, there was no pen. The carriage’s master awkwardly ( uncomfortably, Timofei characterized it) slid down the back of the chair to its seat. Perched on the edge, he laid his hands on the sheets.
‘You won’t dare shoot.’
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‘Why?’
‘Because my guards will come running if there’s a shot.’
Beads of sweat covered his forehead.
‘I don’t think so,’ said the one who had entered. He took
a watch from his breast pocket and opened it with a barely audible clink. ‘A train with our wounded will pass through this station very soon. It’s a very long train . . .’
‘I don’t give a shit about you.’
‘Nobody will hear a thing.’
The watch returned to the pocket with a clic
k. A light
tremor could already be sensed under their feet.
‘You feel that? That’s our wounded coming. Of course
many are deceased, too.’
The sound swelled. The eyes of the one at the table froze
on the inkwell. The medical train reached the station and
the station was drowning in its rumbling. The inkwell began coming into resonance with the train and set off on an
unhurried journey across the table. It began trembling hard.
It turned on its axis and advanced inexorably toward the
edge. The man at the table grabbed the inkwell and hurled
it at the wall with all his strength when it was about to fall off.
‘Damn it, why the hell aren’t you shooting?’
Shards scattered in all directions. The inkwell shattered to the floor in thousands of little glass pieces. It had cracked through the unbearable noise. The last carriage of the
medical train rumbled past outside. In the absolute silence that followed, the general answered the question that had
been posed, ‘Because death is incapable of teaching anything.’
He let his valet go ahead and followed him. He closed
the door behind himself without a sound.
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When Solovyov went outside, he felt like he was over-
flowing with new knowledge. He was afraid of spilling it.
He thought he seemed too fragile for this knowledge and
could easily smash, like the inkwell.
When recording folklore, a text like this truly could be
taken as folkloric: everything depended on the force of
expectation. The narration was conducted in a good vernac-
ular language. It took on a rhythm through its multiple
repetitions. And what could have been recorded in the village of Berezovaya Gat but folklore, anyway?
That was the reasoning of those who published the text.
In a commentary to the publication, they called upon the
reader not to worry about certain details from modern
history that were undoubtedly present in the story. The
researchers determined its plot to be ancient to the highest degree. In elaborating on their point, they indicated that in this case they regarded the narration of the judge Ehud’s
murder of Moab king Eglon as a precursor.
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