She took her washbag from the cupboard, took out a red lipstick she hardly ever used, and dabbed the colour onto her mouth. She combed her thick, dark-blonde hair and pinned it up in an artful knot. Then she went into the bedroom and selected her best dress: it had a daring neckline, and was navy blue, which brought out the colour of her eyes. It was a little tight around the hips now, but it would do for tonight. She put on the only high heels she possessed; they were languishing untouched in a shoebox in the cupboard. She had bought them with Kostya beside the ‘Cold Sea’, all those years ago, when she had first realised that her husband did not desire her.
Then she bundled up her clothes and stuffed them into a suitcase.
She knocked on his door and entered without waiting for an answer. He was sitting poring over files by the weak light of a lamp. On his desk stood a bust of the Generalissimus; beside it, a few framed photographs of Elene.
When he saw her like that, it gave him a start. She had stopped dressing up for him long ago. Normally he would have told her that he still had things to do, thereby indirectly sending her out again, but something in her manner must have made it clear that he couldn’t show her the door so easily this time. He offered her a chair. Some glasses and a half-empty vodka bottle were still sitting on the little sideboard by his desk. Apparently he and his colleagues had drunk a toast to something.
She reached for the bottle without asking and filled one of the used glasses to the brim. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again as she brought the glass to her lips and knocked back the contents in a single gulp.
‘It seems I’m not the woman you need. What a pity I was so deceived in you, Kostya. It’s not even your fault. You were right, I didn’t want to wake up. But now I have, as you can see. I’m so awake, so terrifyingly awake, that sometimes I fear I’ll never be able to fall asleep again. If you want to, we can get divorced. It’s all the same to me. But if you want to stay married to me, we have to settle a few things. And you will have to take my wishes into account.’
Nana had refilled her glass, and, as her husband didn’t speak, she continued.
‘First of all, from now on I don’t want you to question my authority ever again in front of Elene. I want you to stop belittling me and sneering at my “university nonsense”, to stop criticising my parenting methods. Stop trying to make her believe that I’m not good enough for the two of you. Yes — the two of you, because you’re a proper little team now, and all I’m allowed to do is sit on the reserve bench and watch you. This has to stop! Right now.
‘Secondly, I insist that you never again bring any of your tarts — pardon my coarseness — to the apartment where my daughter is living. You can do whatever you like, but you will make sure Elene knows nothing about it. I’m going to tell you a little secret, Kostya, as a friend, not as your wife. All these women who seem so desirable to you, all these blonde and brunette angels for whom you get to play the Don Juan: they’re nothing more than actresses who are very good at playing their part. Because that’s all they’ve learned: the only thing they know how to do is provide you with exactly the feeling you think you need. They’ve learned to let you believe that they’re magical, that their only purpose is to enchant you, and when they moan in bed — pardon my directness, but I don’t have to please you any more — they do it because they think that’s what you want to hear. And they’re right: that is what you want to hear and see. Precisely that. And the more I think about it, the less I understand you, Kostya, the less I’m able to grasp how someone who grew up surrounded by so many women can understand so little about them. And it’s sad that no matter how many heroic deeds you perform for your country, or how many medals they give you for it, you will always be weak — weak around women, because it seems you haven’t learned to make them your friends.
‘You know, you should have understood that you weren’t doing yourself any favours by excluding me from your relationship with Elene, because I could have protected you. You know why? Because I saw you as a friend. And because I loved you. Yes, I did, even if for a long time I didn’t know or understand what exactly this wretched thing called love actually is. And I hoped we could be friends to each other, that at least, even if we couldn’t be partners. But you lied to me; for you, it was always about breaking my will, making me small and docile, because you didn’t know anything else, because you didn’t want anything else; because it seems your pretty, empty little dolls are just like that, aren’t they? Submissive, docile, and uncomplicated, their only purpose to lift your spirits. And when I began to resist you, when I didn’t submit, you started to take the most precious thing of all away from me; you declared a silent war on me. Over her, over our own child! You didn’t understand that in doing so you’ve set yourself the biggest trap of your life. And it’s partly because I’ve failed so dismally with her during my time here, because even in your absence I was always in your shadow, that I know she’ll turn against us one day, and do you want to know why? Because she’ll be a woman, a real woman of flesh and blood, not an empty doll, the way she’s learned to be from you, in all those years of living by your side. One day she won’t be able to stand it any more; she’ll smash open this shell and start punishing you for the burden you placed on her when she was so very young. And it makes me want to throw up to hear her speak her mother tongue with that bloody Russian accent —’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ stuttered Kostya, who throughout her monologue had been staring at his wife in utter disbelief.
‘Thirdly: don’t interrupt me! Just don’t do it any more! And fourthly: when she finishes this school year, I’m taking Elene back with me to Tbilisi. And no, I don’t want to discuss it. I’m just saying it so you’ll have plenty of time to prepare yourself.’
All at once Kostya sat up. He too reached for the vodka bottle.
‘I will not agree to a divorce.’
‘Fine — as I thought. If you agree to my demands, I promise you in return that I will continue to be a faithful wife to you, and won’t do anything that might endanger your reputation or your position. And you needn’t worry about your daughter’s admiration for you, either: I won’t come between you. And yes, I’m flying home tomorrow. I don’t think my presence is required here any longer.’
If only I could stand in line for a different fate …
ALLA PUGACHEVA
‘You’re spoiling the boy!’ Stasia told her sister one mild October afternoon in 1967. Once again, Miqa had refused to play football with the neighbours’ son, and had instead taken refuge in Christine’s bed, supposedly with a sore throat. Christine was sitting in the kitchen crocheting a tablecloth. Stasia stood in the doorway, in dirty gardening boots and old, rolled-up trousers at least two sizes too big, eyeing her sister crossly. Since turning sixty, Stasia had begun to shrink; her bones seemed to become more slender, she herself ever smaller and more delicate. By her eightieth birthday, she would have the figure of a little girl.
‘What’s the matter now?’ Christine was irritated, but didn’t look up from her crocheting.
‘Can’t you see what you’re turning him into? The boy’s behaving like an old man already. He never goes off to play with other children; he’s always so serious, always with you. It’s not healthy. Even his father’s complained that he —’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘I’m trying to tell you that you’re not a little girl any more, and the boy needs to be with children his own age.’
‘I have no intention of being declared a fossil just because I’m not twenty any more.’
‘He’s a little boy, Christine, my God!’
‘I try to give him everything he needs. He’s happy. For me, that’s the most important thing.’
‘You’re giving him what you think he needs. But he needs other things. He’s not a toy. Besides, he’s not a girl, and the way you are with him certainly isn’t good for hi
m.’
‘You’re jealous, you’re just jealous, because I’m finally able to raise a child, and do it so that he’s happy, whereas you …’
Christine was shouting. The tablecloth slipped from her hand and she stared at her sister, enraged.
‘You’re still a spoiled brat! A blind, pampered, stupid creature, Christine!’ Stasia returned her younger sister’s furious glare. ‘You’re getting old — accept it! And get your satisfaction elsewhere!’ Stasia stamped out into the garden, leaving damp earth on the kitchen floor.
Christine was annoyed. Why did her sister always have to be so frightfully humourless, so entirely lacking in charm, so serious and bitter? Yes, it was true, Miqa was a dreamer through and through, and perhaps her excessive pampering of the poor, frightened little creature who had felt so alone when first he came to them was not a good strategy for his future survival.
His features were coarser than his father’s, but they suggested he would be a very attractive man one of these days, at least for the part of the female population that is drawn to brute strength. He radiated physical power and a healthy groundedness. Only his large eyes, clear and blue as the sky, betrayed the childish vulnerability within. His outward appearance belied his extreme shyness, his nervousness of strangers, his love of literature and loathing of physical activity. Certainly, the way he could sit for hours in the garden with little beetles on his palm, listening to the birds, did not really endear him to children his own age. But he managed to keep trouble at bay; his external appearance inevitably commanded respect.
How happy he always was, thought Christine, when he was able to come home to her after the summer holidays. How relieved not to have to act tough in front of his unsympathetic mother and drunkard father. How delighted he was then to be allowed to listen to the old gramophone with her as she told him something about each of the arias, or when she put one of her favourite novels on his pillow; when she took him out for an ice cream and told him tales about every street and corner.
And what was wrong with that? Why shouldn’t she do all these things? Nana’s critical looks had not escaped Christine’s notice, either, whenever she and Miqa sat poring over a book or bent over a plant in the garden. Ever since she had come back from Moscow, Nana had regarded the world around her with alarming pragmatism. At first, Christine had assumed Nana was despondent because she was missing her daughter, but by now all she felt for her was irritation. She should have gone to Russia to be with her husband, then her relationship with Kostya wouldn’t be so cold and distant! Then she wouldn’t have had to share him with Russia and the Cold Sea, with state secrets, and, above all, with other women! But Nana and Kostya simply weren’t suited. She knew her nephew far too well not to know this. Right from the start, Nana had maintained a certain distance; from Christine, but, above all, from the boy, as if she were afraid of loving him too much.
*
Over the past few years the thought of Kitty had become an obsession for Stasia, an inescapable prison that made her more bad-tempered, irritable, and abstracted than she already was; that robbed her of sleep, and made her inattentive at work at the library.
She had to see her. Otherwise one day — she was quite sure of it — she would simply not get up, would wait until Sopio or Thekla came to take her hand and lead her over the Jordan. If that was even how it happened. She sensed it: she had no doubt whatsoever that she would die very soon if she was not able to put her arms around her daughter at least once more.
The thought led her to start having conversations with her daughter, her lips silently forming the words she addressed to her. Was she eating properly? Could she bear living abroad? Or she would ask about the country Kitty was living in, tell her tales of daily life at the library, complain about Christine’s infantile stubbornness, explain that Elene was growing up far away from her mother.
Lying in bed at night, her glassy stare fixed on the ceiling, she would dream of how she might contrive to see Kitty again. But in none of these scenarios could she find a way to bypass Kostya. He was the intermediary. The black angel who presided over the fates of both mother and sister. She knew her request could put him in danger. But how else could she find Kitty? Where in the West, where in England — if it was true, if that really was where she was living — should she look for her, and how would she get there? The mother of a traitor would never be allowed out of the country. Never!
Christine was no support: as was typical of her, she approved of Kostya’s behaviour. He had a responsible position now, she said; they were all protected because of him; he couldn’t take such a risk. Just think of all the interrogations the two of them had been subjected to after Kitty’s disappearance; if Kostya hadn’t had his position, those interrogations would have ended badly. They would both have been banned from working in public institutions like the hospital and the library — or possibly worse.
Back then, years ago, in another life — in another world, or so it seemed to her — she had travelled hundreds of kilometres across war-ravaged countries, first for her husband and then for her son; had had the courage to defy the Mensheviks and the Bolsheviks, and the fascists, too; and she had had no fear, because she’d been convinced that she was doing the right thing. And why shouldn’t she do the same for her daughter? Neither of her journeys to Russia had had the desired outcome, of course; but she had made them, she had tried, she had done something, albeit in her own way, which was twisted, hard to comprehend, not always logical. Perhaps she had had less to lose back then — yes, perhaps, perhaps her behaviour had been thoroughly egotistical, but what did it matter? Wasn’t this terrible inaction just as dangerous?
Even the card games played in her garden by the two dead women whom no one but she could see were no longer able to distract Stasia from her oppressive thoughts. Whenever the ghosts appeared, she turned her back on them and buried herself in a book or newspaper. What use were they to her if they didn’t help her, if they didn’t show her the way, if they showed no interest in anything apart from their cards?
But when Kostya returned to Tbilisi with Elene for the winter holidays and started to prepare for a big New Year’s party, she said the unsayable. She set aside her fear of his anger and began to urge him, beg him, to tell her where her daughter was, to arrange some kind of contact between them, a meeting — it didn’t matter where or how.
‘That’s absolutely out of the question!’
There was no mistaking Kostya’s horror: his hand flew to his mouth as he spoke, as if he were suddenly afraid of his own voice.
Just then they were alone in the kitchen; she was helping her son to unpack and put away the lavish quantities of food he had bought at the central market.
‘If I don’t see her, I’ll go mad. I dream of her all the time, when I do actually manage to fall asleep, and they keep giving me warnings at work because I —’
Kostya put a finger to his lips and glanced around in alarm. There was something pitiful about her, the way she was pleading with him, permitting him to glimpse her needs and fears, something she never usually did. He wanted to contradict her, to put an end to the subject as quickly as possible, but he couldn’t help feeling profoundly moved. She was like a little child, frail and shrunken, sexless, so utterly lost, standing there waving her hands to emphasise her words.
But she didn’t stop; she kept going on at him, and since it had already become clear to him that this was not something he could resolve quickly, he took her by the hand and led her over to the table. He suddenly felt like a giant beside her: her shoulders were hunched, her face so pale. The lines around her mouth were deep and depressing. Despite her grey hair, which, unlike her sister, she didn’t dye, she didn’t really seem old. She had the air of a person who, in some peculiar and obstinate way, was defying time, sticking her tongue out at it.
Her speech was confused. She jumped from one point to the next, from one memory to another. Craning her head
towards him, desperately searching for something she could cling to, a shred of hope in his eyes. She touched his hands — she hadn’t done that for a long time. She didn’t reproach him. She flattered him. She called him ‘my boy’; she really begged. It was all too much for Kostya. Fortunately, they were alone. The small, naked piglet lay on the draw leaf of the kitchen dresser, staring at them with sad, dead eyes. Mountains of oranges and mandarins, persimmons and dried fruit lay in several bowls on the table and refrigerator. Bottles of sparkling wine stood around in shopping bags on the floor.
He loved the New Year’s party. The sumptuous meals, the excess, the ringing in of the new year, the grandiose addresses on television, the counting down from ten, the fireworks; he loved giving presents to his family, and he thought about the fact that she, his mother, who was now sitting before him and would soon prepare many of the delicacies he loved so much, had no idea that, not so long ago, he had had to come to terms with the thought that he might never enjoy such celebrations ever again; that, in a sickbed in a western clinic, he had stared death in the face for months on end.
This thought was hard to bear. He would have liked to have told her, when he didn’t know if he would ever get well again, that despite everything he was grateful to her for having borne him. Despite everything from which she had not been able to shield him; despite everything she had withheld from him, had not given him; despite all the times she had eluded him. He had wanted to write her a letter, back then; in this letter he would have addressed her as ‘Deda’ again, not by her first name, as he usually did, to maintain distance between mother and son.
He looked at her, and felt as if they had swapped roles. As if he were the father and she the child. As if it were unthinkable that another human being could have sprung from this ageless, childlike person. Himself. And his sister, for whom she now wept with such abandon.
But in the same breath he also felt anger welling up inside him; anger at this fragile person with the drab bun and the shining, colourless eyes. How often, as a child, had he stood before her, completely at a loss — and not just him, her as well, her beloved daughter, her ray of sunshine — how often had they both failed to reach her, frustrated by her unworldliness, her habit of retreating into an inner world to which they were denied access? How often had they wished they had a normal mother who didn’t say and do such confusing things, but whose actions were straightforward and easy to understand, a simple woman with simple desires and maternal instincts? Would their lives have taken different paths, Kostya wondered, as he shrank from an unfamiliar fervour in Stasia’s eyes, if she had been a better mother to them? If they hadn’t had to vie for her love, her attention, to wear themselves out in this all-consuming rivalry? Were there even any answers to such questions? Or was it perhaps too simple to believe there was a single answer to their question, one that made all others redundant? Rather, didn’t each answer conceal another answer, and behind that another, on and on, until it drove you mad?
The Eighth Life Page 53