by Ben Greenman
CELEBRITY
CHEKHOV
STORIES BY ANTON CHEKHOV
Translated by Constance Garnett
Adapted and Celebritized by Ben Greenman
To all the Russians or part Russians in my family, and to all the people I know who look Russian, or have Russian blood in their veins, or have recently opened a book that uses as its foundation the literature of a great Russian author. That should cover it.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Introduction
Chapter 1 - Tall and Short
Chapter 2 - A Transgression
Chapter 3 - A Lady’s Story
Chapter 4 - Bad Weather
Chapter 5 - The Album
Chapter 6 - In the Graveyard
Chapter 7 - The Darling
Chapter 8 - Hush
Chapter 9 - An Enigmatic Nature
Chapter 10 - Not Wanted
Chapter 11 - Joy
Chapter 12 - At the Barber’s
Chapter 13 - Choristers
Chapter 14 - A Classical Student
Chapter 15 - Terror
Chapter 16 - The Death of a Redheaded Man
Chapter 17 - A Trilogy: The Man in a Case, Gooseberries, About Love
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Ben Greenman
The Thin Man
Copyright
About the Publisher
Introduction
THE GREAT AUTHOR AND DRAMATIST ANTON CHEKHOV WAS born on January 29, 1860, in Taganrog, Rostov Oblast, Russia. A hundred years later to the day, in Philadelphia, came the birth of the model Gia Carangi, who would later be memorably portrayed by Angelina Jolie in the HBO original movie Gia.
Coincidence? Not unless you let it be. As Chekhov said, “Only entropy comes easy.”
Chekhov is well-known for his plays: his towering quartet of late works, The Seagull, Uncle Vanya, Three Sisters, and The Cherry Orchard, have ensured that he is second only to Shakespeare among Western dramatists. But his short stories make an equally persuasive case for his genius as a writer. During his lifetime, Chekhov wrote more than two hundred stories, earning a reputation as one of the most incisive and skilled practitioners in the history of the form.
What makes his stories so compelling? The question has preoccupied scholars and critics, as well as everyday readers, for more than a century. Most of Chekhov’s adherents arrive at a version of the same answer: that Chekhov understood people particularly well, and specifically that he understood their weaknesses. With a minimum of flamboyant effects, he demonstrated the ways in which ordinary life is always colored by predictable but consequential personality flaws such as doubt, pride, and fear. In a story like “Tall and Short,” for example, he wasted no time in delineating the complex circuit of envy and aggression that exists between two old friends who meet after a long interval. In “An Enigmatic Nature,” he sketches a portrait of a woman on a train with brief, almost imperceptible strokes that nevertheless reveal a tremendous amount about sex, power, identity, aging, and regret.
Chekhov drew his characters from all levels of Russian society in his time: peasants, aristocrats, intense young clerks, disappointed wives. Today, in America, we have a simple way of identifying these flawed specimens of humanity ruled by ego and insecurity. They are called “celebrities.” Here we have the young film star who has been in the spotlight since she was a teenager and whose sense of herself is at once inflated and imploded. There we have the talk-show host who conducts clandestine relationships with members of his staff. And over there we have the reality-show star who is famous primarily for her appearance in a particularly intimate home movie.
We need not name these three celebrities, but we can certainly speculate. Lindsay Lohan? David Letterman? Kim Kardashian? And, having speculated, we can perhaps find analogues for these characters in Chekhov’s stories—and wonder, perchance, what would happen if his original characters were replaced by these new characters, whose travails hit so much closer to home for us. If we should trap these celebrities inside Chekhov’s stories, is it possible that their insides—the inner lives that are elided by the tabloids, paparazzi, and the Internet—might be liberated? That a story of straying husbands and nervous wives like “Bad Weather” might move us more as an accurate, even revealing portrait of a contemporary golfer named Tiger rather than the tale of a lawyer named Kvashin? That a tragicomedy of young love like “At the Barber’s” might be enhanced if it starred the singer, actor, and stage parent Billy Ray Cyrus rather than the locksmith Erast Ivanitch Yagodov? It should be specified—stressed, even—that the famous personages transplanted into these pages are in no way intended to reflect the actual lives of the actual talk-show hosts, actresses, golfers, and singers whose names they share. No celebrities were harmed in the making of this book. Rather, they are ideas: the notion of “David Letterman,” for example, carries with it an expectation of wit, professionalism, and faux-churlishness. How do those expectations bloom, or wilt, in these stories? Turn the page and see.
Some may wonder whether the presence of modern celebrities in these stories could prove distracting rather than illuminating, whether the subtle beauty of Chekhov’s insights might be drowned in a tide of pointless associations. At first we shared that concern. We met in several conference rooms, each adjacent to the next, to discuss the matter. In the end we cast our lot with science and commissioned the research arm of the publisher to conduct an in-depth survey. The results, when they came in, suggested that these new celebritized stories will appeal to a wide variety of readers: young and old, literary or obsessed with celebrity, cynical or idealistic. Or, perhaps, that they will not appeal to them. The graph is difficult to read, and it is possible that we are holding it upside down.
Ben Greenman
General Editor
May 2010
Chapter 1
Tall and Short
TWO FRIENDS—ONE A TALL WOMAN AND THE OTHER SHORT—met at the airport. The tall woman had just applied her makeup and her lips shone like ripe cherries. She smelled of flowers and citrus. The short woman had just come off the plane and was laden with bundles and bags. She smelled of ham and coffee grounds. An equally short man with closely cropped black hair peaked on top like a wave came into view behind her back, along with a young girl wearing a hat.
“Nicole,” cried the tall woman on seeing the short one. “Is it you? My dear girl! How many summers, how many winters!”
“Holy saints!” cried the short woman in amazement. “Paris! The friend of my childhood! Where have you dropped from?”
The friends kissed each other three times and gazed at each other with eyes full of tears. Both were agreeably astounded.
“My dear girl!” began the short woman after the kissing. “This is unexpected! This is a surprise! Come have a good look at me! Just as pretty as I used to be! Good gracious me! Well, and how are you? Married? I am married as you see. This is my husband, Joel, Joel Madden, though I did not take his last name. He’s from Good Charlotte, the band, do you remember their albums? And this is my daughter, Harlow. She’s a third-grader. This is the friend of my childhood, Harlow. We were girls together!”
Harlow thought a little and took off her hat.
“We were young women together,” the short woman went on. “Do you remember how they used to tease you? You were nicknamed Parasite because you seemed to feed off the attention of others, and I was nicknamed Mouse because I was tiny and squeaked when I spoke. We were children! Don’t be shy, Harlow. Go nearer to her. And this is my husband, Joel Madden, though I did not take his last name, from Good Charlotte, the band, do you remember them?”
Harlow took refuge behind her mother�
��s back.
“Well, how are you doing my friend?” the tall woman asked, looking enthusiastically at her friend. “How have you been doing since your last reality show? Was it a success?”
“Thank you for asking! I am not sure exactly which show you mean, since I have been in a series of them over the past few years. The ratings have not been what I expect, but that’s no great matter! My husband still reconvenes his band, and when my father passed a few years ago, a bit of his money came to us. We didn’t get a large portion of the inheritance, but even so, “Running with the Night” and “Penny Lover” helped us get along. Now I am in town to film a pilot for a new series. I’ll be living in town for a few months. And what about you? I bet you are overseeing a thriving production company.”
“No dear woman, go higher than that,” said the tall woman. “I am in consideration to run a television studio.”
The short woman turned pale and rigid all at once, but soon her face twisted in all directions in the broadest smile; it seemed as though sparks were flashing from her face and eyes. She squirmed, she doubled together, crumpled up. Her bundles and bags seemed to shrink and crumple up too. Her husband’s peak of hair grew taller still; Harlow drew herself up to attention and replaced her hat upon her head.
“Paris, dear, I . . . I’m delighted! The friend, one may say, of youth, and to have turned into such a great woman!”
“Come, come!” The tall woman frowned. “What’s this tone for? You and I were friends as girls, and there is no need of this official obsequiousness!”
“Merciful heavens! What are you saying . . . ?” sniggered the short woman, wriggling more than ever. “Your gracious attention is like cool water, so refreshing. This, Paris, is my daughter Harlow, and my husband Joel, from Good Charlotte.”
The tall woman was about to make some protest, but the face of the short woman wore an expression of such reverence, sugariness, and mawkish respectfulness that the production-company head was sickened. She turned away from the short woman, giving her a hand at parting.
The short woman pressed three fingers, bowed her whole body, and sniggered. Her husband smiled. Harlow looked away and fingered the brim of her hat. All three were agreeably overwhelmed.
Chapter 2
A Transgression
A TALK-SHOW HOST NAMED DAVE LETTERMAN PULLED OVER AT A rest stop on his way home, turned off the radio, and heaved a deep sigh. A week before, as he was leaving his home, he had been approached by a man he knew a little bit, a fellow named Robert, who said to him viciously:
“Wait a second! I’ll have your hide for going after interns and assistants. Don’t be surprised if a baby shows up unannounced one of these days. How will you explain that to your wife?”
Robert demanded that Dave should put money into the bank in his name. Dave hurried away. In the car, on the way home at the rest stop, a week later, he sighed again and reproached himself for the momentary infatuation which had caused him so much worry and misery.
When he reached his home, he sat down to rest on the doorstep. It was almost nine o’clock, and a bit of the moon peeped out from behind the clouds. He was nearly alone; his wife and his son were at a school play, and most of the staff was off for the night. Dave heard a noise that sounded faintly like the cry of a bird. He got up and walked around the house. There, in a basket, he saw something that sent his face into a look of horror as if it were a snake coiling to strike. In a small heated patio at the side of the house lay a bundle. Something oblong in shape was wrapped up in something else—judging by the feel of it, a wadded quilt. One end of the bundle was a little open, and Dave, putting in his hand, felt something damp and warm. He leaped to his feet in horror and looked about him like a criminal trying to escape from a cell.
“He has left it!” he muttered through his teeth, clenching his fists. “Here it lies, my transgression! Holy God!”
He was numb with terror, anger, and shame. What was he to do now? What would his wife, Regina, say if she found out? What would people at the show say? Maybe Biff would dig him in the ribs, guffaw, and say: “I congratulate you! Though your hair is gone, your nerve is still there in full. You are a rogue!” Universities would know his secret now, and probably the intern-placement programs would shut their doors to him. Such incidents always get into the papers, and Dave would be dragged through it over and over again.
Dave went inside and sat. After a minute he went back to the patio and brought the bundle with him. He put it in a corner of the room. At the sound of a car outside, he hurried into a chair and took a newspaper for his lap. He distinctly heard the voice of his wife and son. His son slammed the car door, and he flinched. The baby had only to wake up and begin to cry, and the secret would be discovered. Dave was conscious of an overwhelming desire to run.
“Maybe I can take it somewhere else,” he told himself. “To a hospital? To a friend’s house? I’ll get it in the car before anyone else sees it.”
Dave swept up the bundle and quietly went out the side door. His car was blocked in by his wife, so he went down the driveway, toward the road, where another car was parked.
“Awful, awful!” he told himself, trying to assume an air of unconcern. “A talk-show host walking down the driveway with a baby! If anyone sees me, I am through. Where am I going with this baby, anyway? I can’t just leave it anywhere. Come to think of it, I don’t even know what woman it belongs to. Maybe I’d better take it to a friend’s house until I sort this all out. Maybe I’ll go over to Martha Stewart’s. She’s got a soft spot for babies. I’ll just leave it there and that’ll buy me time.”
And Dave made up his mind to take the baby to Martha Stewart’s house, which was a short drive away, maybe fifteen minutes.
I hope the baby doesn’t scream, he thought as he came alongside the car. Isn’t this something? Here I am carrying a human being as though it were a bag of groceries. A human being, alive, with a soul, with feelings like anyone else. Maybe Martha Stewart will find a home for it. Maybe this baby will turn out to be a prominent educator or a musician or a statesman. Now it’s under my arm like a package. I don’t even have a baby seat. Can I just buckle it in?
As Dave was putting the child into the backseat, he looked up at the sky, which was nearly dark now, with darker patches where the trees were, and it suddenly struck him that he was doing something very cruel and criminal.
I can’t do this! he thought. I can’t bear it. All I am doing is shifting this poor baby from door to door. It’s not its fault that it’s been born. It’s done me no harm. And what was my role in this? The villain’s role. I took my pleasure and the innocent has to pay the penalty. What if I put it at Martha Stewart’s door and she sends it to an orphanage, and it grows up among strangers, without love, and it becomes a criminal, or a drunk, or a ne’er do well? I could provide for this child easily. I have money. It is, after all, my flesh and blood.
Dave got in the backseat with the bundle, left the door open so the overhead lamp was illuminated, and opened the bundle. The baby was asleep.
“Asleep!” he murmured. “You little thing. Look, you’ve got your father’s hair: it’s like the Isthmus of Panama up there. And he’s just sleeping, with no knowledge that it’s his own father looking at him! Forgive me for what I am about to do.”
Dave blinked and felt a spasm in his cheeks. He wrapped the baby, started the car, and drove away.
If I were a decent, honest man, he thought, I should damn everything, go with this baby to Regina, fall on my knees before her and say: “Forgive me! I have sinned! Torture me, but don’t ruin an innocent child. Let’s adopt him!” She’s a good woman, she’d consent. . . . And then my child would be with me!
He reached Martha Stewart’s house before he knew it and sat in the car, still hesitating. His phone was ringing but he didn’t answer it. It was probably Regina, wanting to know where he had gone. He imagined himself at home, sitting reading the newspaper while a little boy climbed up on his lap. It had happened before—
it could happen again. Or could it? There were reporters, lawyers. Dave took the baby out and got ready to carry it up to Martha Stewart’s door. Again he felt his face twitch. “Forgive me,” he said. “Don’t remember me like this.”
He stepped toward the house, but immediately returned back toward the car.
“Damn it all!” he said. “I’ll take him, and let people say what they like!”
Dave took the baby and strode rapidly back toward the car.
Let them say what they like, he thought. I’ll go at once, fall on my knees and say: “Regina!” She is a good sort, she’ll understand. And we’ll bring him up. If it’s a boy we’ll call him Gerard, and if it’s a girl we’ll call her Dorothy. Harry will love a playmate in the house, and it will be another comfort in our old age.
And he did as he determined. Faint with shame and terror, full of hope and vague rapture, he drove home, walked in the front door, went right to Regina, and set the bundle before her.
“Here!” he said with a sob. “Hear me before you punish. The devil drove me to it.”
He jumped up without waiting for an answer and ran away as if he had been burned. He was on the side patio where he had first found the baby.
I’ll stay here outside till she calls me, he thought. I’ll give her time to recover and to think it over.
He was there still a few minutes later when he saw Steve Martin walking along the edge of the house. Dave tried to ignore him, but Steve Martin waved heartily and opened the side door to the patio.