White Walls

by Tatyana Tolstaya

  And that man, come to think of it, was the most unpleasant of them all. For one thing, he was very stout, sloppily stout. He held himself a bit apart, and although he was aloof, he looked on with displeasure. And he didn’t try to explain the way to Denisov either, he didn’t take part in the conversation at all, but he did take the bagel. Ha, he took the bagel, he pushed himself ahead of the others. He even elbowed the old man. And him, fatter than everyone. And his hand was so white, like a child’s, stretched taut and covered with freckles like spilt millet, and he had a hook nose and a head like an egg, and those glasses. A nasty sort all round, and you couldn’t even figure out what he was doing there, in that company. He obviously wasn’t with them, he had simply run up and hung around, saw that something was being given out—so, why not. . . . The woman, Aunt Rita . . . She seemed the hungriest of the three. . . . But I gave her a bagel, after all! It’s a real luxury in their situation—a fresh, rosy morsel like that. . . . Oh God, what a situation! Who am I justifying myself to? They don’t exist, they don’t. Not here, not there, nowhere. A murky, fleeting, nighttime vision, a trickle of water on glass, a momentary spasm in some deep dead end of the brain; some worthless, useless capillary burst, a hormone gurgled, something skipped a beat in the cerebellum or the hippocampus—what do they call them, those neglected side streets? Neglected side streets, paved thoroughfares, dead houses, night, a street lamp sways, a shadow flits by—was it a bat, a night-flying bird, or simply an autumn leaf falling? Suddenly everything trembles, dampens, floats, and stops again—a short, cold rain had fallen and vanished.

  Where was I?

  Aunt Rita. Strange traveling companions Aunt Rita had chosen for herself. If, of course, it was her.

  No, it wasn’t her. No. Aunt Rita was young, she had a different hairdo: a roll of bangs on her forehead, fair, wispy hair. She would whirl in front of the mirror, trying on a sash and singing. What else? Why, nothing else. She just sang.

  She must have been planning to get married.

  And she disappeared, and Denisov’s mother ordered him never to ask about her again. To forget. Denisov obeyed and forgot. Her perfume flacon, all that remained of her, a glass one with an atomizer and a dark blue silk tassel, he traded in the courtyard for a penknife and his mother hit him and cried that night—he heard her. Thirty-five years had passed. Why torment him? . . .

  What does the siege have to do with it, I’d like to know. The siege was already long past by then. That’s what comes of reading all sorts of things at bedtime. . . .

  I wonder who those people are. The old man looks like the farmer-fisherman type. How did he get in there? . . . And the fat guy—what, is he dead too? Oh, how he must have hated dying, his kind are afraid of dying. What squealing there must have been. And his children probably shouted, Papa, Papa! . . . Why did he die?

  But comrades, why visit me? What do I have to do with it? What did I do, murder someone? These aren’t my dreams, I don’t have anything to do with it, it’s not my fault. Go away, comrades. Please, go away.

  Lord, how sick I make myself!

  Better to think about Lora. A pretty woman. And one good thing about her—although she shows all signs of really loving Denisov, she doesn’t pester him, doesn’t demand uninterrupted attention, hasn’t set her sights on changing his way of life, but entertains herself, goes to the theater, to underground art openings, to saunas, while Denisov, thinking arduously, wastes away on his sofa and searches for the path to immortality. What problems could she be having with her father? He’s a good, quiet papa, just what the doctor ordered, he keeps himself busy. He sits in his study, doesn’t meddle in anything, nibbles on chocolates, writes articles that he puts by for winter: “The master of the woodlands loves a tasty treat of dry, fleshy multicarpels and dry indehiscents. . . . But as soon as the north wind blows, as soon as foul weather begins to sport and play, the Bruin’s overall metabolism slows abruptly, the tone of the gastrointestinal tract lowers, and we observe a corresponding growth of the lipid layer. But the minus range doesn’t frighten our friend Mikhailo Ivanych: a first-rate scalp and a splendid epidermis. . . .” Oh, to crawl into a cave like a bear, to burrow into the snow, close your eyes tight, grow deaf, depart into sleep, pass through the dead city along the fortress wall from gate to gate, along the paved streets, counting the windows, losing count: this one’s dark, that one’s dark, and this one too, and that one will never light up—and there are only owls, and the moon, and dust grown cold, and the squeak of a door on rusty hinges . . . but where have they all gone? Aunt Rita, now there’s a nice little house, tiny windows, a staircase to the second floor, flowers on the windowsill, an apron and a broom, a candle, a sash, and a round mirror, why don’t you live here? Why don’t you look out the window in the morning? The old man in the blue shirt is sitting on a bench, resting from his long life, the freckled fat man is bringing greens from the marketplace, he’ll smile and wave; here the knife grinder sharpens scissors, and over there they’re beating rugs. . . . And there’s Lora’s papa riding a bicycle, turning the pedals, dogs are following him, they get in the way of the wheels.

  Lora! I’m sick, my thoughts oppress me. Lora, come on over, say something. Lora? Hello!

  But Lora doesn’t have the strength to come all the way out to Orekhovo-Borisovo, Lora’s terribly tired today, I’m sorry, Denisov, Lora went to see Ruzanna, something’s wrong with Ruzanna’s leg, it’s a real nightmare. She showed the doctor, but the doctor doesn’t have a clue—as usual—but there’s a woman named Viktoria Kirillovna, she took one look and immediately said: You’ve been jinxed, Ruzannochka. And when they put the hex on you, it always affects the legs. And you could probably find out who put this spell on you, Viktoria said, but that is a secondary question because there are thousands of witches in Moscow, and right now the main thing is to try and lift the spell. First off you have to fumigate the apartment with onion stalks, all the corners. So we went and fumigated, and then Viktoria Kirillovna checked out all the potted plants and said: These are all right, you can keep them, but this one—what, are you crazy, keeping this in the house? Throw it out immediately. Ruzanna said that she knows who’s out to get her, it’s the women at work. She bought herself a third fur coat, went to work, and right away she felt the atmosphere tense up. It’s just plain envy, and it’s not even clear why they have such base feelings; after all, like Ruzanna says, it’s not like she bought the fur coat for herself, she really bought it for others, to raise the aesthetic level of the landscape. Ruzanna herself can’t see anything from inside the coat anyway, but it makes things more interesting for everyone on the outside, there’s more variety for the soul. And for free too. I mean, it’s almost like an art show, like the Mona Lisa or Glazunov; for that they push and shove and wait in humongous lines for five hours and have to pay their own hard-earned rubles to boot. But here Ruzanna spends her own money and presto—art delivered to your door. And then they’re unhappy about it. It’s just crass ignorance. And Viktoria Kirillovna agreed: That’s right, it’s crass ignorance, and instructed Ruzanna to lie on the bed with her head to the east. Ruzanna showed her a photo of the dacha that she and Armen have on the Black Sea so that Viktoria could tell her whether everything was all right there, and Viktoria looked at it carefully and said: No, not everything. The house is heavy. A very heavy house. And Ruzanna got upset, because so much money’s been put into that dacha, would they really have to redo everything? But Viktoria reassured her; she said she’d find some time and visit the dacha with her husband—he possesses amazing abilities too—she’d stay there awhile and see what could be done to help. She asked Ruzanna whether the beach and the market were nearby, because they are sources of negative energy. It turned out that they’re very close, so Ruzanna got even more upset and asked Viktoria to help right away. She begged her to fly to the Caucasus immediately and do everything possible to screen out these sources. So Viktoria—she’s really got a heart of gold—is taking a photograph of Ruzanna’s leg with her so she c
an work on healing her down south.

  And Viktoria told Lora that her energy core had become completely unfocused, her spinal cord was polluted, and her yin was constantly sparking, which could mean serious trouble. It’s because we live near the TV tower and Papa’s and my fields are incredibly warped. And as for Papa’s case—I’m having some problems with Papa—Viktoria said it’s beyond her capabilities, but there’s an absolutely amazing guru visiting Moscow now, with some unpronounceable name, Pafnuty Epaminondovich, or something like that; he cures people who believe in him, with his spittle. A wonderful, totally uneducated old fellow with a beard to his knees and piercing, piercing eyes. He doesn’t believe in blood circulation and has already convinced a lot of people that it doesn’t exist—even a woman doctor from the departmental clinic, a big fan of his, is completely convinced that he’s basically right. Pafnuty teaches that there’s no such thing as blood circulation, only the appearance of it, but juices, on the other hand, do exist, that’s certain. If a person’s juices have stagnated—he gets sick; if they’ve coagulated—he’ll be disabled; but if they’ve gone to hell and completely dried up, then it’s curtains for the poor guy. Pafnuty won’t treat everybody, only those who believe in his teachings. And he demands humility, you have to fall at his feet and beg—“Grandfather, help me, poor, wretched worm that I am”—and if you do it just right, then he spits in your mouth and they say you feel better instantly, it’s as if you’ve seen the light and your soul has been uplifted. The healing takes two weeks, and you can’t smoke or drink tea, or even take a drop of milk, God forbid—you can only drink unboiled water through your nose. Well, the academicians are furious, of course. You see, all their scientific work is shot, and their graduate students are beginning to look elsewhere, but they can’t touch him because he cured some bigwig. They say that firm from Switzerland came—what’s it called, Sandoz or something—anyway, they took his saliva to analyze—those guys won’t do anything without chemistry, they’ve got no spirituality, it’s just awful—so, well, the results are top secret, but supposedly they found levomycitin, tetracycline, and some sort of psi factor in the old man’s saliva. And back in Basel they’re building two factories for the production of this factor, and that journalist Postrelov, you know, the famous one, he’s writing a very polemical article about how we shouldn’t stand for bureaucratic red tape and the squandering of our national saliva, or else we’ll end up having to buy back our own resources for foreign currency. Yes, I’m sure of this, and just yesterday I was in that shop called Natasha, waiting in line for Peruvian tops—not bad, only the collars were pretty crude—and I started talking to a woman who knows this Pafnuty and can arrange a meeting with him while he’s still in Moscow, or else he’ll leave and go back to his Bodaibo in the Far East again. Are you listening to me? . . . Hello!

  Silly woman, she, too, ambles along haphazardly, her arms outstretched, groping at ledges and fissures, tripping in the fog; she shudders and twitches in her sleep, reaches for will-o’-the-wisps, her graceless fingers grasp at the reflection of candles; she grabs ripples on the water’s surface, lunges after smoke shadows; she leans her head to one side, listens to the swish of wind and dust, smiles a distracted smile, and looks around: something flickered by just now—where has it gone?

  Something bubbled, rippled, tripped, skipped, snapped—pay attention!—behind, up above, upside down, it’s vanished, it’s gone!

  The ocean is empty, the ocean rages, mountains of black water crowned by wedding wreaths of seething foam move with a roar: These watery mountains can run far and free—there are no obstacles, nothing to limit the gale-force turmoil. Denisov abolished Australia, tore it out with a crackling rip like a molar. He dug one foot into Africa—the tip broke off—and then dug in more firmly: good. He pressed the other foot into Antarctica—the cliffs jabbed him and snow got into his boot—steady now. He grasped the erroneous continent more firmly and swayed back and forth. Australia was staunchly moored in its maritime nest; his fingers slipped in the slimy seaweed, coral reefs scratched his knuckles. Come on now! One more time . . . there we go! He ripped it out, broke into a sweat, held it with both hands, wiped his brow on his forearm; Australia was dripping at the root, sand flaked from the top—a regular desert. The sides were cold and slippery, the slime had grown fairly thick. Well, and where to put it now? In the Northern Hemisphere? Is there any room there? Denisov stood with Australia in his hands, the sun shone on the nape of his neck, evening was coming on, he could see far into the distance. His arm itched under the flannel shirt—yikes, there are bugs or something crawling on it. They’re biting! Damn! He flopped the heavy stump back—spray shot up—it gurgled, listed, sank. Ehh . . . That’s not the way he wanted to . . . But something had bitten him. He squatted and disappointedly ran his hand through the murky water. To hell with Australia. It doesn’t matter. The population there is uninteresting. A bunch of ex-convicts. He only wanted what was best. But he did feel sorry for Aunt Rita. . . . Denisov turned on the sofa, knocking over the ashtray; he bit his pillow and howled.

  Deep in the night he nurtured the thought that it would be fine to lead some small, pure movement. For honesty, say. Or against theft, for example. To purify himself and call on others to follow. For starters he’d return all borrowed books. Not filch any more matches and pens. Not steal toilet paper from offices and trains. Then greater and greater things—before you knew it, people would follow. He’d nip evil in the bud, wherever he encountered it. Before you knew it, people would remember you with a kind word.

  The very next evening, standing in line for meat, Denisov noticed that the shop assistant was cheating, and he decided to expose him immediately in word and deed. He loudly informed his fellow citizens of his observations and proposed that everyone whose meat had already been weighed and who was waiting in line to pay, return to the counter and demand that it be reweighed and the price recalculated. There are the control scales right over there. How long, O compatriots, will we tolerate falsehood and injury? How long will the greedy beasts, those insatiable leeches, flout the sweat of our labor and mock our dovelike timidity? You, old grandfather, reweigh your brisket. I swear on my honor that there’s twenty kopecks’ worth of paper there.

  The line grew agitated. But the old man to whom Denisov’s righteous appeal had been directed cheered up immediately and said that he had cut down counterrevolutionaries like Denisov on the southern and southeastern fronts, that he had fought against Denikin, that as a participant in the Great Patriotic War he now received his bit of caviar on holidays, an iron-shaped tin of ham made in the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, and even two packets of yeast, which testified to the government’s unconditional trust in him, a participant of the GPW, in the sense that he wouldn’t use the yeast improperly and make moonshine. He said that now, in response to the government’s trust, he was trying to stamp out sexual dissolution in their Black Swan cooperative and he wouldn’t allow any lowlifes in Japanese jackets to lead a revolt against our Soviet butchers, that a correctly oriented person should understand that the meat shortage was due to the fact that certain individuals had gotten an expensive breed of dog inaccessible to simple people, and the dogs had eaten all the meat; and so what if there’s no butter—that means there won’t be any war, because all the money from butter has gone into defense, and those who wear Adidas shoes will betray our motherland. When he had spoken his piece, the old man left contented.

  Having listened to the old-timer’s speech, a few people grew serious and vigilantly examined Denisov’s clothes and feet, but the majority willingly made a fuss, and returned their meat to be weighed. Convinced that they had indeed been variously cheated, they grew joyfully irate and, pleased with their just cause, crowded toward the manager’s office in the basement. Denisov led the masses, and it was as though church banners were waving in the air and the unseen sun of Bloody Sunday were rising, and in the back rows some people apparently even began singing. But then the manager’s door flew open and ou
t of the dim storeroom, laden with bursting bags—women’s bags, quilted ones with flowers—emerged the famous actor, the handsome Rykushin, who just that week had frowned manfully and smoked meaningfully into the face of each and every one of them from the television screen. The rebellion fell apart instantly; the recognition was joyous, if not mutually so. The women formed a ring around Rykushin, the curly-headed manager beamed, fraternization ensued, a few people shed tears, unacquainted people embraced one another, one stout woman who couldn’t see what was going on climbed onto a small barrel of herring and delivered such an impassioned speech that it was decided then and there to direct a note of collective gratitude to the central trading organization, and to ask Rykushin to take on the creative leadership of Nursery School No. 238, with an annual appearance as Santa Claus. Rykushin riffled a notebook, tore off pages with autographs, and sent them wafting over the waves of heads; new admirers poured in from the store up above; they led a four-time award-winning schoolteacher who had gone blind with excitement, and Pioneer scouts and schoolchildren slid whistling down the shaky banister, plopping into the cabbage bins. Denisov kept talking hoarsely about truth. No one listened to him. He took a risk, bent down, lifted the edge of Rykushin’s bag, and picked at the paper. There were tongues of beef in there. So that’s who eats them. Squatting, he glanced up into the cold eyes of the gourmand and received an answering look: Yes. That’s how it goes. Put it back. The people are with me.

  Denisov acknowledged his accuracy, apologized, and took off against the stream.