“What’s wrong with him?” Pulcheria asked indifferently, still hoping to shift the conversation back to the party, to the Stranger.
“The worst,” Olga announced. “Schizophrenia.”
Pulcheria felt she had to say something comforting.
“I don’t trust such diagnoses,” she said calmly.
“He’s had it for a long time, it turns out. He complained about his stomach, lost a lot of weight, quarreled at work, and then they didn’t pass his thesis….”
“But what’s so crazy about it?” Pulcheria asked. “Dissertations don’t make it through committees all the time!”
“At the hospital he was smashing his fist into the wall. They thought it was from some sort of pain, but then they asked me, and I told them everything. He was calling for you, they told me, for Anya.”
“Anya?” Now Pulcheria was really listening: it was as though Olga were trying to tell her something. She didn’t yet know that her entire future was outlined in this conversation.
“That’s right—Anya. As if anyone ever wanted him except me. At least he doesn’t have my office number; at my previous job he called ten times a day. A jealous nut.”
“So how are you coping?” Pulcheria asked weakly.
“How? At least he’s still okay in bed or else I’d hang myself, that’s how. Did you notice the men at my party? My lovers—all of them. And their wives are my friends. So what shall we do about this bitch?”
Olga’s story confronted Pulcheria with the shadowy, murky aspect of life where photographs get mutilated and then dropped on family doorsteps. These disturbing thoughts alternated with waves of misery. On the outside Pulcheria appeared to be processing the same old letter over and over. Later that evening, approaching her house with heavy grocery bags, she saw at the darkened entrance his uncovered gray head. Casually and simply he appeared before her. They walked to her apartment. The young family’s room was dark and quiet; either they were walking the baby, or all three were resting before the sleepless night, because the baby often cried between three and five in the morning. The kitchen was strewn with drying diapers. Pulcheria invited the guest into her neat little room, which was furnished with shabby but genuine antiques: her grandmother’s little round table, and two bookcases with old books. The guest began looking through the books. Pulcheria brought some tea and fried potatoes; they ate in silence. The guest was absorbed in a book. He read a little longer, then got up to leave. They didn’t touch. After he left, Pulcheria took the book from the table and pressed it to her breast.
Every night after work she flew home, skipping groceries. She cleaned, cooked, and scrubbed, barely understanding what she was doing. She couldn’t eat, and lost a lot of weight. He came every night, always bringing the same pastry. They had tea, then he read to her or scribbled formulas. Her daughter and son-in-law quickly got used to the visitor and greeted him politely but didn’t linger with conversation, so purposeful did he look, as did Pulcheria when she arrived home to greet him.
At work Pulcheria kept her nose to her desk. Olga lost interest in her. In a reverse move, Olga joined forces with Tsarina against young Camilla, who was always late or on sick leave but otherwise got her work done and indeed recently submitted a substantial article. Eventually it became clear that Camilla was expecting a baby and needed to keep her job until her maternity leave. Tsarina and Olga started a search for Camilla’s replacement and interviewed candidates right in Camilla’s presence. Poor Camilla tried to protest but continued to swell and barely dragged her feet. Clearly Olga and Tsarina needed a constant target for their warfare, and at least it was Camilla for now, but Pulcheria knew her turn would come eventually. A rumor spread through the institute that Pulcheria wasn’t all there because she was late with her reports, never came to the cafeteria, and spent her lunch breaks buying groceries. But how could she write her reports if he sat in her room every night like a rock? She worked at night, and in the morning she dragged herself to work, where she scribbled meaninglessly on her index cards, barely awake.
After eight weeks of this, her mystery guest vanished. Three horrible days later Pulcheria forced herself to go to the cafeteria and to join Olga and Tsarina at their table. They were glad to see her and advised her to get a consultation with a good shrink (Olga offered her contacts). Tsarina praised Pulcheria’s article, which was finally finished; Olga praised her thinness; and then the two resumed a conversation that almost made Pulcheria faint.
“So I won’t be here till lunch,” Olga announced meaningfully.
Tsarina replied that she could do as she wanted.
“Because, you see, he is in the ward for the violent, where he can easily be killed—the orderlies can do it. He needs to be transferred to the second floor, where they know him. Where he is now they’ll make him a vegetable or an impotent.”
Tsarina smacked her lips in sympathy.
“When I called the ambulance, he wouldn’t go peacefully and screamed for help—that’s why they put him with the violent.”
Here Pulcheria asked whom they were talking about.
“My husband,” Olga said. Her cheeks were ashy. “And guess what he yelled? That I was his enemy! He tried to push the window out with his head, cut himself, and then our cat ran in and began licking his blood like a cannibal….”
“How did it all begin?” Pulcheria asked, barely breathing.
“The usual way: he started to disappear from home, then come back a day or two later, dirty and hungry….”
She’s lying, Pulcheria thought.
“What else. . . ?” Olga continued. “Couldn’t sleep, didn’t talk to anyone, went to work once a week; but you know what they think of him—a genius! He submits an article once a year, and the whole pack write their dissertations based on it. I went to talk to his boss, who promised to send him to a health spa…. Then he tried to jump….” Tears were streaming down Olga’s unlined face.
Now Pulcheria knew. She just needed to find out where they were keeping him.
“He’ll be out,” she promised. “My brother was at Kashchenko Asylum, and they let him out.”
“Well, we haven’t been to Kashchenko yet,” Olga replied wistfully. “We go to the clinic that took him the very first time, when he was calling for Anya. He almost smashed a brick wall there with his fist.”
Tsarina remarked that everything would be fine—they’d let him out, and things would resume their normal course.
“Maybe, maybe…. Still, how much can one take? Listen to this….” And Olga related that “the bitch”—that is, her son’s wife—wanted to sue Olga and her husband for housing—again!
“I keep telling that son of mine, ‘Whatever you get through the courts will eventually be hers; she’ll divorce you as soon as you have a place of your own!’”
It was the righteous rage of a person who fought a long and dirty battle to be alone in a huge apartment.
Pulcheria, petrified, listened attentively.
“The funny thing,” Olga observed, returning to her husband, “is that he always finds some slut to look after him. They visit him at the hospital, bring him chicken soup. Thank God they don’t let anyone in now because of the flu epidemic. Only letters. He refuses to eat anyway.”
“Just like my brother,” Pulcheria said. “But he was a political dissident, so they fed him through a tube.”
“I don’t know about dissidents,” Olga replied irritably. “This one wouldn’t eat because of schizophrenia; it’s a form of self-cure—that’s what the doctor said. On the floor for the violent, they don’t fuck around, you know. The moment you stop eating they electroshock you: it feels like an electric chair, they say, only you get many jolts.”
Pulcheria held herself together with her last reserves of strength; she knew Olga was waiting for her to squirm like a lab mouse. Finally the lunch ended, and Pulcheria could crawl back to her desk. Her suffering had ended and his begun, on the floor for the sick animals. From a woman rejected by her lover, Pulch
eria had transformed into a woman forcefully separated from him—an enormous difference. She even felt some small sympathy for Olga. She was thinking calmly, resting after the horror of the last three days. Waves of love rocked her over the unwashed floor of her office, over dusty letters, and she whispered words of affection, sending him strength and support. Someday his suffering would end, she told herself, but she must act with the utmost caution, calculate every step until the final victory, his freedom—although, as she knew from her brother’s experience, things were not so simple; and getting the person out wasn’t the end of it. The issue of violated human rights was the easy, formal aspect of the problem; the real problem was forcing the person off his perch, his customary place in life, even when the place was such as his. One must never force anyone; people must do everything themselves. Think of all those who tried to help him before, all those women with their chicken soup—where are they now? They all vanished into oblivion, but she, Pulcheria, must stay in his life, remain his loyal, humble wife. She must wait. Victory would come. What had been done to him was too fragrantly unlawful—his son would get him out. Victory would come, but without her. Oh pain of pains—not to know anything! Not to see him!
“Would you like to come to the hospital with me?” she heard Olga’s voice over her shoulder. “After all, you were sitting next to him at the party; you talked to him all night, forgot about the rest of us.”
“So that was your husband?” Pulcheria asked in an even tone.
“Of course it was. He took you home, didn’t he? I asked him to.”
“He walked me to the bus stop, that’s all. How was I supposed to know he was ill? I’m afraid of mental patients; I don’t even write to my brother in the U.S.”
“Still, I wonder,” Olga announced, staring at the dirty wallpaper above Pulcheria’s desk. “I wonder where all these sluts come from—the ones who chase after sick people.”
“Well, I haven’t chased after anyone,” Pulcheria objected coldly. “He invited himself. We only walked to the bus stop. I had no idea he was sick.”
“Come with me, then. Tsarina will let us both go.”
“I have a little grandson at home.”
“But this is during work hours!”
“Why would I go there? I’m no one to him, a stranger.”
“He won’t yell at me so much in your presence.”
“I’m afraid,” Pulcheria said, and pulled out the next package of old letters.
“You didn’t happen to see where he went after he took you to the bus stop? Because all this time he’s been living with someone; he hasn’t slept with me, that much I know.”
“Not my fault,” Pulcheria responded coldly. “You should have heard what he said about my old man.” Pulcheria pointed at the portrait of her scholar, the one in which he had a mustache like Hitler’s and pince-nez like Beria’s. “He said I’m wasting my time on the old bastard.”
“Yes, that he does well: humiliate and devalue; that’s his defining trait. He is the only genius; the rest of us are retards. He thinks the apartment belongs to him alone, but they gave it to all of us! He actually wanted to exchange it for a one-bedroom for our son, a studio for himself, and the dregs for me. How he screamed, that son of ours! I’ve got to get him to a psychiatrist, too. He claims my husband has signed all the papers, but that means nothing. I’ll declare him legally insane and become his guardian! They want housing? He, and especially she, will get nothing!” Here Olga added a few invectives.
Suddenly Pulcheria blushed, but Olga didn’t notice—she herself was purple in the face and kept on cursing and threatening, but all in vain.
“You should take Tsarina with you,” Pulcheria calmly advised.
“Forget it,” said Olga, deflated. “I’ll go by myself—it’s not the first time.” And with that she left Pulcheria alone.
Pulcheria, having passed Olga’s exam, continued to sweat over her letters in her tiny windowless office. She worked in a great misery. It was almost March. She knew she had to wait patiently. One thing was certain: it wouldn’t cost Olga anything to set Pulcheria’s house on fire or to bribe the orderlies to get rid of him quietly. She also knew that he, her formerly mysterious guest, could have forgotten her already. Love likes secrecy and playfulness; it flees too much devotion and heavy emotional debt. It was possible that under the present circumstances he didn’t care for love games anymore. It was even possible that he blamed ridiculous old Pulcheria for his troubles.
Pulcheria waited. The only change she accomplished was a quiet transfer to another division. Along the way she lost more weight, and almost fainted from weakness. It was the end of June when, coming home late from the library, she saw his gray suit and disheveled hair. Her guest stood up and opened the door. She stumbled shamefully. He supported her by the elbow and led her to the elevator.
A Happy Ending
Polina’s life reached its final, happy phase when her aunt died and left Polina an inheritance. Polina had seen that aunt only once in her entire life, right before the end, when the doctor told Polina there was nothing she could do: the aunt was raving and didn’t recognize anyone. Soon the hospital called to ask if Polina was planning to bury the body. Polina, who lived on a state pension, told the hospital she wasn’t sure; she’d try to raise the money.
The next day Polina rose early and took a train to the small town where her aunt had lived. Naturally she wanted to look into whether her aunt had left an inheritance, for it was one thing not to have money for a funeral and quite another to let family possessions go to waste.
Polina didn’t consider her aunt as family. As far as she was concerned, her only family was her son, but sometimes she didn’t speak to even him for months. As for her husband, Semyon, Polina had hated him ever since his stay at a health resort years ago, after which he gave Polina gonorrhea and told everyone at the clinic that she had given it to him. Her only son had married and moved in with his wife; he did try to come back, but where was he going to stay? There were two rooms, and their son was pushing forty—he couldn’t sleep with Papa or Mama, could he? Shame and tears—that was Polina’s family life.
Polina loved only her grandson, Nikola, who visited them on holidays and occasionally stayed the night. He slept on a little folding bed and played chess with Grandpa and cards with Grandma. Polina adored her little angel until one day the entire family—the son, his fat wife, and the boy—moved in with her because of a burst pipe. The poor son returned to his flooded home to dry it out and paint and fix everything, while his family slept on camping beds borrowed from Polina’s neighbors. One night Polina asked Nikola to bring her a glass of water to wash down a pill, and her angel asked indifferently, “What’s wrong with your legs?” Polina didn’t cry; no, she got up and walked to the kitchen on her poor, swollen feet while her grandson and his mama continued to watch a soap opera.
In time Polina began to think about ways to get away, to escape her circumstances, especially after her husband retired and stopped leaving the house. He lost the ability to converse in a normal voice and bellowed at her all day; in return Polina called him Clapper (her nickname for him since the gonorrhea episode), to which he responded with a string of obscenities, and so on. To an outsider their daily exchanges sounded like the blackest of comedies, but the spouses didn’t laugh. After each screaming match they would crawl into their respective lairs, shaking with unspent tears, to pop heart pills; Polina would also call her college friend Marina to complain about Semyon and in exchange listen, bored to death, to Marina’s complaints about her middle-aged daughter.
Polina—and this was her main problem—was tired of people. There was a time when she’d been capable of friendship; when she attended anniversaries and birthday parties, went swimming with her girlfriends, relished phone conversations about her friends’ private lives. But all that ended when she became infected. She started to hate all gatherings, including family holidays, which she spent at the stove cooking while her son and his wife gobble
d down all the food and then left to carouse with friends. She used to have hopes and dreams—to sew a new dress, to travel—but now she tossed and turned all night, captive to her thoughts, looking for but not finding a way out. She had heard of a mother who lost her child and then lay down in the snow, in an empty potato field, and fell asleep—they found her only in the spring. Should she do the same? By the time Polina got the call from the hospital, her last remaining love—for her only grandson—was essentially over.
When the call came, Polina considered what to do. She wanted to keep her plans secret from her husband, her son, and especially his wife, Alla, who would gladly poison both Polina and Semyon to get her hands on their apartment. On this subject the spouses understood each other perfectly—for the first time in ten years. One night at the dinner table, their son began mumbling about the advantages of a legal gift over a will “if something happens.” “If what happens?” Semyon yelled back, and Polina echoed that it was beyond tactless to sit and wait for that to happen—look, your father’s blood pressure is up; come, Senya, I’ll check your pressure. With gentle care they checked each other’s pressure, swallowed some pills, and retired to their respective rooms without saying good-bye to their son.
For a few days things were quiet in the house, but then their refrigerator broke down. Semyon accused Polina of leaving it open all night and refused to pay his share of the electric bill—things were back to normal.
Since the gonorrhea incident, this was Semyon’s first major victory on the family front. Polina had always made more money than he did: she was an expert in military telephone equipment, while he (who had a PhD, by the way) lazed about in his underfunded research institute. After Semyon’s STD, Polina began to eat separately, and Semyon, in his humiliation, would steal her food, saying, “So what did our hag cook for herself?” Still, if Polina was sick, then Semyon would drag himself to the pharmacy and even sweep the hall before the doctor’s visit. He considered Polina’s illnesses a result of her own folly; she should expose herself to cold, he lectured—a sick person must stay cold and hungry, like in a TB clinic! Polina had to crawl to the bathroom in a winter coat. She would call Marina, crying and swearing (while Semyon eavesdropped on the other line), and in return had to listen to the latest installment in the saga of Marina’s daughter, who had picked up an illegal out-of-towner who didn’t have a place to stay and who spent one night a week in the daughter’s bed while Marina tried to sleep in her walk-through room (poor daughter, Polina thought). How could she reveal her secret to them—to Marina and Semyon?
There Once Lived a Girl Who Seduced Her Sister's Husband, and He Hanged Himself Page 10