Watson, Ian - Novel 11

by Chekhov's Journey (v1. 1)

  Three days later they arrived at the trading station of Strelka, near where the Angara flowed out into the Yenisey; and here they rested for a while in exhaustion.

  Within a week the Yenisey had frozen through thickly enough to support sleighs. So they bought two sleighs and more horses, and with a bitter wind at their backs, which presently became an Arctic blizzard, they returned to Krasnoyarsk at last down the snowy river, worn out and sick.

  Ilya Sidorov was to lose his little fingers and two toes of his right foot to frostbite; while Anton was to lie ill all winter long in Countess Lydia’s house, suffering from haemorrhages and vile gastric upsets due to eating half-cooked horseflesh.

  However, in the Spring of 1891 Nikolai Vershinin and Lydia Zelenina would be married; and the Baron would bear her off—with her two daughters and even with the governess—to his new posting at Blagoveschensk on the River Amur just across the water from China. Here he was to command a company of Cossacks—with whom he would be transferred eight years later to Peking to garrison the foreign concession there, just in time for the Boxer Uprising, of which Lydia took some remarkable and heroic photographs during the siege . . .

  And in the Spring of ’91, too, after being best man at their wedding, Anton would return through the mud and floods of the Siberian plain, in the same springless rattletrap in which he had arrived in Krasnoyarsk almost a year earlier. At Perm, before boarding a steamer down the Kama to the Volga, he would manage to sell the carriage—though for a mere sixty roubles, an iniquitous loss . . .

  THIRTY-THREE

  Beyond the windows of the Retreat, the sky was clear. Only wispy scarves of cloud still clung to the necks of the mountains. The snowy valley, with its blue blobs of dachas wearing white hats, was sharp and bright again. A snow plough sped along the twisting highway, whisking billows aside. For the fog had quite suddenly evaporated. It was Monday morning.

  Victor Kirilenko and Sonya Suslova were both due back at the Psychiatric Institute in the afternoon; but meanwhile Sonya was ensconced in the small library beyond the dining room, with Mikhail. Felix presumed that the two young folk were making intimate arrangements for the future . . . Kirilenko himself was lost in thought, and Sergey was scribbling away, resentfully, at a new scenario to culminate in the awful trek back to Kezhma... or perhaps in the sleigh ride back to Krasnoyarsk ... or even in Chekhov’s return to Russia—though all of these options seemed sadly anti-climactic. Mikhail’s concluding ‘insights’, into Mme Lydia Vershinina as photo-journalist of the year 1900 in Peking -—at about which time the white fog had suddenly begun to lift and the outside world to re-emerge, like a photo floating in developing fluid—might well be climactic, but they were quite irrelevant to Chekhov's Journey, either old or new, in Felix’s opinion . . . Still, something startling could be made of it all! Really, the new-style Journey had quite endeared itself to him—and even Sergey only grumbled mildly as he dashed off notes.

  Felix was considering popping out for a brisk stroll when Mikhail appeared in the doorway, holding an open book. His hands were shaking.

  “I just noticed this on the shelf . . . Four Plays, by Anton Chekhov. Want to hear which ones?”

  Sergey raised a weary eyebrow. “That’s the 1987 People’s Edition you’ve got there, Mike. So what’s the big deal? Think I don’t know it?”

  “Sergey’s a bit busy at the moment.” Felix fretted in case Sergey took this as an excuse to throw his pen down.

  “Go on: humour me. Guess.”

  “Ivanov” said Sergey dismissively.

  “Right, that’s here . . . Full marks! Next one?”

  “Piss off.”

  “No, he never wrote that. Ivanov's followed by The Apple Orchard.”

  “Eh? You stupid joker!”

  “Here, look for yourself! Apple Orchard, Uncle Ivan—and Three Cousins. Plus Ivanov, that we know and love.” Mikhail headed towards Sergey, but Felix intercepted him and snatched the book away. He began turning the pages feverishly.

  “But. But,” he said in a lame voice.

  “Now you don’t suppose that I just printed the book for a giggle, in a couple of spare minutes through there? So what happened to The Cherry Orchard! And to Uncle Vanya? And Three Sisters? They’re all gone!” Mikhail stabbed a finger towards the window. “Gone into the fog! And it’s taken them off with it! It looks like a whole new world out there, returned from nowhere, eh? Believe me, it is a new world. These are the plays that old Anton wrote instead. Instead, damn it!”

  The caretaker stood in the doorway. “Same old mountains, same dachas. So what’s all the fuss about?”

  “The fuss, my dear Ossy, is because Mr Chekhov now appears to have written a play entitled The Apple Orchard. And kindly don’t tell me that apples are as good as cherries any day. Or I’ll bash your brains in with the whole ruddy Soviet Encyclopaedia!”

  For now, behind Osip, Sonya was hesitating in the hallway, scanning with a sickly look a heavy volume of that opus . . .

  “The plays themselves are still pretty much the same, though!” insisted Felix, tearing the edges of pages in his haste. “Look, Ranyevskaya’s still in The Apple Orchard. And here’s Lopakhin, and Yepikhodov. Dialogue looks identical ... Oh dear, I don’t seem to recognize this bit. Anyhow, it’s much the same—it’s hard to tell, offhand.”

  Sergey started up, dropping pen and notebook. “See whether Vershinin, Fedotik and Rode are still in Three Sisters. I mean in Three Cousins, damn it!”

  “Half a tick . . .”

  Kirilenko stared at the three men clustered round the book. “But there are much wider implications—!”

  “There’s no sign of them,” said Felix. “Different names entirely.”

  “That’s as you’d expect, if he based that trio on real life.” “The opening’s similar. First scene. Here, this bit’s exactly the same . . . Um, not here . . .”

  “But these are minutiae!” Kirilenko exclaimed.

  Felix looked round angrily. “The world’s made up of minutiae, Victor Alexeyevich! If too many minutiae are different, just how the hell are we going to fit inV’

  “Ah, you do realize . . . My apologies.”

  It was then that Sonya came forward and began to read out in a shaky voice from the biography of A. P. Chekhov in the Soviet Encyclopaedia . . .

  So A. P. Chekhov had returned to Moscow in 1891 as something of a hero, whereas he had merely been a celebrity before he left the city. True, some radical critics still continued to carp at him, this time attacking what they described as his ‘opportunism’. Nevertheless, Chekhov’s report on the Tunguska Expedition—his longest published work, illustrated with photographs by L.F. Zelenina, with technical appendices by J. Mirek and K.E. Tsiolkovsky—was certainly instrumental in stimulating the haphazard exploitation of Siberian wealth in the years preceding the

  Revolution, an exploitation which was only guided along socially productive lines subsequently . . .

  Meanwhile, the sudden rise to prominence of the young scientist K.E. Tsiolkovsky, resulting in support for his theoretical work on cosmic flight, could be said to have paved the way for the Soviet Moon landing in 1989; while the scientist Ya. B. Morisov was stimulated by Tsiolkovsky’s speculations to describe the general principles of nuclear physics, anticipating the work of Rutherford et al . . .

  A. P. Chekhov had thus paid his dues to his ‘first mistress’, Science. The following years were to see his maturity as a dramatist, in The Snow Goose, The Apple Orchard and other plays. But his constitution was undermined by the rigours of the Tunguska Expedition. He soon sold the little estate at Melikhovo, to which he had moved from Moscow with his mother and sister. Poor health forced him to take up permanent residence in Yalta. And he married Olga Knipper; and he died in 1904.

  His mother survived him by fourteen years; and his sister Mariya died in 1957, having served his memory faithfully for decades as curator of the Chekhov Museum which had been their home in Yalta; Mariya herself never married . . . />
  They digested the information in silence. By now Osip had caught on to the implications.

  He scratched his head. “Obviously the Communist Party’s the same. Your book mentions the Revolution. So we’ll all fit in—if we keep our wits about us. We’re Russians, after all.’’

  “Imagine,’’ said Kirilenko, “a stone thrown into a pond. The ripples die down after a little while. So Chekhov still goes to Yalta and weds Knipper and dies in 1904. By the time of the Revolution the ripples are too small to change things much. And by now, well, everything should be much the same. After all, we did and on the Moon last year.’’

  “How about this nuclear physicist, Morisov?’’ asked Sergey.

  “Doesn’t the Encyclopaedia always go on like that? We Russians invented the aeroplane before the Wright Brothers took off. We invented the helicopter. Lord knows what else.”

  Osip said huffily, “That’s all perfectly true. Pioneer work was done.”

  “These plays are probably just as good as the other ones,” said Felix, his mind working overtime. “I mean, he’s still Chekhov, whatever else happened! And we can still make the film—about Tunguska, because it’ll be absolutely true. Oh but hell, that means we can’t use the Anton Astrov future stuff... It wouldn’t have any point. . . unless we were to make a film in the ’88 framework about him heading for Tunguska, and the timeship crashing—and so he finds he’s en route for Sakhalin instead! No, wait a minute, he was en route for Sakhalin anyway, when he met that wretched Sidorov and heard about the explosion! It was Sidorov that started him off. But this would just be cinema verite—compared to our wonderful new conception!”

  “I never thought it was all that wonderful,” grumbled Sergey. “I just went along with the new idea to keep you happy. It was agreed we’d revert to my original scenario, if the other one crapped out. Seems to me that’s all we’re doing.”

  “Oh, but what a loss, dear boy!”

  Kirilenko was amazed. “But surely you aren’t still seriously contemplating making the film?”

  “Why not? Look here, Victor: we have to cling to something to keep our sanity. We’re shipwrecked—we’re timewrecked. It’s the only lifeboat we have, the film.”

  Mikhail giggled. “So take this down, Sergey old son: ‘It came from outer space, into Siberia, felling a billion trees—whatever it was! Today, thanks to Anton Chekhov’s investigations, Space will soon become the new Siberia, of prosperity and happiness’!” A tear appeared in Mikhail’s eye. “It knocked the bloody Cherry Orchard down, it did!”

  “There, there,” said Felix. “We’ll still make a super film, even if it is realistic.”

  “But actually ... it was all our fault. We knocked the Cherry Orchard down! In this building, this weekend . . . We shot the Seagull—and turned it into a Snow Goose!”

  “Let’s face it, Mike: wasn’t Christ changed out of all recognition by those who celebrated him? Weren’t his very words rewritten, even the episodes of his life? And Joan of Arc, too? And Trotsky?” “Mr Levin!” cautioned Osip, shocked.

  “Past events can be altered. History gets rewritten. Well, we’ve just found that this applies to the real world too.” Felix tossed the copy of Four Plays on to the sofa and strode about. “Maybe it’s happening to us all the time, without us realizing? Maybe the real history of the world is changing constantly! And why? Because history is a fiction. It’s a dream in the mind of humanity, forever striving . . . towards what? Towards perfection.”

  “Oh yes, and how about Auschwitz?” retorted Mikhail. “And the Inquisition? And Genghis Khan? It’s a grotesque parade, this world, that’s all it is.”

  “A dream in the mind . . .” Sergey echoed Felix’s words in a sinister tone. He snapped his fingers. “Might I suggest that we’ve all been taken for a ride—by the master hypnotist himself!” “Sergey. Please.”

  “No listen, Felix. He hypnotised the lot of us—that’s the simplest explanation! This has nothing to do with mass suggestion coming from Mikhail. Victor Kirilenko—him—he hypnotised the whole bunch of us into believing that Chekhov ever did write a play called The Cherry Orchard. Or Uncle Vanya. Or The Seagull . . . It’s that man who persuaded us the Tunguska bang happened a few years after Chekhov’s death. He bloody well mesmerised us with these lies—just to see how we’d all react when the true version popped up out of Mikhail’s subconscious, as he knew it must do. It’s a psychology experiment, that’s what it is—and all at our expense!”

  “I suppose,” said Kirilenko bitterly, “this is one way of adapting yourself psychologically . . .”

  “And as for this Anton Astrov nonsense: that was because Mikhail’s mind has been struggling to reconcile this farrago of lies—with what he knows deep down. I’ve done you an injustice, Mike!” Sergey opened his arms to embrace the actor; but Mikhail fended him off.

  Kirilenko jumped up. “You do me an injustice! I really protest my innocence. Most sincerely!”

  Sergey sneered. “Only animals and savages are ever sincere: so said Anton. He knew a thing or two.”

  “But that isn’t how Dr Kirilenko proceeds,” cried Sonya hotly. “Not ever.”

  Sergey ignored her. “Oh, what marvellous political applications this could have! To persuade people that things are other than they are ... that some things never happened, and other things happened instead . . . But we’d better test it out on a small scale first, eh chaps? Something unpolitical. . . The Stanislavsky Film Unit of Krasnoyarsk seem like a good gang of dupes.”

  “But this is preposterous!” Kirilenko advanced, as though to break Sergey over his knee. “I demand an apology.”

  “And maybe, when we wake up tomorrow, we’ll no longer remember The Cherry Orchard at all!”

  Mikhail chewed at his nails; his face was haunted. “I can’t star in a film, knowing all these. . . these ambiguities!” He tore a meniscus of nail loose and spat it on to the carpet.

  “Yes, you must apologize, Mr Gorodsky,” insisted Sonya. “What you said is grossly unfair.”

  “It would be a far, far better thing,” said Mikhail to her softly, “if he was to hypnotise the whole lot of us—right now. And himself, as well! Yes, and tell us all to forget about this other Anton who wrote The Cherry Orchard ... I can’t bear to be haunted by mystery till the day I die.”

  “Is that what you really want?” shouted Kirilenko. “Oblivion? The blindfolds pulled down?”

  Mikhail flapped his hands helplessly. “Look, Anton would have said that it’s meaningless to blather on about a mystery. He’d have gone off, and written an . . . Apple Orchard, yes! An Apple Orchard. And he did, too. . . Speaking of which ... I think I’ll take myself off somewhere quiet, and read it. Just to see what it’s all about. . He retrieved Four Plays from the sofa, and slapped his jacket pocket with his free hand as though he had just slipped the book inside, though he was still clutching the volume in his other hand. “Frankly, I don’t care a hang any more. It’s all a grotesque parade—how can we make sense out of anything? No, you stay here, Sonya—I want to be on my own for a while.’’

  Sonya subsided; and Mikhail departed, leaving the doors half open. Osip pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, and was promptly racked by a coughing fit.

  “Oh shut up!’’ snapped Sergey.

  “I suppose,’’ mused Felix, “we ought to be grateful that there’s something in the universe, rather than nothing ... I mean, when you do come down to it: an apple orchard, instead of a cherry orchard—what’s the odds? Apples or cherries? Cherries or apples? You can stew up a tasty compote with either of them . . .’’

  Osip thumped himself on his chest, to clear it. “Yeah, let’s not get worked up in a stew. Let’s keep our heads screwed on. And our feet on the ground.’’ He flicked ash carelessly at the carpet. “Who do you reckon won the match at the Dynamo Stadium, eh?’’

  “Both sides lost,’’ Sergey said sourly.

  The noise of a pistol shot, coming from the direction of the library, soun
ded just like a champagne cork popping out of a bottle. But they all realized at once exactly what it was.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Sonya was THE first through the double doors. Felix hurried after her. “It’s okay! Don’t panic! It’s just a blank. Mike found the gun in a basket of props. He was fooling round with it earlier on. That’s all it is: a prop . . .”

  Sergey thrust past him. “The bloody joker, I’ll settle his hash.’’

  “It in’t my fault,’’ cried Osip, from behind. “I never knew about any pistol in them baskets, honest . . .’’

  But Mikhail lay sprawled out on the parquet floor of the library, amidst the gloomy mahogany bookcases and the dusty, wingback chairs draped with antimacassars. Blood was pouring from his head. His finger was still tangled in the trigger guard.

  Sonya screamed, then knelt by Mikhail, rocking back and forth.

  “Don’t touch!’’ warned Felix. Urgently he turned to Osip. “Be quick, ring for an ambulance—’’

  “Don’t do it, Osip!’’ shouted Sergey. “Don’t be a fool! Ambulance? Police, questions? We don’t know what our story is yet.’’

  Kirilenko knelt by Mikhail, too, and felt his pulse. Then he inspected the wound closely.

  “It’s all right, Sonya, he’s alive . . . His pulse is steady.’’ He crouched lower. “Quiet please, everyone! He’s still breathing perfectly well... I don’t think he’s in any danger. The bullet just creased his skull. It tore his scalp.’’

  “So much blood—’’

  “Of course there’s a lot of blood flow from the scalp, Doctor Suslova! But he’ll live.” Kirilenko applied a handkerchief to the wound. “I’ll just staunch this . . . Osip, fetch me a bowl of hot water—and I want the First Aid kit. I need scissors, dressing and plaster.”

  This time Osip did hurry r rf.

  Sonya looked up. “But we must call an ambulance.”