“Hello, dear!” she kisses him. She is confused and dishevelled, her hair wet and the umbrella dripping. She too rushes – to the bathroom and places the umbrella in the bathtub! The coat – on its hook over the bathrobe! And…
“Give me a hand with getting these boots off!”
For Oleg this is an exquisite pleasure: I am your slave, my princess; I kneel at your feet. For Tanya this is an irritation: after having walked all day, her feet are throbbing, and it would not even pass through her mind that removing some boots could be exciting. Oleg really does kneel and pulls; then he quickly kisses her feet before they disappear once more into her slippers.
So, it is done! The metamorphosis has been completed, and before him there now appears a domestic Tanya who is tender and a little awkward: the wet and glistening outer shell is now dripping in the bathroom. He draws near to her and kisses her. She responds with a brush of pursed lips and then draws away:
“Make me some tea, please.”
They go into the kitchen, where Oleg puts on a pan to heat the water. Tanya leans against the window, her forehead on the glass.
“It just keeps raining! Everything will thaw. It’s not even cold …”
But she is not cheerful; the thaw has not yet got inside her and she still has ice in her bones. Oleg eyes her carefully and understands: her uncontrolled restlessness and her tense and almost flustered look could only mean one thing.
“How are things at home?” he investigates prudently, knowing already that something is wrong. It’ll be the mother or the grandmother or the aunt! So which member of this tribe of women, who constitute the whole of Tanya’s world and something more besides, went without sleep last and why? Backache, asthma, rheumatism? How many chemists’ has Tanya visited today, and did she find the pills for the aunt, grandmother or mother? They spend their days on the telephone, making jam, queuing at the shops, washing and ironing – and all for each other, so the rented accommodation in Bauman Street where Tanya lives with her mother and grandmother and that of Aunt Olya in Cheryomushki are connected by a multitude of invisible threads. One question was uppermost in his mind: will she sleep with me tonight or will she have to leave so that she can be close to them, keep an eye on them, perhaps accompany them to the dispensary, if they wake up in the middle of the night with that feeling that they are suffocating? If only they would hurry up and go the way of all flesh! And he would no longer have to see that suffering in her eyes together with a gloomy determination to suffer all that there is to suffer on behalf of the mother, the grandmother and the aunt – and every time down with that bitter cup of misery to the very last dregs!
Now really, Oleg ponders darkly, I personally cannot even remember when my grandmother died, and yes, it was after leaving school; I must have been going to university… In any case, his blood cries out and invades his brain with its urgency, this evening I have really got to fuck Tanya, or I might as well throw myself from the window! And you know what, the bitch isn’t going to stay, and she doesn’t care a damn about it.
“Listen, Oleg, I have to tell you something.”
Here it comes. He acts as if he has hardly heard and continues to pour boiling water into the teapot. He then looks for glasses in the cupboard and waits for the knifeblow to his heart.
“I can’t stay this evening. I’m really, really sorry; I was so looking forward to it.”
So what can you do? Truth or a lie? No, the truth is not possible, and so the only option is a lie. He smiles and puts the teapot down on the table.
“Never mind! Has something happened?”
“Auntie Olya is suffering from breathlessness again, and has asked Mum to sleep with her. I couldn’t possibly leave Granny on her own.”
But you can leave me on my own, Tanyechka! No problem there. But keep it buttoned and pour the tea. The glasses mist up with the sudden arrival of warmth; it just takes a little boiling water to heat them through. Now turn and go to the fridge, look for the lemon and slice it. Don’t be afraid; she’s not looking at you behind your back, as she is only thinking about Auntie Olya and trying to remember if there are any other pharmacies she could visit in search of those special drops.
“The doctors say that there’s nothing wrong with her, but who still believes in doctors? When they finally decide that they’ve made a mistake, it’s already too late.”
There’s a truth in there and struggling to get out. You know, Tanya, as far as I am concerned, Auntie Olya can go ahead and shuffle off the mortal coil. Tonight, I need you to stay here with me.
“Mum went to see her yesterday and came back very worried. She has never seen her so down. I’m not sure it wouldn’t be a good idea to take her to hospital.”
What an opportunity! That way you could stay up all night to keep an eye on her – standing in the ward or perhaps on a bench if you slip a few roubles to a nurse. The truth is no longer struggling, it has found a knife and is opening a hole in the belly; in a moment it will be out. I need you tonight, and if not tonight, then now.
“Tanya, come here.” He puts his hands on her shoulders and looks her in the eye. Please God, she must understand!
The tea will get cold. Well, who cares; we’ll pour it down the sink. And yes, her lips part and she smiles!
A whisper, “But let’s have our tea first!”
“No, let’s do it now.”
They are standing opposite each and their knees, stomachs, chests and mouths connect. With his hands he lifts her skirt.
“Come to bed!”
And she was the one who said it; a moment later she is already there and unbuttoning her cardigan. She wriggles out of her skirt and now in her tights and shirt, wants to slip under the covers.
“Wait!” Oleg mutters hoarsely. He tries to unbutton her shirt with his inexpert and awkward fingers. “Go on, take off your shirt!”
But she shakes her head and no longer smiles. In fact, her mouth is now compressed into a grimace of suffering.
“I’m embarrassed!”
“But why?”
In a suppressed hiss: “I’m too fat …”
But my little dove, my golden gosling, you – fat? Was man made to embrace a bag of bones? You are flesh, and this torments you? You cannot be made of marble, even though you would like that… I, too, am made of flesh, do you want to feel it? He tries to guide her hand where he wants, but she resists; she doesn’t want to. She closes her eyes and her head thrashes around on the pillow: is she enjoying it or suffering? Who could possibly know?
“Careful! You’re hurting me!”
Well, there’s your answer… Slower then, but you, release your tongue from your teeth and let me feel that you are moist and not arid, an oasis and not a desert. If I am hurting you, then put up with it; you’ve fallen into the clutches of an ogre, and now I’ll devour you and your mother will never see you again. You will stay with me forever … ooh!
And it’s done. Now we feel better, but let’s cover ourselves with the sheet. All sweaty like this, we could catch a cold. Oleg would like just to stay like that until it is dark, without talking, but when it comes to these things, Tanya is like a man – or like what men are supposed to be like – a whole lot of things come into their heads, stuff that has nothing to do with anything. But they just have to talk about it.
“Did you know that I saw Sergey yesterday? Do you remember Sergey?”
How could he not remember Sergey, who graduated from the Faculty of Philology and is an expert on the verbs of motion? Tanya and Oleg had been engaged for two or three months, and when she introduced him to someone, she was still embarrassed to admit it:
“Let me introduce my friend!”
But there was something she always said about Sergey and she even said it to Oleg the day before she introduced him: “I really like that young man.”
Oleg sits on the edge of the bed, and starts to button up his shirt. Tanya has already got her panties back on and is pulling up her tights, without even going to the bathroom
; she doesn’t always go after making love. Well then, I’ll go.
“He has invited us to a meeting tomorrow. At Cinema Minsk. In memory of Mandelshtam.”
“What was that?”
The water is running and his voice is lost in the sound it produces. Oleg turns the tap off, and rubs himself with the towel. “Mandelshtam! He’s a poet.”
Just as well that she still wants to jest: my gorgeous has not returned to her gloominess! He goes back to the room and surprises her resetting her hair with her hands in front of the mirror, and he puts his hands on her hips. She wriggles free.
“They’ll be reading poetry, and the poet Kaverin is coming. Then there will be a debate on the persecution of writers. Shall we go?”
With Sergey, of course. Verbs of motion. Well, today we can be magnanimous.
“Are you interested? Oh sure, let’s go.”
“Such enthusiasm!”
But she’s still laughing – fortunately. Fucking has been good for her too; it has put her in a good mood. Yes, it’s true that Oleg isn’t so sure that he is interested: there are not only persecutions in this world; we are living through an unequalled period, and there are all kinds of things to be discovered… But suggesting such things to her would mean trouble. The bed has been made, although it hardly needed doing. The cold tea has been drunk, and Tanya is about to go. She has put her shiny outer shell back on: the coat, the boots and the umbrella that is still wet. A kiss that is only slightly longer than usual, and glistening with rain she disappears into the lift.
Hey, what an idiot. I forgot! Tanya! Tanya!
The lift door reopens, and her unkempt head peers out.
“Tanya, I went out today – went to buy a newspaper and look what I found!”
He goes back into the house and rushes to the bathroom with her in tow. He rummages in a plastic bag he’s placed under the basin: “They were selling light bulbs and I bought twelve of them. Half of them are for you.”
Tanya brightens up: the light bulb in the kitchen burnt out weeks ago! But then her face clouds over and she gives him a look of reproach.
“But these aren’t any good, Oleg. They’re too small! You know that we’ve got a lamp with a large socket!”
Ah princess, what can one do? Don’t blame me! They were selling these, so I bought them. I didn’t mean to annoy you; I hoped to make you happy. But her eyes clearly state that he is at fault. That disappointment, that despondency that invades her was all his work. He does not know how to keep the evils of this world away from her. He has betrayed her.
“What the hell…”
She shakes her head and leaves.
An appraisal of the day: it could have gone worse. Oleg returns to his room and sits down at the desk; he must write another page today. Yes, she left in a bad mood, but what can you do? Hey, we went to bed! Doesn’t happen every day; in fact, it doesn’t happen every week… Grant Gukasov makes me laugh. If you were to believe him, he fucks every day, either with his wife or some other woman.
Fantasies! Oleg lights a fag and looks out of the window. The city lights at eight in the evening. Okay, let’s switch on the tape-recorder and hear what other ignominies are revealed by the interview.
IX
At Cinema Minsk
Moscow, March 1988
There is a queue of three or four hundred people wanting tickets outside the Cinema Minsk. Muscovites are flocking to this new event and what could it be: a cock fight or a bear chained to an iron ball? Much better: the commemoration of the poet Mandelshtam, who died in prison. It has brought together journalists and literary figures whose bylines appear in the newspapers every day, and everyone will be free to get up and blurt out whatever comes into their heads…
“And they say that Dzhuna Davitashvili will also be there!”
The faith healer? What has she got to do with Mandelshtam?
What will they come up with next? The truth is that no one really knows who will be there. On the poster, the only clue is that the poet Kaverin will read his verses and pages from his diary.
“And who is this Kaverin?”
“God knows!”
Kaverin clearly is not enough. You need someone else and so rumours get started:
“Alla Pugachova will be there!”
“Svyatoslav Fyodorov!”
“And who’s he?”
God, you need patience…
Oleg and Tanya were in the crowd, and she was looking delightful in her lilac beret. All winter, she had been going out with her old fur hat, which was completely worn and had absurdly large ear flaps. She started wearing it when she was still at school and Oleg didn’t like it – in fact, he detested it:
“It’s awful!”
“But it’s so warm.”
Sergey, the graduate in philology, was also with them, of course. But hold on a moment, this is not perhaps the same Sergey who refused to leave Nazar Kallistratovich alone in Nina’s kitchen, even though he was happily munching through Nazar’s sausages? Who knows: might be the very one, but on the other hand, there is no certainty… Here in Russia, there are masses of these people: goatee beard, chain around the collar with a cross, and a nasty stare. And they are all called Sergey. Actually, now I come to think of it, it’s impossible. Those sausages were eaten at least twenty years ago, probably a bit more. No, he absolutely could not have been the same Sergey.
The auditorium was already full, and the only free seats were at the back. Outside people were still pushing their way in; everyone wanted to be there, even though the word was already out that Alla Pugachova would not be able to make it: this, at least, had been firmly established. So what do we do? Well, we’ve come this far, so let’s get in! Some people had been in there for more than three hours, and the heat was overpowering. They took off their coats and berets, but there was no cloakroom, so they were obliged to hold the whole lot on their knees. Just as well it had not been raining, or the people would have had their umbrellas too.
Tanya looked around; surely there must be somebody she knew in that enormous crush, but how could you tell? Five or six individuals were seated at a bare table on the stage in front of the screen, but it was impossible to make out who they were from the back row. A podium with three wooden steps and a microphone had been dragged onto the stage and placed next to the table. There was also a microphone on the table and someone was tapping it with a fingernail to see if it was working. Well, that’s a surprise… it works!
“Well, I think it’s time to get started,” proclaimed a cheery voice. “Let’s hear from our very own Filipp Semyonych: tell us a bit about why you have brought us together!”
My apologies, I forgot to say that he had organised the evening, and on a closer look, how could you not recognise him even from the back row, mainly because of his build:
Filipp Semyonych Artamonov is tall and flabby, with thick, tortoise-shell glasses, long unruly hair, a clean-shaven face, a sickly complexion and an effeminate voice. His father, Artamonov Semyon Matveyich, had an office at the Moscow council that was the size of a cinema auditorium, and everyone knew that he was involved in the illicit frozen meat trade, so he was always called the Butcher. It seems that these new times had not been bad for his business; in fact he was a good friend and drinking companion of Boris Yeltsin. Filipp Semyonych was a big fish in Komsomol, but his real passion was art: he used to stage comedies he had written himself, had gathered a group of painters around him, and would later be the chairman of a committee: Vote for our man Boris! But of course that was stuff that had not happened yet. You’ll excuse, I occasionally get confused…
Artamonov unhurriedly took hold of the microphone and waited for the applause in the front rows to die down.
“Well, I just wanted to see the massed ranks of Muscovites, and a cinema is the best place to do this. So I organised this meeting…”
Someone laughed, another started to clap, but most people started to protest: quiet now, let him speak! We’re not interested in his jokes!<
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“We wouldn’t be here this evening, if it weren’t for Mikhail Sergeyevich and what he has done, and so we must thank him,” said Artamonov. “As you all know, it is only six months since the Supreme Court rehabilitated Osip Mandelshtam and struck down the shameful accusation made against him fifty years ago, which sent him to a labour camp and to his death. Yes, much has been done… and according to some people, that is quite enough: the poet, after all, was not a criminal, and if he met an early death somewhere, well we have made our apologies. We, on the other hand, do not believe that this is enough! He himself once said, ‘The Mandelshtam affair will never be over,’ and it most certainly is not over – even now.”
He knows how to lay it on; you almost feel that he was the one who had been pestering the Supreme Court for all those years. Meanwhile Oleg is observing Tanya, who is listening and leaning forward so as not to lose a single word, even though the microphone is amplifying his voice very nicely around the entire auditorium. She then leans over to Sergey and whispers something in his ear, and he nods in agreement and strokes his goatee. Is there any reason to feel jealous? No, of course not, you can see that yourselves. So why is Oleg in such a bad mood? Is it perhaps Filipp Semyonych, who is shelling words as though they were peas, and Tanya is not the only one listening to him openmouthed?
… Now he is handing over the microphone, and then relaxing back into his chair. The next speaker actually stands up and is an old man with white hair. The hall goes silent; Artamonov probably introduced the old man, but Oleg was not listening, but rather observing Tanya seated between himself and Sergey. So far Tanya hasn’t even glanced at Oleg. “Who is he?”
“Kaverin.”
The poet speaks about Mandelshtam, who he apparently once knew. The lines denouncing Stalin were, he said, unquestionably written by him; no one else would have had the guts to do it. He talks about Nadezhda Yakovlevna, his widow, although she wasn’t technically the widow, as they responded to all her requests by saying that her husband was alive and well. He talks about how Anna Akhmatova went to see her during the war, and if one of them had managed to save up two cigarettes, they would sit in silence and smoke them, and when she could, Akhmatova would bring a bottle of vodka in the pocket of her heavy jacket, “and we would down it,” Nadezhda Yakovlevna would write in her memoirs, “and still we would be sitting in silence.”
The Anonymous Novel Page 13