Jacob's Ladder

by Ludmila Ulitskaya

  As for my own personal views, I am most likely agnostic. Although these notions (gnosticism and agnosticism) are rather confused, they are not diametrically opposed. If gnostics consider the world to be ultimately knowable, and agnostics think the world is not, I choose Gnosis itself as my God, which undoes the contradiction. This means that I am prepared to pursue knowledge and wisdom my whole life without hope for the possibility of attaining it. Of course, all these ideas are far more sophisticated than the practical decision I now face, but it’s impossible for me not to take them into consideration. And the price one pays for one’s education, even such a practical branch as I have chosen, cannot be subject to compromise. I have already made my decision. I am withdrawing from the Institute.

  I have written about my decision to Genrikh. The opinion of my elder brother is far more important to me than that of my father in this matter. But his response will not arrive anytime soon, and the decision has already been made. I don’t know whether he will support me in it. This year Genrikh’s younger sister Anyuta was sent to Switzerland to study in a medical college in Zürich. I can’t even dream of the possibility of going to Germany to study.

  But about my withdrawal. I can’t make my final decision without your input, because you are my wife, and if my long-term plans don’t coincide with yours, I have to find another solution. Such a long-winded forewarning was due to the fact that I am afraid of revealing my plan to you, knowing beforehand how hard it will be for you to reconcile yourself to it. I have decided to enlist in the army as a volunteer. Don’t be upset, don’t faint, don’t despair. I’ll explain: This one-year (or two-year) term of military service will allow me to re-enroll in the Institute. Then I will be able to complete my studies in economics, to support a family, and to enjoy all the advantages of a happy marriage. The final decision rests with you alone. I give you the Roman right of veto.

  I’ve already devised a plan for the coming months, and taken the first steps in preparation for my withdrawal. I took my German exam, fulfilling the requirements for the whole course. I also took my exams in trade and industrial law in advance. I am getting ready to take my English exam ahead of schedule. I’ll pass it easily. It’s not as hard as German, although the pronunciation is difficult. I read King Lear for the exam. Shakespeare’s language is archaic, so I had to make a glossary; but the differences between the original English and the Russian translations are enormous! It’s very satisfying to examine the differences. Kanshin’s version is the best; it’s a prose translation. Compare Kanshin’s translation with this passage in English: “Thou art the thing itself. Unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings!”

  In short, the original is stronger, more energetic, than the translation.

  I would translate it like this: “You, abject man, are but a poor, naked two-legged animal! Begone, begone, superfluous attire!”

  You see? Whenever I talk to you about pragmatic matters, I always have the urge to share my literary musings.

  One or two years in the army—that’s exactly what it’s about. I’ll be living among “poor forked animals”—not “bare,” however, but wearing army coats. I must admit that I feel oppressed by my dependence on Papa, who is paying for my education. After two years of army service, I will most likely achieve financial independence.

  I understand the sacrifices that you will have to make. It means that we will not be united for another one or two years. I will understand if you say no. I can’t demand that you agree to this delay. But I am also sacrificing what I have always considered to be the most sacred thing for me—music. My musical education is in a bad state. The history of music, music theory, the foundations of composition—all this I can work through on my own. I have a knack for learning from literature. But reading books is a poor substitute for making real music, listening to music, and interacting with others in a musical environment. And this will not be available to me in the army.

  The final decision rests with you, Marusya. If you object to my serving in the army, I will abandon the idea. Going to work in a commercial office would be an even greater trial for me than spending two years in the army. I leave the decision in your hands. I kiss those incomparably wonderful hands, and do not dare to encroach any further.

  —Jacob

  21

  A Happy Year

  (1985)

  In the fall of 1984, disaster befell Taisia—a disaster that became an unexpected boon for Nora. Taisia’s husband, Sergei, a quiet, henpecked man, left her. No one could have expected such an audacious step after such a long, harmonious, and uneventful marriage. He left her without warning or regret, having stuffed his pants and instruments into a gym bag. He did not intend to return. Taisia was still trying to recover her composure after her initial bitter indignation when her listless, indolent daughter, Lena, a student in her final year at the Agricultural Academy, announced that she was getting married to a classmate, an Argentinian exchange student, and leaving with him for Argentina. While they were going through the bureaucratic rigmarole that attended such a move, her daughter brought the pushover husband home to live with them. They settled into Taisia’s orphaned bedroom, and instead of Sergei, this disgusting “black-ass,” as Taisia referred to her son-in-law, now frolicked in her bed. Her sagging, unattractive Lena suddenly straightened out and bloomed, fully liberated from her indisputable dependence on her mother. Taisia, who had spent her whole life teaching quotidian domestic wisdom to young mothers, now witnessed the complete destruction of her personal universe. She came to Nora and, sobbing, recounted both stories. She ended by saying she couldn’t bear living under the same roof with a “black-ass.” What should she do?

  Without even considering the new possibilities that would open for her, Nora invited Taisia to move in with her until the newlyweds moved away, and Taisia gladly accepted the invitation. They began reorganizing the household right then and there. They moved Nora’s desk into the room she called the “living room,” and covered the divan with her bedsheets. Grandmother Zinaida’s ancien-régime boatlike bed was put at Taisia’s disposal. When Yurik got home from school and discovered Taisia, whom he had always considered to be some close relative, in Nora’s room, he was delighted.

  Not until that evening, when they were sitting over dinner together, did Nora realize that Taisia’s constant presence in her home offered her a freedom she had never even dreamed of. Taisia had immediately taken early retirement when she moved in with them, and now picking up Yurik from school and feeding him dinner had become her sacred duty. Nora paid her the difference between her pension and what she had earned at the polyclinic, and both of them were happy with the arrangement.

  Nora didn’t manage to take advantage of the new opportunities right away, because, a couple of weeks after Taisia had moved in, Tengiz appeared again—without warning, without so much as a phone call.

  They hadn’t seen each other in a year. Their last meeting, in Tbilisi, had been short and accidental. Nora had arrived in Tbilisi with a theater company to stage a play—a rather weak one, a detective story with a set that resembled the labyrinth of a child’s pocket maze puzzle. Nora had no intention of seeking out Tengiz. The unwritten rule of their relationship had never changed: they took it up again at any moment, in any place, that he wished; then he disappeared, as though he had never been. Nora had never taken the first step to contact him.

  It was the first time Nora had ever been to Tbilisi, Tengiz’s city. In the evening, she left the hotel to take a walk through the unfamiliar town by herself. She walked along Rustaveli Avenue, then wandered into the oldest part of town, down a crooked, deserted lane. She kept expecting him to appear from around a corner, waving to her. She walked along, enjoying both the sights of the city and her own fearlessness. He didn’t appear from around a bend in the road or stepping out of a taxi; but his name popped up in a conversation the next day.

  The director with whom she was working invited her
to visit a local celebrity. They went in a large group to the dreary outskirts of Tbilisi, to a gray nine-story apartment building, where an Armenian artist about whom Nora had heard from some mutual friends lived. They were welcomed by someone who resembled a soothsayer or conjuror. She had a nose like a beak, and bright violet-plum eyes, and wore a strange, threadbare, dove-colored garment made of silk and some sort of intricate turban on her head. Nora immediately wanted to draw her.

  Nora didn’t say a word, but looked at the paintings that covered every available space and stood three rows deep against the walls. It was impossible to know where the artist in her silks slept, because every surface was covered with easels, stretchers, pads of paper, and jars. Among all this painting paraphernalia was a small burner with two long-armed Turkish coffeepots and a few cups and saucers. There wasn’t a single hint of daily routine, of daily life, of a bed. All the paintings depicted imaginary mythological beings—fairy-tale beasts, snakes, goddesses, and virgins. Colorful Oriental madness, executed with great talent and skill. In the middle of the room, on an easel, stood a large portrait of Tengiz, very academic, painted with a strong hand, and without even a touch of whimsical Orientalism. He was looking out from under his brow. The artist had grasped some precise crease of the lips, and the coloring of the portrait was so accurate, heavy, and above the head it seemed there was an explosion of sky—a desperate blue … The portrait was large and as yet unfinished. Nora imagined she could even smell his homegrown country tobacco … He was just here, sitting for the portrait, she mused.

  She spent the entire next day at the theater, but after the first act she slipped away with David, a sweet young Moscow-Georgian actor who had grown up in Tbilisi. They killed him in the first act, so by the second, when the plot was unfolding, he was already as free as a bird. They were good companions, and he offered to show her around town. First they went down to the Kura River, then walked along the embankment. When they got hungry, they stopped at the first little wine cellar cum restaurant they came to. There was some sort of celebration under way. One half of the rather small room was occupied by a long table, and at the head of the table sat Tengiz. Next to him was a large Georgian woman with a drooping lower lip, who looked like a Gypsy. They were celebrating Tengiz’s birthday.

  He saw Nora and her companion as soon as they walked in. He stood up and announced: “Oh, we have guests from Moscow! Now, this is a real birthday present! Nora Ossetsky, my favorite artist! And her friend…” Tengiz faltered.

  With a tender smile on her face, Nora said her friend’s name to fill in the awkward pause.

  “Sit down, sit down!”

  Nora and David sat down on the chairs they were offered. For an hour and a half, Nora sat as though onstage, in the midst of the happy din of the Georgian feast, after which she and David stood up to go, thanking them all for their hospitality. Then they left, holding hands like lovers. She felt heartsick—Tengiz might think that she had planned this.

  They went to the hotel without talking. Nora had a private room, like a VIP; the actors were all assigned shared rooms. David stayed in her room until the morning. He was wonderful, very young and shy. And it was good that he stayed. He probably wouldn’t have if Nora had not invited him in. She had never discovered a better way of curing the wounds that Tengiz inflicted on her.

  This time, Tengiz arrived with the words “You won’t chase me away?” He was carrying the same duffel bag, and under his arm he had a case with a guitar for Yurik: a nearly full-fledged instrument, three-quarters of the size of a grown-up’s guitar. Yurik grabbed hold of the instrument and immediately started strumming all six of the strings at once.

  “Wait, we need to tune it first.” And they went off to Yurik’s room. Tengiz turned the tuning pegs deftly with his sensitive fingers and demonstrated the first five chords.

  “Learn these chords and you’ll already be able to play something,” he said, and they strummed for a whole hour. With the movements of a sculptor, Tengiz arranged Yurik’s fingers on the strings, and he got results almost immediately.

  After dinner, Tengiz told Nora that he had come for half a year or a year, depending on how things worked out. He had gotten an interesting offer from Mosfilm, and in a few days, after the details were decided, he would be moving to a rented apartment that the studios had promised to provide him with. Then he went quiet, mumbled something, and went quiet again. Nora didn’t say anything, either; but both of them were thinking about the same thing.

  “There have been some changes in my life, you see. Nino got married, and her husband has a house outside Tbilisi. Natella decided to move in with our daughter—they’re living there now. Natella left me, right? I’m a lone wolf now.”

  “I see,” Nora said, nodding. He did have a trace of the wolf’s gauntness about him—his eyes glittered with fierceness, or perhaps hidden fear. And he wants to stay here, with me!

  Tengiz’s hands had always been stronger than his head. He even said this about himself: “especially when my hands are you,” he told Nora. But that wasn’t quite what he meant. What he wanted to say was that Nora could put into words what he was unable to express. Russian was not his first language, of course, but even in Georgian he didn’t know how to articulate his thoughts with precision. He relied on circumlocutions, gesticulations, howls and groans, and other forms of body language to get things across, but he ultimately succeeded in making the actors submit completely to his will. And not just the actors. It was a gift. He knew how to motivate people, and they did what he wanted them to. It was probably some ancient power of suggestion. There was possibly only one person on earth who didn’t succumb to his power—his wife, Natella. He was in thrall to the primordial but insurmountable female power she wielded. For almost thirty years they had been locked in constant battle. Both of them felt doomed to continue this struggle, which neither of them could win.

  “You’re a witch, Natella, a witch,” he would say in despair when he couldn’t bear the sight of her any longer. “Just kill me outright. Why do you suck my blood, like a bird?”

  Why a bird, he couldn’t explain in ordinary, daytime language. He had a recurring dream, a nightmare: He was lying naked on the warm ground, in a pale-grayish-brown light, and someone seemed to be poking needles into his veins. And then he saw that they were actually filthy birds, covered in dirt, sucking his blood through their thin beaks—one on his neck, another on his stomach, and a third in his groin …

  Nora gave him what Natella took away from him; this was the secret of their enduring relationship. Nora was the ideal receiver and retransmitter of his will, and working with her on a play was a pleasure for Tengiz. She was adept at translating his intentions, his mumbling and bellowing, into material language—a dark-red wall imitating brickwork, sepia-colored dresses, a white backdrop that had been spattered by a hail of artillery fire … And she kissed his hands, and licked every one of his fingers, like a puppy that nuzzles its mother’s belly, looking for a nourishing teat.

  “My clever girl,” he whispered to her, surrendering his hands to her moist lips, her hard tongue.

  What precisely she was licking off cannot be captured in words, but after each new episode, after each new performance, Nora became stronger and more sure of herself. Later, when Nora herself proved her mettle, transforming herself gradually from an artist and a set designer into a director, even an author, and staged her first plays in provincial theaters, she told him, “Tengiz, my directorial skills were sexually transmitted.”

  That first night, Tengiz slept on the floor, on a quilted cotton comforter spread out in the living room. The next day, they moved the furniture around again: Grandmother’s boat bed sailed into the living room, the divan was passed on to Taisia, and the former population of the apartment (Nora and her son) was doubled, much to Yurik’s delight.

  Several days after Tengiz moved in, Yurik whispered in Nora’s ear, “It’s even better this way than with a German shepherd.” It wasn’t about the dog, of cou
rse, but about the guitar. He took it in his hands and began to like himself more. When no one else was home, he went out into the hallway, where there was a full-length mirror, and played, watching his reflection out of the corner of his eye. The happiness he experienced at this moment wasn’t completely unprecedented. He suddenly remembered feeling the same thing when he was five years old, beating out rhythms on the African drum, and then on the xylophone. But he was also learning to read at just that time, and he had traded the xylophone for Kipling: first there was a cat who walked by himself; then Mowgli, who for many years was his favorite character from a book; and after that, four other books, which Nora thrust under his nose in short order, one after another. Now all that he had forgotten came rushing back to him. The guitar seemed to contain the rhythm of the drum, and the xylophone, and sounds, sounds from which phrases emerged in some mysterious fashion—though the phrases were different from those in books.

  Tengiz shared his rudimentary theoretical knowledge of music with Yurik, and no new information inspired him like the ideas of modes, major and minor keys, intervals, and chord changes. He listened attentively now to the sounds of the world around him, evaluated them in the light of his newfound knowledge, and discovered every day anew that all the sounds of the world could be described with these new rules, and that there was music playing everywhere, at every moment, even in your sleep, getting louder or dying down. Now he heard a complex rhythm in the patter of the first raindrops, the dangerous pauses in the rumbling of the iron sheeting on the roofs of sheds; in the trill of the doorbell he caught the sound of a minor third … Tengiz had no idea what a powerful mechanism for perceiving the soundscapes and aural structures of the world he had unlocked. He was just happy about the boy’s rapt attention, and the eagerness with which he absorbed this new information. Not that everything he discovered in this new aural universe was radiant and blissful: sometimes his new capacity for hearing filled him with anxiety, even torment.