Jacob's Ladder

by Ludmila Ulitskaya

  Skimming through the Second Law of Thermodynamics, Grisha reached the cell theory in its classic form, and, starting with Schleiden and Schwann, solemnly announced that now they had arrived at the most essential matter, about which the originators of this cell theory of all living things had no clue—that the cell was a molecular computer that functioned according to the DNA program created by God the Almighty.

  “To be alive means, within the boundaries of the organism, not to increase the entropy throughout the course of the life cycle, in spite of all the possibilities the cell has at its disposal—in particular, reproduction. The cell is an immensely complex system. To understand how it functions, scientists create models that possess the characteristics of the living cell. And it seems that Vitya, your pops, is the world’s foremost expert in this area. He’s a genius, but he doesn’t understand one fundamental thing, as is often the case with geniuses.” Here Grisha again began waving his arms around and berating Vitya, who early that morning had ridden his bicycle to the lab to work—offering his son to Grisha as fodder for his training exercises in proselytizing. But, like a true devotee, Grisha was happy with anyone who would listen. All the more since he had now come to his hobbyhorse. “You know how a computer works, broadly speaking?”

  Yurik nodded. “My father has explained the basics to me.”

  “The technical side of things, the hardware, doesn’t concern us here,” Grisha said dismissively. “We’ll be focusing our attention on the organization of the information process itself. What is information exactly? Not long ago, it was considered to be a message that was transmitted from mouth to mouth, in written form, or with the help of some sort of signal, from one person to another. The theory of information was created—the transmission may occur not only from person to person, but from person to machine, from machine to machine. And there is an algorithm, a system of rules, according to which information is deployed for solving problems and tasks on different levels.

  “Such algorithmic processes are also present in cells. And it is immaterial how we understand this process—whether as a means of communication between concrete, material objects, or whether we consider that the cell itself utilizes various material objects to realize its existence. The main idea here is that information and matter do not exist independent of one another. The life of a cell is revealed through the operation of its informational system.

  “One can compare it to a symphony orchestra, in which a composer, a conductor, musicians, musical instruments, the score, and even the electricity that illuminates the sheet music, all take part. Yes, it’s a good example; as a musician you would be predisposed to understand it. The composer writes the music—the algorithm for playing it—and transcribes it—programs or encodes it—in the form of a score with the help of notes—a special alphabet—for a long-term memory—that is, on paper or in the computer memory. The score contains information about the beginning and end of the musical composition, and about what and how each musical instrument should play at a given moment in time, during the course of performing the work. That’s it!”

  Grisha was beaming—with his eyes, his wrinkles, his swarthy pate, and every hair of his scraggly beard.

  “That’s it! Do you understand who the composer is here? The Creator! The score is written by Him with the help of the Text, by means of DNA. Because DNA is the alphabet of the Creator. And now please explain to me why your father shies away from this simple truth, like the devil from holy water? It’s so obvious. The Creator created the Law, but He Himself is subordinate to his own law. The universe is intelligent and multitiered. On every tier or level, understanding has its limits. This multitiered nature of things is described in various ways in all religious systems, and it is from this that the inherent intelligibility of the universe derives. If the universe is intelligible, it is possible to model it. Your father, who does computer programming, and does it better than anyone else, refuses to accept the Author of All Scores. It’s incomprehensible! There is only one explanation for this: his work belongs to a higher level, but he himself is still on a lower one. And I can’t force him to break through to the next one. Everyone must accomplish this on his own.”

  When Vitya returned home from the lab, Grisha redirected his attention to him. But no dialogue resulted: Grisha ranted and railed, and Vitya grunted occasionally, saying, “Hmm, interesting,” while he ate a microwaved dinner that Martha had prepared for him and sipped Coca-Cola. Grisha’s ardent inspiration made it impossible for him to accept that his friend couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  After three days of failure to elicit any sympathy from Vitya, and having exhausted his store of pent-up zeal on Yurik, Grisha flew back to Israel. Yurik saw off the agitated Grisha at JFK, boarded his favorite subway line, the A train, and felt that he had escaped from a bender without any withdrawal pains or other unpleasant consequences purely by means of intellectual exertions, the most powerful of his entire life thus far. He didn’t remember the details of what Grisha had told him, but he was left with a sensation of soaring and flight.

  He sat looking out the window of the train—it hadn’t yet plunged underground—and listened to a melody in his head. He managed to remember what Grisha had said, that all music is written in the heavenly spheres.

  Yurik transferred to a train going north and stopped near South Ferry. By that time the melody in his head had completely taken shape, with a strange hook at the beginning, then a repetition in which the hook straightened itself out, put out a little shoot, and then another … It could even have been depicted graphically, but it would have been better to play it first. When he emerged from the subway, he sat on the shore, took out his guitar, and played as much of it as he could, from beginning to end. The piece was as elegant and slender as a fish, as light as a bird, absolutely alive.

  Toward evening, he arrived at Houston Street, and dropped in on old Tom Drew, the proprietor of a store and workshop that manufactured bar counters and other club furnishings. Tom Drew offered him a job. It was an excellent opportunity. Tom was an old hippie who had long since become a model citizen. His daughter Agnes, who had been born with severe hypothalamus syndrome, had set him on the straight and narrow. The mother abandoned them when the little girl was not yet a year old; from that time on, though still a hippie in his heart of hearts, he had worked like one possessed; he never drank or used drugs, and didn’t even smoke. He was ready to do anything for his now grown daughter, who had turned into an unhappy, tyrannical hellcat. Still, Tom cherished a feeling of tenderness and disguised envy for hippies and musicians—his unfulfilled destiny.

  Yurik stayed overnight in the utility room. He dreamed about Grisha, who talked about the Divine, then he turned into Mickey, wearing a stretched-out red T-shirt, cussing a mile a minute in Spanish, which was incomprehensible and for some reason very funny.

  Life started rolling along as usual. Yurik moved heavy bar counters around, composed music, played with various bands, listened to world music of every variety, smoked weed, and for a while avoided all hard drugs. He changed jobs, lived here and there, but had managed to reform and become a decent young man before Nora’s next visit. Every time, it was more and more difficult.

  The drugs became a habitual and necessary condition of life for him—overdue credit that he would ultimately have to pay back. He understood this very well.

  He wasn’t able to keep a single job. He became a dealer, a drug peddler. And he was hooked on the stuff himself—there was already no turning back. Spike, a seasoned worker in the heroin trade, gave him one dose for every ten he delivered to various other addresses. At night, he cruised the city looking for a bonus dose of junk. During the evening, he played music wherever he could, sometimes on the street. Once, in a small square, he heard a busker playing his music. He sat down next to him and listened. The guy wasn’t really any good. Still, it was amazing how the music came to life, independent of him.

  Yurik was arrested twice for possession of narcotics. They
let him go. The police understood perfectly well how the business was set up—that all the small-fry dealers were victims of a truly pitiless gang of big-time dealers, who reaped money from the deaths of young idiots. The judges were for the most part humane. They had one undeclared rule: they wouldn’t nail a dealer until the third time he was caught. After being detained a second time, Yurik was getting used to the thought that, in his situation, prison wasn’t the worst alternative.

  The third time he was caught was at the end of 1999, right before the New Year. They busted him in the evening, he spent the night at the police department, and they took him before the judge the next morning. Everything happened very quickly. In the courtroom, he was with a group of young black men, half of whom Yurik knew by sight; one, a bass player, was someone he had played with about three years before. They were all looking at five or six years behind bars, and Yurik was trying to estimate how old he would be when he got out. He figured he would be at least thirty.

  The cases were being handled individually at a rapid clip—ten minutes for each of them. Yurik was saved by the computer. When they typed in his last name, the prior offenses didn’t show up. Dumbfounded by this stroke of luck, Yurik puzzled for a long time over the computer god that had intervened in his fate. Then he understood what had happened: he was saved by the alphabet. Or, rather, the transcription of Russian into English. He bore the surname of his mother, Ossetsky. There were a couple of spelling variants in English: Osetsky, Osezky … At the time of his last arrest, he hadn’t been carrying any ID, and the officer wrote his name down as he’d heard it, not as it was officially spelled. So now they let him go. He left the building and sat down on the steps of the courthouse, without the strength to walk. And where would he go?

  With great effort, he made it to Long Island. Martha grew terribly alarmed when she saw him, and called Nora in Moscow. Two weeks later, Nora flew back to New York.

  35

  Letters from Marusya to Jacob

  Sudak

  (JULY–AUGUST 1925)

  JULY 24

  Jacob, dearest! I’m writing you sitting on a suitcase on the floor. I’m in Tataria, as you well know—so the discomfort is easy to bear. But first about the trials and tribulations. And there have been not a few. Genrikh tormented me during the journey. He stuck his legs out of the train window, then hung out of it bodily. He ran to the platform at the end of the car and studied all the machinery, once almost managed to stop the train, etc., etc.

  I got so worked up about him I nearly didn’t sleep at all—and, on top of that, he started running a temperature. We arrived in Feodosia in the driving rain, at three o’clock. I was already exhausted. Then we had to lug all our things, dragging them through pools of water, to get to the boat, hurrying as fast as our legs would carry us, because it was already about to leave. We forgot our linens in the train, and so ran back to look for them, and so on. I am terribly indebted to a German couple who literally saved me. They took Genrikh in hand, helped me carry our belongings, and showed us a great deal of concern. We finally made it onto the boat, with all our things in tow. The natural scenery, which was completely new to me, quite took my breath away. It’s almost impossible to describe. The only thing I know is that in the first few minutes, all the particles of my soul were transformed. A new blank space was filled out in its periodic table of elements. Through my own eyes, I saw the magnificence of the world. It was as though my hand had reached out to grasp it.

  We arrived in Sudak at 11:00 p.m. (On the boat, Genrikh asked if there was anything to eat. I gave him a quarter of a chicken and some bread—he ate it all very quickly. The boat rocked quite a bit, and he grew very pale. But we made him put his head between his legs, and it passed.) A dark night.

  At the mooring (just a small bridge, nothing more), we overheard rumors about a raid by bandits that had happened the night before. They cleaned out an entire boardinghouse—every last bit of it. My traveling companions and I began to look for shelter for the night. We wandered around Sudak in the dark. Every place we came to was already full; they wouldn’t agree to any terms. We spent the night on the seashore.

  We put Genrikh (very cranky, demanding we go back to Moscow) to sleep on the bedroll, and the whole night I watched over him—afraid that he would kick off the covers. This means I didn’t sleep or change for three nights in a row.

  The next day, we went searching again: NO ROOMS. Sudak is full up to the rafters. Many people are turning back, or going farther. I decided that it was impossible for me to drag myself from place to place with a child, without a destination. Toward evening, I found a room for thirty-five rubles. We went to fetch our things, and when we returned, this is what I find: “Apologies for mistake: room already let.” I almost wept. There is no manager for the dachas (the dacha pension is a collective), and I went back down to the seashore to beg to stay the night in the sea transport offices.

  The next day, I sought out the manager, and told him that I intended to occupy a dacha. I would sit in the front hall until they gave me a room; otherwise, I would call him to account, as the official in charge, for exploiting the rooms for personal gain. I threatened to send a telegram to my husband in the People’s Commissariat. In short, I went on the warpath. The man turned out to be vainglorious and naïve. My voice was loud and commanding, my diction curt; but the main thing was that I was fully convinced I was in the right. In six days’ time, I will be in my own room (and a very good one, at that). Last night, we slept on the floor. I haven’t changed my clothes in all this time. Today a woman who is living here offered to let me live for a few days with her in her room, until her husband arrives.

  In further news: I’m spending money like it’s going out of style. It is not cheaper to live here than it is in Moscow. Prices are inflated with the influx of tourists, which is not at all usual here. For the time being, though, money isn’t a problem. The amount I have allocated for living expenses for a month will suffice (with the fifty rubles I put aside). There isn’t enough for a return trip, however.

  Now for the good news. In spite of the torments I’ve gone through, I feel energetic and in good spirits. The Crimea is lovely, magnificent, full of marvels. Genrikh has come to life again. He’s eating, he got deeply suntanned during these two or three days, and we haven’t even sunbathed yet. I am unrecognizable (for your ears alone: I have become prettier). In spite of using my parasol, I even managed to get some sun; it looks quite nice, though. The air of the sea and the mountains invigorates me. I’m happy.

  I’m tired, there are hardships and inconveniences, I work a lot, I’m always running back and forth to the bazaar in Sudak. But my eyes drink in the colors and light, my ears the rhythms; and I’m afraid I might become religious here. The effects of nature. A Tatar woman walks past with a basket of peaches balanced on her head. She doesn’t even have to hold on to it. And all around is a symphony of mountains and sky. And I eat the Tatar with my eyes, swallow up the chain of mountains, and drink in the sunlight. And I love you. You are my one and only in this whole remarkable world. If your shoulder were nearby, I would cry from the wonder of it all.

  A Tatar named Gustava (he’s not pretending, it’s his real name) treated me and Genrikh to some delicious shish kebab. Gustava loves Lenin: “I give him my great thanks,” he says; and he wears a Lenin pin in his lapel. “Your Lenin is a good man.” We take a long time saying goodbye, and the expressions of good wishes are elaborate and heartfelt. They are gentle, hospitable people. Passionate, proud. If they like you, they’ll do anything for you. They like a good joke. They’re quick to anger, and hate with a vengeance. I like talking to them. Genrikh and I ate a lot of shish kebab for lunch. We drank tea with lemon, and it all cost eighty kopecks. That’s what we ate yesterday. Almonds cost twenty kopecks per pound. Pears fifteen kopecks. Genrikh devours fruit. We spend about sixty kopecks a day on fruit. I can’t write anything more. Warmest hugs.

  The sun here is so wonderful and burning hot.

  Ma
r.

  Address: Sudak, poste restante. Best to send via registered mail. We’re in the middle of nowhere.

  JULY 26

  Well, we still have no room of our own. Genrikh and I are sleeping together on a folding cot, sharing the room with another person—it’s inconvenient and awkward. I lost another room, the second, although I have a receipt for the security deposit. Both times, it was men, with their peahens and a trail of little ones following behind, who beat me out of the room. I’m almost beside myself with frustration. I can’t live like this. It’s been a whole week of ordeals, one after another. I run around all day long, hither and thither, and never manage to rest.

  Today Genrikh nearly drowned. A wave knocked him off his feet—he fell, and started churning around in the water, gasping for air. I ran over and just managed to pluck him out. I’m not really sorry this happened: now he’s good and scared, and it won’t be so hard for me to watch out for him. I didn’t get a moment’s peace when we were at the seaside. I spent all my time shouting and chasing after him. He’s such a difficult child. Very difficult. In Moscow, I have to make sure he doesn’t fall out of a window. Here, in the Crimea, there are a thousand more things to worry about: the sea, wells, precipices …

  Dinner is always a trial. Everyone sympathizes and reminds me that I’m not getting any rest. I don’t need reminding about how difficult it is to look after him. Still, he’s looking very well. And when my nerves are frayed and I’m absolutely weary, I look at his little round face, so fresh and alive, and see how happy he is, and I am reconciled to my own burdens.

  I am very concerned about the financial side of our journey. We share one meal between the two of us; I can’t afford full room and board. I prepare breakfast and lunch myself. I run around like a chicken with its head cut off. This is what a woman’s vacation looks like.