Tamara’s house on Sobachya Square was slated to reach the end of its life span, and the residents were removed. Tamara’s family was resettled in the distant outskirts of the city, in Workers’ Village, past Kuntsevo. The Molodezhnaya metro station was at that time still just a point on the blueprints of city planners.
Tamara energetically shuttled back and forth between her new home, her new job, and the medical institute. The year that they moved, Tamara’s beloved grandmother Maria Semenovna died. She had been a lifelong friend of the pianist Elena Gnesina; she had spent her whole life around this renowned family, working as a secretary in their musical sanctuary, the Gnesin Institute of Music. But the old lady from the Arbat was carried off by the catastrophe of resettlement.
The civil memorial service was held at the Gnesin Institute. Tamara, who had known this remarkable family since childhood, now saw what remained of them—there, in a wheelchair, sat the great Elena Fabianovna, founder of the only empire, a musical one, that had withstood the rise of Soviet power, and what’s more—something absolutely unthinkable at the time—survived it.
It was a gathering of musicians, but among the mourners were also people from “the audience,” participants in the world of music, which seemed to exist above the Soviet world of collectivization and industrialization, all the official state upheaval and frenzy, which appeared so paltry against the background of Beethoven, Schubert, Shostakovich, and even Misha Gnesin, an utterly forgotten composer, younger brother of the celebrated Gnesin sisters.
Tamara was astonished. She had known many of her grandmother’s “old-lady friends,” but here, at the graveside, she finally understood what kind of world her grandmother, who went around in a stretched-out sweater with pieces of dried egg stuck to the collar and a skirt that sported all manner of stains in varying hues, had inhabited.
Almost all the “old-lady friends,” except perhaps for Anna Alexandrovna, who lived on Pokrovka, were local, from the Arbat neighborhood. They came on foot and stood in a small group nearby. They were not exactly members of the family’s inner circle, not teachers or performers, but “initiates” …
They mourned in a musical key, performing the music of Mikhail Gnesin, written for Meyerhold’s staging of Gogol’s play The Inspector General. This was a gift of love to the departed Maria Semenovna from the Gnesin family, who were also dying out.
Then the elderly musicians all came up to Tamara and Raisa Ilinichna, her mother, to say a few words about Maria Semenovna, about music and about friendship. And it seemed that they invested these ordinary words with completely new meaning. Anna Alexandrovna also came up to them, asking them not to forget Maria Semenovna’s friends, and to come to visit her. And she stroked Tamara’s head, running her hand over Tamara’s rough hair.
The old apartment was reproduced inside the new one. In the large walk-through room stood the piano, with the dusty divan, covered with a worn red rug, next to it. Above it hung all the same pictures from the house on the Arbat, in the same arrangement as before. Only her grandmother, who had played on the piano, was missing. Tamara soon moved from the divan in the walk-through room into her grandmother’s room, the best one in the apartment. And she inadvertently became the head of this new household, which tried so hard to be indistinguishable from the old one.
Raisa Ilinichna, who had spent her whole life taking up as little space as possible, moved into the smaller room by the entrance door. Timid and unlucky, during the span of her life she had accomplished one major deed: having a child, which was Tamara, out of wedlock. The move and the death of her mother broke Raisa Ilinichna’s heart. Always defenseless against the blows that life dealt, she now became nearly immobilized by grief. She was not yet fifty, but to her daughter she seemed old and completely washed out. Raisa Ilinichna had the same opinion of herself.
In the new place, without the guiding hand of her mother, she felt unmoored. She couldn’t get used to the new neighborhood, and for a long time she traveled all the way back to the Arbat to buy bread. When she got home, she would sit in her narrow little room all by herself and weep, trying to hide the tears from her daughter.
But Tamara wasn’t aware of this, and even if she had noticed, she would not have attached any significance to the weak-willed and pointless tears. Tamara’s new life was a rich whirlwind of activity. The drowsy languor of the last years in high school vanished, and all the gears went into overdrive. Days passed in a flash, and she could hardly catch her breath. She was unaccountably, improbably lucky. Her studies were interesting, her job even more so. The academic adviser that had been assigned to her, Vera Samuilovna Vinberg, was heaven-sent. An extremely bright older woman, who had survived the labor camps, she became a mainstay in the complex picture of Tamara’s life. The void was filled, all her questions answered and her fears dissipated.
As tiny and dry as a flea, Vera Samuilovna, shaking the tight stainless-steel curls that escaped onto her forehead and neck from the large cluster atop her head, would instruct the new lab assistant in a manner that implied that she knew beforehand what a remarkable scientist and researcher she would become. Vera Samuilovna looked at Tamara’s luxuriant hair, at her small, agile fingers, and noted her keen intelligence—and thought that the girl could have been her own daughter; or, more likely, her granddaughter.
Vera Samuilovna even planned to invite Tamara to her home, to introduce her to her husband, to bring her into the family. But for the time being, it was merely a vague intention. Her husband, Edwin, for all his outward amiability, didn’t take easily to new people.
Meanwhile, fate was busy laying down byroads upon which Tamara might meet the love of her life. The Vinbergs’ home was one of the places that Tamara’s lover-to-be regularly frequented.
But for now, the things that interested her most were concentrated in the old textbook of endocrinology that Vera Samuilovna presented to her lab assistant, saying:
“Tamara, dear—learn this by heart. For a start. We’ll take on chemistry later. First you have to understand the connections that exist in this wisest of all systems.”
Vera Samuilovna was crazy about endocrinology. In her laboratory, she synthesized artificial hormones, which she viewed almost as the key to immortality of the human species. Vera Samuilovna believed in hormones as though they were the Lord Above. She would solve all earthly problems with the help of adrenaline, testosterone, and estrogen.
A new picture of the world opened before Tamara. The human being appeared to her now like a marionette governed by hormone molecules, on which depended not only size, appetite, and mood, but also mental activity, habits, and fixations. Vera Samuilovna considered the director of this whole theater of life to be the pineal, a tiny gland hidden in the depths of the brain. A wonderful, mysterious insight afforded only to initiates! Other scientists gave priority to the pituitary gland; but in this sphere of activity, they didn’t send you to prison for the error of your ways.
Tamara’s personal endocrine system worked like clockwork: her pineal gland (what else?) sent out exciting signals; her adrenal gland pumped out adrenaline; her thyroid sent out serotonin for the urgent replenishment of supplies. How could her boundless energy have been explained any other way? A surplus of estrogen made little pimples bloom on her forehead. There weren’t many of them—they could have been covered up with her bangs—but the hair insisted on sticking straight out and up, so she had to wrestle it down with hairpins. Everything was perfect. Only there was never enough time …
Galya never had enough time, either. Nor did she have any extra energy—it all went into her training. They didn’t teach the athletes too much at the institute. They weren’t in the business of training teachers, but of producing champions. At first everything went very well. She went from small triumphs to greater ones; she dreamed of Olympic gold, or silver at the very least. What followed, however, was a serious injury.
In her fourth year, Galya took part in the Moscow championship. When she dismounted from the parallel
bars, having completed the routine without a hitch, she landed so awkwardly that she fractured her knee, severely damaging the joint. After that her career prospects as a champion evaporated, though she had almost made the national team. She spent three months in the Institute of Traumatology, where Dr. Mironova, their best surgeon, operated on her twice. Her knee became functional again, but the articulation of the joint was inadequate for an athletic career.
The heady life of training sessions, competitions, and promise had ended. They didn’t expel her from the institute, however. Galya dove into her textbooks, but floundered. She still lived in her semibasement, but no one took any interest in her now. Her glory had been short-lived, and she again felt insignificant, unattractive, and worthless. Plain old Polushka she had been, and Polushka she was destined to remain.
With her unflagging energy and concern, Olga decided to take her friend under her wing. She even asked her mother’s advice. Antonina Naumovna, sympathetic within reason, solved the problem: she arranged for Galya to take an evening course in typing.
“If she learns to type well enough, I’ll hire her at the magazine.” She immediately had second thoughts. “Though Galya’s grammar isn’t very good, is it?”
When she had graduated from the institute, Galya stayed on in the dean’s office. Her position was not a very rewarding one—she was a secretary. Her achievements were paltry, and she had a salary to match. Still, thanks to the evening typing course, she could supplement her earnings. She was a fast typist, and she moonlighted. True, she didn’t own a typewriter, so she had to use the one at work and put in long, very late hours.
When Galya’s affairs had fallen into place, Olga distanced herself again. Her own life was elevated and meaningful. Even the unpleasantness that came her way was exceptional, not like what others had to contend with—she was expelled from the university under scandalous circumstances, then she broke off relations with Vova (Galya saw right away that it was a very stupid mistake, of course); but no sooner had Vova been forced to bow out than a new man appeared. Olga told Galya this and that about herself, cursorily, without going into detail; and what was surprising was that despite all the unpleasantness, her eyes still shone as before, and her hair, her smile, even her dimples were all aglow.
This was when Galya envied her for the first time. She herself had become the poorer for her misfortunes; she shed and wilted, and even started aging prematurely. Poor Galya.
Galya, naturally, knew nothing of the terrible secrets and dangers that filled Olga’s life. In Galya’s view, Olga’s new pseudo-husband couldn’t hold a candle to Vova. This Ilya fellow was also tall, and he had curly hair; but he wasn’t dashing in the way Vova had been. However, Olga’s son, Kostya, was all over him. As a father, Vova was a disciplinarian and treated his son with military severity; but Ilya and Kostya played noisy games together, romped around and turned somersaults, and were always exploring some new interest. Ilya was more like an older best friend. And with Kostya, Ilya was able to experience vicariously all the childhood joys that he couldn’t experience with his own unhappy and constrained son. Kostya simply adored him. His own father, who saw him once a week, understood that Kostya was being “led astray,” resented it, and was more and more reluctant to spend time with him. And the feelings were mutual.
Galya didn’t know any of these details. Nor did she know that Olga and Ilya had quietly gotten married, without going public about it. She was hurt when she found out by chance, six months later. The event of marriage had nearly cosmic significance for her. But they hadn’t even organized the most modest wedding party. She didn’t even dream of ever finding a marriage partner for herself. She was twenty-nine years old, and since her career had collapsed, not a single colleague, or student, or even passerby had given her so much as a glance … meanwhile, in a roundabout way, through Olga, fate was preparing a valuable gift for her that would last her whole life.
* * *
It’s fascinating to trace the trajectories of people destined to meet. Sometimes such encounters happen without any special effort of fate, without elaborate convolutions of plot, following the natural course of events—say, people live in adjacent buildings, or go to the same school; they get to know each other at college or at work. In other cases, something unexpected is called for: train schedules out of whack, a minor misfortune orchestrated on high, like a small fire or a leaky pipe on an upper floor, or a ticket bought from someone else for the last movie show. Or else a chance meeting, when a watcher is standing in one spot, on the lookout for a target, and suddenly a girl glides by out of nowhere, once, twice, a third time. And there’s a weak smile, and then, suddenly, like dawn breaking—she’s your own dear wife …
Isn’t every person deserving of these special efforts of fate? Olga, yes, certainly … But Galya?
Should fate squander its efforts on an insignificant and unprepossessing couple, the daughter of the local plumber, a drunk, and the son of another such plumber from Tver, but already deceased? In fact, Galya’s father, nicknamed Sir Yury Dripsandleaks, would meet a premature end. No sooner were they assigned to a new apartment than he died, to the annoyance and disappointment of the residents of the high-rise on Vosstanie Square, who would never again have such a skilled expert in all things pipes-and-leaks related, someone who knew every valve and plug by sight and by touch. In his presence, pipes seemed to join, and blockages, with a grunt, cleared up of their own volition.
And was a towheaded, suspicious, vengeful boy, the courtyard champion in long-distance pissing—no one else’s stream even came close to his in the length of the arc, either in the courtyard or at school—beneath the notice of fate?
Was it possible that he, like Olga, was a darling of fate, and that it took direct aim at him, weaving its web around him, making sure he was on duty on just those days when a girl, towheaded like himself, would dart into the entrance where he was on the lookout for his target?
It’s incomprehensible, improbable—but the generosity of fate also extends to the likes of these C-list extras.
* * *
Ilya never managed to find out which of his sins—the distribution of books, petty communications between hostile factions, his close connections to Mikha and Edik, by that time both in prison—had attracted the direct attention of the authorities. In the spring of 1971, he realized he was being watched.
For Galya, this was a fateful event.
The first time Galya saw him, they met at the entrance to the building. Small in stature, but handsome and appealing, wearing a gray cap and a long coat, he held the door open for her, and she smiled at him.
The very next day, she ran into him again in the courtyard. This time he was sitting on a bench with a newspaper in his hands, obviously waiting for someone. And Galya smiled at him again. Then, the third time, he was standing in the entrance hall, and they greeted each other. He asked her her name. At that point, Galya realized that he wasn’t standing there just by chance, but was waiting for her, and she was happy. Now she liked him even more. His name was Gennady. A nice name. His appearance wasn’t striking—but neither was it lacking in anything. He and Galya were similar, as they would discover, if you looked closely: their eyes were narrow-set, close to the bridge of their rather long noses, and they had small chins. They had the same coloring—his hair, of which he didn’t have as much, of course, was a bit lighter. It lay smooth on his head. But he was very neat—exceptionally so. He made a very civilized impression. When he disappeared for a week, Galya’s dreams were dashed. Every evening when she returned home from work, she looked for him in the courtyard, but he wasn’t there.
Well, there went love, she thought bitterly, and lived through the entire week with the nagging feeling that nothing would ever happen to her, that her life in the semibasement would never end, although everyone else had been resettled, and her family was the last, and she herself was the last and the least, as her grandmother said.
Indifferent to everything, she was walking down
Gorokhovskaya Street (now called Kazakov) from the institute to Kurskaya Station, where she would get on the metro and travel five stations to her home. The whole trip would take about an hour, including the time she would need to get to the metro and then to sprint home once she got off at Krasnopresnenskaya. In spite of the bad weather, and in a bad mood, she was walking along as though her muscles had been trained to do it, her back straight, her head, in a blue beret, held high, in an old raincoat Olga had given her the previous year. Suddenly, from behind, a strong hand grabbed her by the arm. First she thought it was one of her students. She looked around and saw that it was—him!
“Galya,” he said, “I’ve been waiting for you for so long. Let’s go to the movies.”
How had he found her? It was obvious he had wanted to! Everything that followed was like the movies. And it flashed by just as quickly. The main thing was that it was exactly the way Galya wanted it to happen: at first he took her elbow, carefully, strongly, then by the hand, then he kissed her politely, without any pawing. He embraced her—again decently, without anything obscene or dirty. A month later he proposed to her. He wanted to visit her parents, with a cake and a bottle of wine, to ask for her hand. Galya warned her father beforehand:
“If you take out the vodka and get smashed, I’ll leave home.”
Her father made a dismissive gesture with his swollen brown hand:
“Oh, I’m scared! As though there’s anyplace else for you to go to.”
He was right, of course. But what he didn’t know was that his Galya now had an actual shield against the misfortunes of life.
The formal marriage proposal did not go as planned. Her mother was called in to work to sub for someone else on that evening. Her brother and his wife had been skirmishing to the point of fisticuffs for the past week, so Galya had to come clean about all her family circumstances. Gennady was understanding.
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