Pushkin Hills
Page 2
“It’s a good thing Pushkin isn’t here to see this.”
“Yes,” I said, “it’s not a bad thing.”
The first floor of the Friendship Hotel was home to three establishments: a general store, a hairdresser’s and the restaurant The Seashore. I should, I thought, invite Galina to dinner for all her help. But my funds were appallingly low. One grand gesture could end in catastrophe.
I kept quiet.
We walked up to the barrier, behind which sat the administrator. Galina introduced me. The woman extended a chunky key with the number 231.
“And tomorrow you can find a room,” said Galina. “Perhaps in the settlement… Or in Voronich, but it’s expensive… Or you can look in one of the nearby villages: Savkino, Gaiki…”
“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been a great help.”
“So, I’ll be going then.”
The words ended with a barely audible question mark: “So, I’ll be going then?”
“Shall I walk you home?”
“I live in the housing development,” the young woman responded mysteriously.
And then – distinctly and clearly, very distinctly and very clearly:
“There’s no need to walk me… And don’t get any ideas, I’m not that type…”
She gave the administrator a proud nod and strutted away.
I climbed to the second floor and opened the door. The bed was neatly made. The loudspeaker sputtered intermittently. The hangers swung on the crossbar of an open built-in closet.
In this room, in this narrow dinghy, I was setting sail for the distant shores of my independent bachelor life.
I showered, washing away the ticklish residue of Galina’s attentions, the sticky coating of a crammed bus, the lamina of many days of drinking.
My mood improved noticeably. A cold shower worked like a loud scream.
I dried myself, put on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and lit a cigarette.
Footsteps shuffled down the hall. Somewhere music was playing. Trucks and countless mopeds caused a ruckus outside the window.
I lay on top of the duvet and opened a little grey volume by Victor Likhonosov.* I decided it was time to find out exactly what this village prose was, to arm myself with a sort of guide…
While reading, I fell asleep. When I woke up it was two in the morning. The shadowy light of summer dawn filled the room. You could already count the leaves of the rubber plant on the window sill.
I decided to think things through calmly, to try and get rid of the feeling of catastrophe and deadlock.
Life spread out before me as an immeasurable minefield and I was at its centre. It was time to divide this field into lots and get down to business. To break the chain of dramatic events, to analyse the feeling of failure, to examine each aspect in isolation.
A man has been writing stories for twenty years. He is convinced that he picked up the pen for a reason. People he trusts are ready to attest to this.
You are not being published. You are not welcomed into their circles, into their band of bandits. But is that really what you dreamt of when you mumbled your first lines?
You want justice? Relax, that fruit doesn’t grow here. A few shining truths were supposed to change the world for the better, but what really happened?
You have a dozen readers and you should pray to God for fewer…
You don’t make any money – now that’s not good. Money is freedom, space, caprice… Money makes poverty bearable…
You must learn to make money without being a hypocrite. Go work as a stevedore and do your writing at night. Mandelstam* said that people will preserve what they need. So write…
You have some ability – you might not have. Write. Create a masterpiece. Give your reader a revelation. One single living person… That’s the goal of a lifetime.
And what if you don’t succeed? Well, you’ve said it yourself – morally, a failed attempt is even more noble, if only because it is unrewarded…
Write, since you picked up the pen, and bear this burden. The heavier it is, the easier…
You are weighed down by debts? Name someone who hasn’t been! Don’t let it upset you. After all, it’s the only bond that really connects you to other people.
Looking around, do you see ruins? That was to be expected. He who lives in the world of words does not get along with things.
You envy anyone who calls himself a writer, anyone who can present a legal document with proof of that fact.
But let’s look at what your contemporaries have written. You’ve stumbled on the following in the writer Volin’s work:*
“It became comprehensibly clear to me…”
And on the same page:
“With incomprehensible clarity Kim felt…”
A word is turned upside down. Its contents fall out. Or rather, it turns out it didn’t have any. Words piled intangibly, like the shadow of an empty bottle…
But that’s not the point! I’m so tired of your constant manipulation!
Life is impossible. You must either live or write. Either the word or business. But the word is your business. And you detest all Business with a capital B. It is surrounded by empty, dead space. It destroys everything that interferes with your business. It destroys hopes, dreams and memories. It is ruled by contemptible, incontrovertible and unequivocal materialism.
And again – that’s not the point!
What have you done to your wife? She was trusting, flirtatious and fun-loving. You made her jealous, suspicious and neurotic. Her persistent response: “What do you mean by that?” is a monument to your cunning…
Your outrageousness borders on the extraordinary. Do you remember when you came home around four o’clock in the morning and began undoing your shoelaces? Your wife woke up and groaned:
“Dear God, where are you off to at this hour?!”
“You’re right, you’re right, it’s too early,” you mumbled, undressed quickly and lay down.
Oh, what more is there to say?
Morning. Footsteps muffled by the crimson runner. Abrupt sputtering of the loudspeaker. The splash of water next door. Trucks outside. The startling call of a rooster somewhere in the distance.
In my childhood the sound of summer was marked by the whistling of steam engines… Country dachas… The smell of burnt coal and hot sand… Table tennis under the trees… The taut and clear snap of the ball… Dancing on the veranda (your older cousin trusted you to wind the gramophone)… Gleb Romanov… Ruzhena Sikora… “This song for two soldi, this song for two pennies…”, ‘I Daydreamt of You in Bucharest…’*
The beach burnt by the sun… The rugged sedge… Long bathing trunks and elastic marks on your calves… Sand in your shoes…
Someone knocked on the door:
“Telephone!”
“That must be a mistake,” I said.
“Are you Alikhanov?”
I was shown to the housekeeper’s room. I picked up the receiver.
“Were you sleeping?” asked Galina.
I protested emphatically.
I noticed that people respond to this question with excessive fervour. Ask a person, “Do you go on benders?” and he will calmly say, “No.” Or, perhaps, agree readily. But ask, “Were you sleeping?” and the majority will be upset as if insulted. As if they were implicated in a crime.
“I’ve made arrangements for a room.”
“Well, thank you.”
“It’s in a village called Sosnovo. Five minutes away from the tourist centre. And it has a private entrance.”
“That’s key.”
“Although the landlord drinks…”
“Yet another bonus.”
“Remember his name – Sorokin. Mikhail Ivanych… Walk through the tourist centre, along the ravine. You’ll be able to see the village from the hill. Fourth house. Or maybe the fifth. I’m sure you’ll find it. There’s a dump next to it.”
“Thank you, darling.”
Her tone changed abruptly.
Later on, I’d often be astonished by Galina’s sudden transformations. Lively involvement, kindness and sincerity gave way to shrill inflections of offended virtue. Her normal voice was replaced by a piercing provincial dialect…
“And don’t get any ideas!”
“Ideas – never. And once again – thank you…”
I headed to the tourist centre. This time it was full of people. Colourful automobiles were parked all around. Tourists in sun hats ambled in groups and on their own. A line had formed by the newspaper kiosk. The clatter of crockery and the screeching of metallic stools came through the wide-open windows of the cafeteria. A few well-fed mutts romped around in the middle of it all.
A picture of Pushkin greeted me everywhere I looked. Even near the mysterious little brick booth with the “Inflammable!” sign. The similarity was confined to the sideburns. Their amplitude varied indiscriminately. I noticed long ago that our artists favour certain objects that place no restriction on the scale or the imagination. At the top of the list are Karl Marx’s beard and Lenin’s forehead…
The loudspeaker was on at full volume:
“Attention! You are listening to the Pushkin Hills tourist-centre broadcasting station. Here is today’s schedule of activities…”
I walked into the main office. Galina was beset by tourists. She motioned me to wait.
I picked up the brochure Pearl of the Crimea from the shelf and took out my cigarettes.
After collecting some paperwork, the tour guides would leave. The tourists ran after them to the buses. Several “stray” families wanted to join a group. They were being looked after by a tall, slender girl.
A man in a Tyrolean hat approached me timidly.
“My apologies, may I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Is that the expanse?”
“What do you mean?”
“I am asking you, is that the expanse?” The Tyrolean dragged me to an open window.
“In what sense?”
“In the most obvious. I would like to know whether that is the expanse or not? If it isn’t the expanse, just say so.”
“I don’t understand.”
The man turned slightly red and began to explain, hurriedly:
“I had a postcard… I am a cartophilist…”
“Who?”
“A cartophilist. I collect postcards… Philos – love, cartos…”
“OK, got it.”
“I own a colour postcard titled The Pskov Expanse. And now that I’m here I want to know – is that the expanse?”
“I don’t see why not,” I said.
“Typical Pskovian?”
“You bet.”
The man walked away, beaming.
The rush hour was over and the centre emptied.
“Each summer there’s a larger influx of tourists,” explained Galina.
And then, raising her voice slightly: “The prophecy came true: ‘The sacred path will not be overgrown…’!”*
No, I think not. How could it get overgrown, the poor thing, being trampled by squadrons of tourists?…
“Mornings here are a total clusterfuck,” said Galina.
And once again I was surprised by the unexpected turn of her language.
Galina introduced me to the office instructor, Lyudmila. I would secretly admire her smooth legs till the end of the season. Luda had an even and friendly temperament. This was explained by the existence of a fiancé. She hadn’t been marred by a constant readiness to make an angry rebuff. For now her fiancé was in jail…
Shortly after, an unattractive woman of about thirty appeared: the methodologist. Her name was Marianna Petrovna. Marianna had a neglected face without defects and an imperceptibly bad figure.
I explained my reason for being there. With a sceptical smile, she invited me to follow her to the office.
“Do you love Pushkin?”
I felt a muffled irritation.
“I do.”
At this rate, I thought, it won’t be long before I don’t.
“And may I ask you why?”
I caught her ironic glance. Evidently the love of Pushkin was the most widely circulated currency in these parts. What if I were a counterfeiter, God forbid?
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Why do you love Pushkin?”
“Let’s stop this idiotic test,” I burst out. “I graduated from school. And from university.” (Here I exaggerated a bit; I was expelled in my third year.) “I’ve read a few books. In short, I have a basic understanding… Besides, I’m only seeking a job as a tour guide…”
Luckily, my snap response went unnoticed. As I later learnt, basic rudeness was easier to get away with here than feigned aplomb.
“And nevertheless?” Marianna waited for an answer. What’s more, she waited for a specific answer she had been expecting.
“OK,” I said, “I’ll give it a try… Here we go… Pushkin is our belated Renaissance. Like Goethe was for Weimar. They took upon themselves what the West had mastered in the fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Pushkin found a way to express social themes in the form of tragedy, a characteristic of the Renaissance. He and Goethe lived, if you will, in several eras. Werther is a tribute to sentimentalism. Prisoner of the Caucasus is a typically Byronesque work. But Faust, for instance – that’s already Elizabethan and the Little Tragedies naturally continue one of the Renaissance genres. The same with Pushkin’s lyricism. And if it’s dark, then it isn’t dark in the spirit of Byron but more in the spirit of Shakespeare’s sonnets, I feel. Am I explaining myself clearly?”
“What has Goethe got to do with anything?” asked Marianna. “And the same goes for the Renaissance!”
“Nothing!” I finally exploded. “Goethe has absolutely nothing to do with this! And ‘Renaissance’ was the name of Don Quixote’s horse. And it too has nothing to do with this! And evidently I have nothing to do with this either!”
“Please calm down,” whispered Marianna. “You’re a bundle of nerves… I only asked, ‘Why do you love Pushkin?’”
“To love publicly is obscene!” I yelled. “There is a special term for it in sexual pathology!”
With a shaking hand she extended me a glass of water. I pushed it away.
“Have you loved anyone? Ever?!”
I shouldn’t have said it. Now she’ll break down and start screaming: “I am thirty-four years old and I am single!”
“Pushkin is our pride and joy!” managed Marianna. “He is not only a great poet, he is also Russia’s great citizen…”
Apparently this was the prepared answer to her idiotic question.
And that’s it? I thought.
“Do look at the guidelines. Also, here is a list of books. They are available in the reading room. And report to Galina Alexandrovna that the interview went well.”
I felt embarrassed.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”
I rolled up the brochure and put it in my pocket.
“Be careful with it – we only have three copies.”
I took the papers out and attempted to smooth them with my hands.
“And one more thing,” Marianna lowered her voice. “You asked about love…”
“It was you who asked about love.”
“No, it was you who asked about love… As I understand, you are interested in whether I am married? Well, I am!”
“You have robbed me of my last hope,” I said as I was leaving.
In the hallway Galina introduced me to Natella, another guide. And another unexpected burst of interest:
“You’ll be working here?”
“I’ll try.”
“Do you have cigarettes?”
We stepped onto the porch.
Natella had come from Moscow at the urge of romantic, or rather reckless ideas. A physicist by educat
ion, she worked as a schoolteacher. She decided to spend her three-month holiday here. And regretted coming. The Preserve was total pandemonium. The tour guides and methodologists were nuts. The tourists were ignorant pigs. And everyone was crazy about Pushkin. Crazy about their love for Pushkin. Crazy about their love for their love. The only decent person was Markov…
“Who is Markov?”
“A photographer. And a hopeless drunk. I’ll introduce you. He taught me to drink Agdam.* It’s out of this world. He can teach you too…”
“Much obliged. But I’m afraid that in that department I myself am an expert.”
“Then let’s knock some back one day! Right here in the lap of nature…”
“Agreed.”
“I see you are a dangerous man.”
“How do you mean?”
“I sensed it right away. You are a terribly dangerous man.”
“When I’m not sober?”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t understand.”
“To fall in love with someone like you is dangerous.”
And Natella gave me an almost painful nudge with her knee.
Christ, I thought, everyone here is insane. Even those who find everyone else insane.
“Have some Agdam,” I said, “and calm down. I want to get some rest and do a little work. I pose you no danger…”
“We’ll see about that.” And Natella broke into hysterical laughter.
She coquettishly swung her canvas bag with an image of James Bond on it and walked off.
I set off for Sosnovo. The road stretched to the top of the hill, skirting a cheerless field. Dark boulders loomed along its edges in shapeless piles. A ravine, thick with brush, gaped on the left. Coming downhill, I saw several log houses girdled by birch trees. Monochrome cows milled about on the side, flat like theatre decorations. Grimy sheep with decadent expressions grazed lazily on the grass. Jackdaws circled above the roofs.
I walked through the village hoping to come across someone. Unpainted grey houses looked squalid. Clay pots crowned the pickets of sagging fences. Baby chicks clamoured in the plastic-covered coops. Chickens pranced around in a nervous, strobing strut. Squat, shaggy dogs yipped gamely.
I crossed the village and walked back, pausing near one of the houses. A door slammed and a man in a faded railroad tunic appeared on the front steps.