Pushkin Hills

by Dovlatov, Sergei

  On the day I arrived, Stasik was worn out after a week-long binge. He wangled a rouble from me and a pair of brown sandals with perforations. Then he shared a dramatic story:

  “I nearly made a fortune, man. I came up with this exceptional financial trick. Listen: I meet some sucker. He’s got a car, some cash, some other fuckin’ shit. We take one, note, just one broad and drive out into the great outdoors. There we both check in—”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Take turns with her. The next morning I show up at his place, screaming ‘Man, my dick’s dripping.’ He panics, so I say: ‘I can be of fuckin’ service, for twenty-five bills.’ The fool jumps for joy. I fill a syringe with tap water and give us both a shot in the derrière. The chump happily tosses me the bills and we part friends. The broad gets some stockings for seven roubles. That’s eighteen roubs of pure profit. It was brilliant. Operation – Clap Trap. And fuckin’ hell, it fell through…”

  “Why?”

  “At first everything went smoothly. The chump was wild about me. We picked up some cognac, sandwiches. I enlisted cross-eyed Milka who works at the Cavalier, and we took off for the great fuckin’ outdoors. We booze it up, get down to business and guess what? The next morning, the sap shows up at my place, screaming, ‘Fuck, my pecker’s dripping,’ gets in his fuckin’ car and takes off. I rush to the clinic to find Fima. This and that, I say. And Fima goes: ‘Twenty-five roubles!’… Dear God, who’s got that kind of cash?! I had to run around all over Pskov and the city limits and barely scraped it together… Eleven days I stayed sober and then I fuckin’ broke fast. What about you, how are you on the subject?”

  “You mean the great outdoors?”

  “I mean a drink.”

  I waved my arms in protest. A start is all I need. It’s stopping that I never learnt. A dump truck without brakes.

  Stas flipped a rouble coin in his palm and left…

  “Your evaluation is tomorrow,” said Galina.

  “So soon?”

  “I think you’re ready. Why put it off?”

  At first I was nervous, noticing Victoria Albertovna among the tourists. Vika was smiling, kindly or perhaps ironically.

  Gradually I became bolder. The group was demanding – voluntary-army activists from Torzhok – they kept asking questions.

  “This,” I say, “is the famous portrait by Kiprensky… commissioned by Delvig… sublime treatment… hints of romantic embellishment… ‘I see myself as if in a looking glass…’* Bought by Pushkin for the Baron’s widow…”

  “When? What year?”

  “I think in 1830.”

  “For how much?”

  “What’s the difference?!” I exploded.

  Vika was trying to help me, silently moving her lips.

  We entered the study. I pointed out the portrait of Byron, the cane, the bookcase… I moved on to the work… “Intense period… Articles… Draft of the magazine…”, “Godunov”, “Gypsies”… The library… “I shall soon die completely, but if you love my shadow…”* And so on.

  Suddenly I hear:

  “Are the pistols real?”

  “An original duelling set from Le Page.”

  The same voice:

  “Le Page? I though they were Pushkin’s.”

  I explained:

  “The pistols are from the same period. Made by the famous gunsmith Le Page. Pushkin knew and appreciated good firearms. He owned the same pistols…”

  “What about the calibre?”

  “What about the calibre?”

  “I am interested in the calibre.”

  “The calibre,” I said, “is just right.”

  “Very good.” The tourist unexpectedly submitted.

  While my group looked at the nanny’s home, Victoria Albertovna whispered:

  “Your delivery is very good, very natural… You have your own personal point of view. But never… I am simply horrified… You called Pushkin a crazed ape…”

  “That’s not entirely true.”

  “I beg you – a little more restraint.”

  “I will try.”

  “But overall it’s not bad…”

  I began giving tours regularly. Sometimes two in one shift. Evidently they liked me. If we had cultural leaders, teachers or the intelligentsia in – they got me. Something in my tours stood out. For example, my “easy-going manner of presentation”, according to the curator at Trigorskoye. This was, of course, largely due to my acting ability. Even though I had memorized the entire text after approximately five days, I had no trouble simulating emotional improvisation. I artfully stammered as if searching for words, deliberately slipped up, waved my arms, embellishing my carefully rehearsed impromptu remarks with aphorisms from Gukovsky and Shchegolev.* The more I got to know Pushkin, the less I felt like talking about him. Especially at this embarrassing level. I performed my role mechanically and was well remunerated for it. (A full tour was about eight roubles.)

  I found a dozen rare books about Pushkin in the local library. I also reread everything he wrote. What intrigued me most about Pushkin was his Olympian detachment. His willingness to accept and express any point of view. His invariable striving for the highest, utmost objectivity. Like the moon, illuminating the way for prey and predator both.

  Not a monarchist, not a conspirator and not a Christian – he was only a poet, a genius, and he felt compassion for the cycle of life as a whole.

  His literature is above morality. It transcends morality and even takes its place. His literature is akin to prayer, to nature… But then I’m not a critic…

  My working day began at nine in the morning. We sat at the office, waiting for clients. The conversation was about Pushkin and about tourists. More often about tourists, about their inconceivable ignorance.

  “Can you imagine, he asked me, ‘Who is Boris Godunov?’” Personally, I did not feel annoyed in similar situations. Or rather, I did, but I suppressed it. The tourists came here to relax. Their union committee forced these cheap destinations on them. By and large, these people were indifferent towards poetry. To them, Pushkin was a symbol of culture. What was important to them was the sensation that they were there. To tick a mental box. To sign the book of spirituality…

  It was my responsibility to bring them this happiness without tiring them out. And to receive seven roubles sixty and a touching mention in the guestbook:

  “Pushkin came alive thanks to such-and-such tour guide and his humble insight.”

  My days were all the same. The tours were over at two. I ate lunch at The Seashore and went home. Several times Mitrofanov and Pototsky invited me to join them for a drink. I turned them down. This did not take any effort on my part. I can easily refuse the first drink. It’s the stopping that I haven’t learnt. The motor is good but the brakes fail me…

  I did not write to my wife and daughter. There was no point. I thought I’d wait and see what happened.

  In short, my life stabilized somewhat. I tried to think less about abstract topics. The cause of my unhappiness lay outside my field of vision. It was somewhere behind me. And I was relatively calm if I wasn’t looking back. Best not to look back.

  In the meantime, I read Likhonosov.* Of course he is a good writer – talented, colourful, fluid. He recreates direct speech brilliantly. (Tolstoy should get such a compliment!) And yet at the heart of it is a hopeless, depressing and nagging feeling. A tedious and exhausted motif: “Where are you, Russia? Where did everything go? Where are the folk verses, the embroidered towels, the fancy headdresses? Where is the hospitality, bravery and the grand scale? Where are the samovars, icons, ascetics and holy fools? Where are the sturgeon and carp, the honey and caviar? Where are the regular horses, God damn it? Where is the chaste feeling of modesty?”

  They are racking their brains:

  “Where are you, Russia? Where did you disappear? Who ruined you?”

  Who, who… Everyone knows who… There’s no need to rack your brain…

  My rel
ationship with Mikhail Ivanych was simple and consistent. In the beginning, he often came to see me, pulling out bottles from his pockets. I would wave my arms in protest. He drank directly from the bottle, muttering in a steady stream. It was with some difficulty that I caught the gist of his extensive monologues.

  What’s more, Misha’s speech was organized in a remarkable way. Only nouns and verbs were pronounced with clarity and dependability. Mostly in inappropriate combinations. All secondary parts of speech Mikhail Ivanych used at his sole discretion. Whichever ones happened to turn up. Never mind the prepositions, particles and conjunctions. He created them as he went along. His speech was not unlike classical music, abstract art or the song of a goldfinch. Emotions clearly prevailed over meaning.

  Let’s imagine I said:

  “Misha, perhaps you should lay off the sauce, if only for a little while.”

  In response I’d hear:

  “Tha’ maggot-faggot, God knows wha’… Gets a fiver in the morning an’ shoot to the piss factory… Advance is on deposit… How’sa imma quit?… Whatsa smart in’at?… Where’sa spirit rise.”

  Misha’s overtures were reminiscent of the Remizov school of writing.*

  He called gossipy women prattletraps. Bad housewives – majordodos. Unfaithful women – peter-cheetahs. Beer and vodka – sledgehammer, poison and kerosene. And the young generation – pussberries…

  “Copper-trouble pussberries be hullabaplonking an’ God knows whatsa at the centre…”

  Meaning – the young generation, the underage bums are causing trouble and God knows what…

  Our relationship was clearly defined. Misha would bring me onions, sour cream, mushrooms and potatoes from his mother-in-law. And he vehemently refused to take money. I, in turn, gave him a rouble every morning for wine. And kept him from trying to shoot his wife, Liza. Sometimes putting my own life in danger.

  So we were even.

  I never did figure out what sort of man he was. He seemed absurd, kind and inept. Once he strung up two cats on a rowan tree, making the nooses with a fishing line.

  “Breeding shebangers,” he said, “catervaulting about…”

  Once I accidentally bolted the door from the inside and he sat on the porch till morning, afraid to wake me up…

  Misha was absurd in both his kindness and his anger. He reviled the authorities to their faces, but tipped his hat when passing a portrait of Friedrich Engels. He cursed the Rhodesian dictator, Ian Smith, relentlessly, but loved and respected the barmaid at a local dive who invariably short-changed him:

  “That’s the way things are. Order is order!”

  His worst insult went something like this:

  “You’re bending over for the capitalists!”

  Once officer Doveyko took a German bayonet away from a very drunken Misha.

  “Serving the capitalists, you scum!” Mikhail Ivanych raged.

  One time when he was out, his wife and mother-in-law made off with his radio.

  “They’ll still get no thanks from the capitalists,” assured Mikhail Ivanych.

  Only about twice did he and I have a conversation. I remember Misha saying (the text has been slightly cleaned up):

  “I was a pup when the Germans installed here. Truth be told, they did no harm. They took the chickens, old man Timokha’s pig, but they did no harm… And they hadn’t laid a finger on the dames. The skirts took offence, even… My old man cooked his own brew and traded it for food with the Nazis… They did fix the Yids and the Gypsies, though…”

  “You mean, shot them?”

  “Got rid of ’em for good. Order is order…”

  “And you say they did no harm.”

  “I swear to God, they done no harm. The Yids and the Gypsies – that’s the nature of things…”

  “What have the Jews ever done to you?”

  “I got respect for the Jews. I’d trade a dozen Ukey bums for one Jew. But Gypsies, I’d strangle the lot of ’em with my bare hands.”

  “Why?”

  “Whadda you mean why? You kidding?! A Gypsy’s a Gypsy!”

  In July I began to write. These were odd sketches, dialogues, a search for the right tone. Something like a synopsis with vaguely outlined figures and themes. Tragic love, debts, marriage, writing, conflict with the authorities. Plus, as Dostoevsky used to say, a hint of greater meaning.

  I thought this enterprise would erase my miseries. This had happened before, when I was starting out in my literary pursuits. I think it’s called sublimation. When you try to make literature take responsibility for your sins. A man writes King Lear and for the whole year he need not raise his sword…

  Soon I sent my wife seventeen roubles. And bought myself a shirt – for me, an action without precedent.

  There were rumours about some publications in the West. I tried not to think about it. After all, what do I care about what goes on on the other side? And that’s exactly what I’ll say, if they send for me…

  I also mailed out a few IOUs to the effect that I’m working, will pay you back soon, apologies…

  All my creditors reacted magnanimously: there’s no rush, I’m not pressed for money, pay me back when you can…

  In short, life became balanced. It started to seem more sensible, more logical. After all, nightmares and hopelessness are not the worst things… The worst thing is chaos…

  All it takes is a week without vodka and the fog clears. Life acquires a relatively sharp outline. Even our problems seem like natural phenomena.

  I was afraid to ruin this fragile balance – I became rude when offered a drink, irritable if girls at the main office tried to start a conversation…

  Pototsky said:

  “Boris sober and Boris drunk are such different people, they’ve never even met.”

  And yet I knew that this couldn’t continue for ever. You cannot walk away from life’s problems… Weak men endure life; courageous ones master it… If you live wrongly, sooner or later something will happen…

  Morning. Milk with a bluish skin. Dogs barking, buckets jangling…

  Misha’s hungover voice from behind the wall:

  “Sonny, throw me a singleton!”

  I emptied out my leftover change and fed the dogs.

  Beyond the hill at the tourist centre the radiogram was playing. Jackdaws flew through the clear skies. Fog spread over the marsh, at the foot of the mountain. Sheep reposed in grey clumps on the green grass.

  I walked through the field to the tourist centre. Yellow sand stuck to my boots, wet from the morning dew. The air from the grove carried chill and smoke.

  Tourists sat under the windows of the main office. On a bench, covered with newspaper, sprawled Mitrofanov. Even asleep he was perceptibly lazy…

  I walked up the steps. The tour guides huddled in the small hall. Someone said hello. Someone asked for a light. Dima Baranov said: “What’s the matter with you?”

  Under a dreadful, horrific, repellent painting by the local artist Shchukin (top hat, horse, genius, endless horizon) stood my wife, smiling…

  At that moment my miserable well-being came to an end. I knew what lay ahead. I remembered our last conversation… We were divorced a year and a half ago. This elegant modern divorce felt a little like an armistice. An armistice that didn’t always end with a flash of rockets…

  I remember when Justice of the Peace Chikvaidze asked my wife:

  “Do you wish to claim a part of the property?”

  “No,” replied Tatyana.

  Then added:

  “In the absence of such.”

  After that we would occasionally meet as old friends, but it seemed phoney and I left for Tallinn.

  A year later we met again. Our daughter was sick and Tanya moved in with me. This was no longer about love, this was fate…

  We had little money and we fought often. A potful of mutual irritation bubbled quietly over a low flame…

  In Tanya’s mind, the image of an unrecognized genius was clearly linked to the
idea of asceticism. I, to put it mildly, was too sociable.

  I said:

  “Pushkin chased after women… Dostoevsky indulged in gambling… Yesenin caroused and started fights in restaurants… Vice was just as common to men of genius as virtue…”

  “Then you must be at least half genius,” my wife would agree, “for you have more than enough vices…”

  We continued to balance on the edge of a cliff. They say marriages like this are most enduring.

  And yet the friendship was over. You can’t say, “Hey, my dear!” to a woman to whom you have whispered God knows what. It doesn’t ring right…

  With what did I arrive at my thirtieth birthday, celebrated boisterously at the Dnieper restaurant? I led the life of an independent artist. That is to say I did not hold a regular job and earned money as a journalist and ghostwriter of some generals’ memoirs. I had an apartment with windows looking out onto a garbage dump. A writing table, a couch, a set of dumb-bells and a Tonus radiogram. A typewriter, a guitar, a picture of Hemingway and several pipes, kept in a ceramic mug. A lamp, a wardrobe, two chairs of the brontosaurus period, and a cat named Yefim, whom I respected deeply for his tact. Unlike my close friends and acquaintances, he strived to be a human being…

  Tanya lived in the next room. Our daughter would get sick with something, then she’d get better, then sick again.

  My friend Bernovich always said:

  “By the time he is thirty, an artist must have resolved all his problems. Except for one – how to write.”

  I claimed that fundamental problems were irresolvable. For instance, the conflict between fathers and sons. The struggle between love and duty…

  We got our terminology mixed up.

  In the end Bernovich would invariably say:

  “You are not made for marriage…”

  And yet we’ve been married ten years. Just short of ten years.

  Tatyana rose over my life like the dawn’s morning light. That is, calmly, beautifully, without encouraging excessive emotions. Excessive was only her indifference. Her limitless indifference was comparable to a natural phenomenon…

  An artist by the name Lobanov was celebrating his hamster’s birthday. About a dozen people crammed into the garret with a sloping ceiling. Everyone waited for Tselkov, who didn’t show. They sat on the floor even though there were plenty of chairs. By nightfall, table talk had escalated to a dispute with undertones of a fist fight. A man sporting a buzz cut and a sailor’s striped jersey was losing his voice, screaming: