Worlds Apart

by Alexander Levitsky

  The number sitting beside me on the left glanced sideways—at me—and snickered. For some reason I have a very clear memory of that: I saw a microscopic bubble of saliva form on his lips and burst. That bubble sobered me. I was—myself again.

  Like everyone else—I heard only the absurd, fussy squeaking of strings. I was laughing. I felt light and simple. The talented phonolecturer had been depicting that wild era too vividly for us—that was all there was to it.

  With what pleasure l listened to our contemporary music afterwards. (It was demonstrated in conclusion—for contrast.) The crystalline chromatic progressions of merging and diverging series—and the summarizing chords of Taylor McLauren; the full-bodied / full-toned, squarely massive passages of the Pythagorean theorem; the mournful melodies of a fading oscillatory movement; the brilliant measures alternating with Frauenhofer’s lines in the pauses—the spectral analysis of the planets… What grandeur! What unwavering equilibrium: And how pitiful—totally unrestricted by anything other than wild fantasies—that willful music of the ancients…

  As usual, in even ranks, four abreast, everyone exited through the wide doors of the auditorium. The familiar double-curved figure flitted past me; I nodded respectfully.

  Dear O—was supposed to come in an hour. I felt pleasantly and, usefully excited. Home—quickly to the desk, I handed the duty clerk my pink ticket and received a permit for the right to use the blinds. We have this right—only for Sexual Days. Otherwise amid our transparent walls seemingly woven of sparkling air—we always live in full view, eternally washed by the light. We have nothing to hide from one another. Moreover it facilitates the burdensome and exalted labor of the Guardians. Otherwise who can say what might happen. It is possible that it was precisely those strange, opaque dwellings of the ancients that gave birth to that pitiful cellular psychology of theirs. “My [sic!] home is my castle”—it really must have cost them an effort to think that one up!

  At 22 I lowered the blinds—and at that very minute O—entered slightly out of breath. She held out her tiny pink mouth to me—and her pink ticket. I tore off the coupon—and then I could not tear myself away from that pink mouth until the very last moment—22:15.

  Then I showed her my records and I talked—very well, I thought about the beauty of the square, the cube, the straight line. She listened so enchantingly and pinkly—and suddenly from her blue eyes a tear, a second, a third,—straight onto the opened page (p. 7). The ink ran. Well, now I shall have to recopy it.

  “Dear D-, if only you would—if only …”

  Well, what if only? What about if only? Again her old refrain: a child. Or, perhaps, something new—concerning … concerning that other one? Even if it were … No, that would be too absurd.

  [the novel continues with 36 more “Records”, ed.]

  (1920)

  Translated by S. Cioran

  Boris Andreevich Pilniak

  (1894–1937

  _____________________________________

  A Year in Their Life

  I

  To the south and north, to the east and west—in all directions for a hundred versts—lay forests and wetlands, wrapped, veiled with mosses. There were stands of tawny cedars and pines. Beneath these throve an impassable thicket of fir, alder, cherry, juniper and low-growing birch. And in the small clearings amid the brush, in the peat beds ringed by fox berries and cranberries, sunk into the moss were “wells”—terrifying, filled with reddish water, and bottomless.

  The cold came in September—fifty degrees below zero. The snow lay hard and blue. For only three hours did sunlight arise; the rest of the time it was night. The sky appeared heavy and hung low over the land. There was silence; only in September did the moose roar as they battled; in December the wolves howled; the rest of the time there was silence, of a kind that can only exist in the wilderness.

  On a hill by the river stood a village.

  Naked, of tawny granite and white shale, worn down by water and wind, a slope led to the river. On the bank lay clumsy, tawny boats. The river was large, gloomy, cold, bristling with murky blue-black waves. Tawny huts could be seen here and there, their tall, over-hanging, shingled roofs covered with greenish moss. Their windows looked blind. Around them nets were drying. Trappers lived here. In the winter they would leave for long stretches on the taiga and there they killed game.

  II

  In the spring the rivers overflowed: broadly, freely and powerfully.

  Heavy waves rolled along, shimmering—the body of the river—and from them spread a damp, muffled noise, troubling and troubled. The snows melted away. On the pines grew pitchy candles, and they gave off a strong smell. The sky rose higher and turned dark blue, and at twilight it was greenish-shimmery and bleakly alluring. In the taiga, after the death of winter, the foremost task of the animal kingdom was in train—birth. And all the forest-dwellers—bears, wolves, moose, red foxes, polar foxes, owls, eagle-owls—all entered into the spring-time joy of birth. Out on the river were loudly calling eider, swan, geese. In the twilight, when the sky became green and shimmery, so that at night it might become satiny dark blue and many-starred, when the eider and swans had quieted down, falling to sleep for the night, and the night air, soft and warm was barely ruffled by crickets and crakes—at the ravine the girls would gather to sing of Lada and dance round-dances. The young men would be returning from wintering over in the taiga, and they also gathered there.

  The bank fell steeply to the river. The river rustled below. And overhead the sky unfolded. All was quiet, but at the same time one could sense life swarming and hurrying along. At the head of the ravine, where stunted moss and wayside grasses grew on the granite and shale, the girls would sit in a dense cluster. They all wore bright dresses, were all strong and healthy; they sang sad, broad, ancient songs; they gazed off somewhere into the darkening, greenish mist. And it seemed that the girls were singing those unforgettable, broad songs of theirs for the young men. And the young men stood as dark, hunched silhouettes around the girls, sharply hooting and behaving riotously, exactly like the males in the forest mating-grounds.

  The gathering had its own laws.

  The young men would come and choose wives, they would fight for them and attack each other; the girls were indifferent and submitted to the males in everything. The lads, hooting and beating each other, would fight, make an uproar, and the victor—he would choose a wife for himself first.

  And then they, he and she, would leave the gathering together.

  III

  Marina was twenty years old, and she went to the embankment.

  Her tall, slightly heavy body was remarkably well-formed, with strong muscles and matte-white skin. Bosom, stomach, spine, thighs and legs were sharply defined—strongly, resiliently and in sharp relief. Her rounded, broad bosom rose up high. She had black-heavy braids, brows and lashes. Her eyes were black, moist, with deep pupils. Her cheeks flushed bluish-crimson. And her lips were soft like a wild creature’s, very red and full. She always walked slowly, shifting her long, strong legs and barely moving her springy thighs.

  She came to the slope to join the girls.

  The girls were singing their songs—drawn out, inviting and spare.

  Marina forgot herself in the cluster of girls, threw herself onto her back, closed her clouded eyes and also sang. The song went along, went out in wide, radiant circles, and into it, into the song, went everything. Her eyes closed languidly. Her lean body was gnawed by a secret pain. Her heart contracted flutteringly, seemed to grow mute and from it, with the blood, this muteness went into her hands and knees, weakening them, and clouded her mind. And Marina stretched herself out passionately, grew entirely mute, entered the song and sang: and was startled only by the aroused hooting voices of the young men.

  And then, at home in her stuffy cell, Marina lay down on her bed; she threw her arms behind her head, which made her bosom rise; she stretched out her legs, she opened wide her dark, misty eyes; she pursed her lips and, once aga
in fainting with spring-time languor, lay that way for a long time.

  Marina was twenty years old, and from the day of her birth she had grown up like a thistle on the ravine—freely and alone—with the trappers, the taiga, the ravine and the river.

  IV

  Demid lived on the bluff. Like the village, the bluff stood over the river. Only the hill was higher and steeper. The taiga had crept close; the dark-green tawny-trunked cedars and pines reached out for it with their forest paws. You could see a good distance from here: the troubled dark river, the water-meadow beyond it, the taiga, toothy at the horizon and dark-blue, and the sky—low and heavy.

  The house built of huge pine trunks, with its log walls and white unadorned ceilings and floors, was hung all over with the pelts of bear, elk, wolves, white fox, ermine. The pelts hung on the walls and lay on the floor. On the tables there were powder, pellets, shot. In the corners were piled nooses, snares, traps. Guns had been hung up. It smelled strongly and sharply here, as if all the smells of the taiga had been gathered together. There were two rooms and a kitchen.

  In the middle of one of the two rooms stood a table, home-made and big, and around it were low benches covered with bearskin. In this room lived Demid, in the other room lived the young bear Makar.

  At home Demid would lie on his bearskin bed, long and motionless, would listen to his own large body, to how alive it was, how the strong blood flowed through it. The bear Makar would approach him, put his heavy paws on Demid’s chest, and sniff him over in a friendly way. Demid would scratch the bear behind the ear and one sensed that they, the man and the bear, understood each other. The taiga would look in through the window.

  Demid was thick-set and broad-shouldered, with black eyes that were large, calm and kind. He smelled of the taiga, healthily and strongly. He was dressed—like all the trappers—in furs and in a coarse homespun fabric, white with a red warp. His feet were clad in tall heavy boots sewn from deer hide, and his hands, broad and red, were covered with calluses like a thick rind.

  Makar was young, and like all young animals—clumsy. He waddled about and often got into mischief: gnawed the nets and lines, broke the nooses, licked at the powder. Then Demid would punish Makar—thrash him. And Makar would roll over onto his back, make innocent eyes and howl piteously.

  V

  Demid went to the girls on the cliff, led Marina from the cliff to his house on the bluff, and Marina became Demid’s wife.

  VI

  In the summer the luxuriant, dark-green grasses sprang up, swiftly and succulently. During the day the sun shone from a blue and seemingly moist sky. The nights were white, and it seemed then that there was no sky at all: it had dissolved into a pale mist. The nights were short and white, all the time it was red liquid dawn—evening or morning—and shimmery mists crept over the land. Strongly, rapidly, life took its course, sensing that its days were short here.

  At Demid’s Marina lived in Makar’s room.

  Makar had been moved to Demid’s room.

  Makar had greeted Marina in an unfriendly way. When he saw her for the first time he set up a howl, showed his teeth, and struck her with his paw. Demid thrashed him for this and the bear quieted down. Later he and Marina became friends.

  During the day Demid would go out into the taiga. Marina would remain alone.

  She fixed up her room in her own way, roughly and with a sort of emphatic grace. Symmetrically she hung up the pelts and the scraps of cloth embroidered in bright red and blue, with cockerels and stags; in the corner she hung up an icon of the Mother of God; she scrubbed the floors; and her room, motley-colored and still smelling strongly of the taiga, began to resemble a forest chapel, where forest folk prayed to their gods.

  In the pale-greenish twilight’s, when the skyless night was coming on and only eagle-owls called in the taiga and crickets chirped by the river, Demid would come to Marina. Marina could not think—her thoughts tumbled like huge heavy boulders—slowly and clumsily. She could sense that she had surrendered everything to Husband-Demid, and through the pale, skyless nights, her body hot and redolent, thrashing about on her bearskin, she took Demid unto herself: and she gave herself over, surrendering everything to him, wanting to dissolve into him, into his strength and passion, wearing out her own.

  The nights were white, shimmery, misty. There was only the night-silence of the taiga. The mists drifted. Eagle-owls and wood-doves called. But in the morning the dawn was a red fire and a huge sun arose in the damp-blue sky. The grasses sprang up swiftly and succulently.

  The summer went on, the days passed.

  VII

  In September it snowed.

  From August on the days had started to close in, to gray, and long dark nights had sprung up. The taiga suddenly quieted, became mute and began to seem empty. The cold came and shackled the river with ice. There were very long twilights when the snow and ice on the river looked blue. At night the elk would roar as they battled. They roared so loudly and so strangely that it became frightening, and the walls shook.

  In the fall Marina conceived.

  One night Marina awoke before dawn. The room was stuffy because of the stove, and it smelled of bear. It had just begun to get light and on the dark walls the blue patches of the window frames were barely aglow. Somewhere near the outcrop an old elk was roaring; by the rough voice with its hissing bass notes one could tell it was an old one.

  Marina sat up on her bed. Her head was spinning and she was slightly queasy. The bear was lying next to her. He was already awake and looking at Marina. His eyes glowed like quiet green fires, as if they were chinks through which was visible the sky of spring twilights, peaceful and shimmery-quiet.

  Again Marina grew queasy and her head began to spin, and the fires of Makar’s eyes subconsciously and deeply transformed themselves in Marina’s soul into an immense, unbearable joy, with which her entire body began to tremble painfully—she had conceived. Her heart was pounding as if she had fallen into a snare, and the head-spinning sensation came on, shimmery and misty like a summer morning.

  Marina arose from her bed—from her bear-skin—and quickly, with awkward-unsure steps went naked into Demid’s room. Demid was asleep—she wrapped his head in her hot arms, pressed it to her broad bosom and whispered:

  —A child … I’m pregnant …

  Little by little the night was graying and a blue light was coming through the windows. The elk had ceased to roar. In the room fluttered gray shadows. Makar came in, sighed and lay his paws on the bed. With his free hand Demid grasped the scruff of his neck and, trembling with love, said to him:

  —So, Makar Ivanovich,—do you understand?

  Then he added, turning to Marina:

  —What do you think—does he understand? Marinka! … Marinka! Marinka!

  Makar licked Demid’s hand and intelligently and knowingly lowered his head onto his paws. The night grew gray, soon lilac stripes appeared on the snow, entered the house. Below in the ravine lay the river’s blue ice, beyond it in ridges lay the taiga.

  Demid did not go into the taiga on that day, and for many days thereafter.

  VIII

  The winter came, stayed, was passing.

  The snow lay in deep layers, it was blue—night and day—and lilac during the short dawns and sunsets. The sun, pale and weak, barely rising above the horizon, would come up for three hours, far-off and alien. The rest of the time it was night. At night the northern lights shot out their shimmery arrows. The frost was a milk-white mist, sprinkling rime everywhere. There was the quiet of the wilderness, which spoke of death.

  Marina’s eyes had changed. Before, they had been cloudy-dark and intoxicated, now they had become astoundingly clear, peaceful-joyful, direct and calm, and a chaste modesty had appeared in them. Her thighs became broader and her belly much larger, and this had given her a certain new grace, awkward-soft and heavy, and again, a chasteness.

  Marina moved about very little, sitting in her room that resembled a forest chapel w
here the people prayed to their gods. During the day she dealt with her simple housekeeping: lit the stove, chopped the wood, cooked the meat and the fish, skinned the animals Demid killed, tidied her clearing. In the evening—the evenings were long—Marina spun thread on her spindle and wove cloth on her loom; she was sewing for the child. And as she sewed she would think of the child, sing, and smile quietly.

  Marina thought about the child—an unconquerable, strong, all-encompassing joy filled her body. Her heart would pound and an even stronger joy would arise. But about the fact that she, Marina, would give birth—suffer—there was no thought.

  Demid, in the morning lilac dawns, when the round full moon stood in the south-west, would go out on skis with a rifle and a Finnish knife, into the taiga. Pines and cedars stood there, traced out in a firm, heavy pattern of snow; at their feet clustered prickly firs, juniper and alder. Silence reigned, dampened by the snow. In the dead soundless snows Demid went from trap to trap, from noose to noose, finishing off the game. He fired his rifle, and the echo would dance long in the silence. He tracked elk and wolf-packs. He went down to the river, lay in wait for beaver, caught wildly thrashing fish in the melt-holes, put out the cages. Around him was everything that he had always known. Slowly the red sun dimmed and the shimmery rays of the northern lights began to glimmer.

  In the evening standing on the bluff he would gut the fish and the game, hang it up to freeze, throw the scraps to the bear, would himself eat, wash in icy water and sit down beside Marina, large, thickset, his strong legs spread wide and his hands on his knees—the room seemed crowded. He would smile peaceably and kindly.

  The lamp burned. Beyond the walls lay the snows, the silence and the cold. Makar would come in and roll playfully on the floor. In the room that looked like a chapel it would grow cozy and peaceful-joyful. The walls would crackle in the frost, and darkness peered in at the frozen windows. On the walls hung the cloths sewn with red and blue, with stags and cockerels. Then Demid would arise from his bench, take Marina tenderly and firmly by the hand and lead her to bed. The lamp would die down and in the darkness would quietly burn the eyes of Makar.