“And if, God forbid, something were to happen to you?”
The little persifleur had touched a nerve. I wondered if Mandelstam had spoken of the matter with her. Knowing him, probably. Confiding intimate secrets was an unerring way of gaining a woman’s confidence; of persuading her you were not violent in order to seduce her into what, in the end, is an essentially violent act. “You have put your finger on a sore point between my husband and me,” I admitted. (I was not above sharing intimate secrets to tempt someone of either sex into my bed.) “Mandelstam has few illusions about his own survival, or that of his oeuvre. Since Stalin decreed that nothing contradicting the Party line could be published, Mandelstam considers his fate has been sealed. Let’s face it: an unpublished poet makes as much noise as a tree falling in a forest with nobody around to hear it. Stalin’s position—which boils down to Either you are for us or you are against us, my darlings—leaves no middle ground for the likes of Mandelstam. So you see, my dear Zinaida, my husband had something in addition to his literary legacy in mind when he encouraged me to commit his poems to memory. As we have chosen not to have children, he has convinced himself that my being the last repository of his oeuvre would give me an incentive to survive.”
“Would it?”
I must have shrugged, which is how I usually evade answering silly questions. Who can say what, besides the hard-to-kick habit of breathing or the ephemeral gratification of sexual congress or the utter satisfaction of disappointing those in power who wish you dead, would push one to cling to life?
Zinaida studied her reflection in the glass door. “If my husband were to disappear into a camp—they have been arresting agronomists of late to account for the long lines at bread shops—it would solve all my problems.” She tossed her pretty head to suggest she was making a joke, but I knew enough about her marriage—her husband was twelve years her senior and had little interest in the theater or in the arts—to understand she was at least half serious. “I would be legally entitled to divorce him and keep the apartment, as well as my Moscow residence permit.”
Mandelstam turned up before I could educate her—wives of enemies of the people were more often than not being sent into exile with their arrested husbands these days. Catching sight of him, Zinaida arranged the shabby fox stole around her delicate neck so that the head of the animal, its beady eyes surveying the world with unblinking indifference, was resting on her breast. Never one to let pass something he considered sexually suggestive, Mandelstam noticed this immediately. “For the first time in my forty-three years of existence I am green with jealousy of a dead fox,” he confessed, causing Zinaida to avert her eyes in feigned embarrassment. (She was, you will remember, the mistress—and I might add, the master—of shamefaced glances.) I pulled the ratty collar of my late aunt’s winter coat, made, if you believed my husband, of skunk fur, up around my neck and dragged open the heavy door of the building. A blast of icy air filled with frozen clots of snow singed our faces. Mandelstam lowered the earflaps on his fur-lined leather cap. “Cigarettes,” he announced, and linking his arms through ours he pulled us into the wintry Moscow street.
Like many men—perhaps I should say like most men—Mandelstam sailed through life with a cargo of manias. He lived in terror of his muse and his erection one day deserting him. He lived in everlasting fear of fear. He never thought twice about where the next ruble or the next hard currency coupon would come from—he simply assumed that when he needed one or the other, I would somehow magically produce it, which was more often than not the case. But he worried himself sick that he would run out of cigarettes in the middle of the night when the ringing in his ear roused him from a troubled sleep and he spent the restless hours before dawn prowling the miniscule rooms of the flat we were lucky enough to have, sucking on cigarette after cigarette as he waited for the arrival of those disjointed words and phrases. And so, having sponged two cigarettes from members of the audience upstairs and discovering that he himself had only five Herzegovina Flors left in a crumpled packet, he led us, gripping the white knob of the walking stick he had begun using because of occasional shortness of breath, on a mad quest for cheap cigarettes. We wound up, our heads bent into an eye-tearing snowstorm, making the rounds of the coffee shops and the canteens in the neighborhood, hoping to beg or borrow or buy a full packet of cigarettes. It was at the third stop, actually a late-night canteen for trolley car workers hidden in a small alleyway behind the Kremlin terminal, that Mandelstam found what he was looking for (a shady character who claimed to have a vendor’s license was selling individual Bulgarian cigarettes from a cigar box), along with something he wasn’t looking for: humiliation.
“Osip Emilievich! What brings you out on a night like this? It’s New Year’s Day according to the old style Julian calendar. So happy new year to you, friend.”
The voice came from an unshaven ruffian holding court at two tables dragged together at the back of the canteen. The five young women around him, all wearing padded winter overcoats and sipping what I supposed to be vodka from tea glasses, turned to gape at us as if we were ghouls wandered in from a cemetery. I could tell from the way Mandelstam saluted the speaker with his half-raised walking stick that he wasn’t sure of his identity; Mandelstam often had a hard time putting names to faces when people were out of context.
“Hello to you, Ugor-Zhitkin,” I called, and I could see my husband nodding in relief as he grasped the identity of his interlocutor.
“Ugor-Zhitkin, at long last,” my husband exclaimed, turning from the seller of Bulgarian cigarettes. “I have been leaving messages with your secretary for weeks.”
“This time of year is always a madhouse,” Ugor-Zhitkin grumbled, as if that would excuse his failure to respond. “A thousand and one things to do, a thousand and one people to see . . .”
Mandelstam had learned from Pasternak, two or three months before, that the editor Ugor-Zhitkin was offering hard cash for original manuscripts for the new Literary Fund Library. The only manuscripts my husband possessed, of unpublished (and according to our literary minders, unpublishable) poems, had been written out by me, and he would not part with these even if someone were reckless enough to want them. We were desperate for money—my translation work had dried up as Mandelstam had become non grata in the literary world, and we were ashamed to ask Pasternak or Akhmatova for yet another loan that we had no hope of repaying. Which is how we came up with the scheme of concocting a manuscript that Mandelstam could then pass off as an original and sell. Bent over our small linoleum-covered kitchen table with a crust of bread under one leg to keep it from wobbling, he copied every poem from the original green-covered edition of Stone, his first published volume, into a grade school exercise book. The chore took the better part of two full days. Getting it to look authentic became something of an obsession with us. Mandelstam remembered or invented earlier versions of some of the poems and filled the pages with crossed-out words and lines. When he finished we took turns thumbing through the exercise book until the edges of the pages became dog-eared, after which we aged the manuscript by baking it under a low flame in a neighbor’s oven until the paper turned brittle and yellow. Throwing himself into the project, Mandelstam even went so far as to copy off cryptic notes to himself and a recipe for Polish borsht (a heavy-handed reference to his having been born in Warsaw) on the blank pages. The finished product was carefully wrapped in a page from a 1913 newspaper that I pinched from the university library, and personally delivered by Mandelstam to Ugor-Zhitkin’s secretary, who agreed to bring it to her boss’s attention the moment he returned to Moscow.
“Come drink in the new year with us,” Ugor-Zhitkin was saying, waving to the free chairs at the end of the two tables. He was clearly hoping to avoid the subject of Mandelstam’s original manuscript of Stone. “The girls and I”—the females at the table, who enjoyed the reputation of being his protégées, were counting on Ugor-Zhitkin to use his considerable influence to get their short stories or poems or plays i
nto print; what they gave him in return for this service was the subject of more than one supper conversation in Moscow—“the girls and I are celebrating something beside the Julian new year. Listen, Osip Emilievich, this is a great occasion in Soviet history. We’ve just come away from seeing our first talking motion picture. Surely you’ve read the fabulous review in Pravda—there are some who are convinced that Stalin himself wrote it since he is known to admire the film. I’m talking about Chapayev, by the Vasilyev brothers. It’s based on the Furmanov novel about the Civil War hero Vasily Chapayev.”
The expression on the face of the Mandelstam who no longer beat about the bush darkened. I knew what was coming and tried to catch his eye and head him off. No such luck. “The trouble with Soviet films, silent or talking,” he allowed, slipping into an exaggerated Georgian drawl that was supposed to remind people of how Stalin spoke Russian, “is that they are marked by a wealth of detail and a poverty of ideas, but then propaganda doesn’t need ideas.”
Mandelstam might as well have poured ice water from the Moscow River over Ugor-Zhitkin and his entourage.
“What is he saying?” gasped one of the girls.
“He is suggesting that Soviet filmmakers are propagandists,” another said.
“It sounds awfully like an anti-Soviet declaration to me,” a third girl observed uncomfortably.
Rummaging in his pockets, Mandelstam came up with the receipt the secretary had written out for “One original manuscript of the 1913 edition of Stone.” He strode across the room, past the streetcar drivers and conductors who were fortifying themselves for the night shift with stale beer, and flattened the receipt on the table in front of Ugor-Zhitkin.
“I’ve been meaning to get back to you about this,” Ugor-Zhitkin said.
“Have you looked at my manuscript?”
“The value of any given manuscript depends on the writer’s specific gravity. Frankly, the general opinion is that you are a minor poet. I am afraid it’s not worth more than two hundred rubles.”
“Two hundred rubles!” His hands trembling with rage, Mandelstam brought his walking stick crashing down on the table. The tea glasses jumped. Two of the girls sprang to their feet in fright. Ugor-Zhitkin turned pale. “Stone,” Mandelstam plunged on, the metal tip of his stick tapping the table top, “is a classic of twentieth-century Russian poetry, so the reviewers concluded at the time of its publication. You paid five times what you’re offering me for a piece of shit by—” Mandelstam named a writer whose three-act drama glorifying Stalin’s role in the Civil War was playing to full houses in Moscow.
My great friend the poet Anna Akhmatova claims there are moments in life that are so momentous, it appears as if the earth has stopped dead in its tracks for the beat of a heart. This was such a moment in the life of Osip Mandelstam.
“Who are you?” one of the girls demanded. “Who is he?”
I caught my breath. Mandelstam elevated his chin. “I am the poet Mandelstam.”
“There is no poet of that name,” another girl declared. “Once, long ago, there was such a poet—”
“I thought Mandelstam was dead,” said the first girl.
The earth resumed rotating around its axis, though nothing would ever be the same.
“The two hundred rubles,” Ugor-Zhitkin said, determined not to let himself be pushed around in front of his protégées, “is a take-it or leave-it proposition.”
My husband started toward the door, then turned back to the editor. “You are living proof that a man’s character is written on his face,” Mandelstam said so agreeably it didn’t dawn on Ugor-Zhitkin he was being insulted. “Do you happen to have cigarettes?”
Ugor-Zhitkin collected the two partially filled packets on the table and handed them to Mandelstam. “Happy nineteen thirty-four to you, all the same,” he said.
I saw my husband nod as if he were confirming something he didn’t like about himself. “I accept the two hundred rubles,” he announced.
“Come around in the morning,” Ugor-Zhitkin said, barely swallowing a smile. “My secretary will have an envelope for you.”
Kicking at a drift of snow outside the canteen, Mandelstam managed a cranky laugh. “Mandelstam dead!” he said, making no effort to conceal the anguish in his voice. The words that then emerged from his mouth seemed to be transported on small billows of frozen breath. “Dead—but—not—yet—buried.”
I can tell you I shivered, not from the gut-numbing cold but from a presentiment of terror. What in the world did he mean by Dead but not yet buried?
Zinaida asked the hour. Mandelstam never wore a wristwatch but always knew the time; he was never off by more than a minute or two. “It is twenty past eleven—too late for you to return to your own flat. You must come home with us and spend the night.”
I took Zinaida’s elbow. “We simply will not accept no for an answer, darling girl.”
“You owe it to me as a poet,” Mandelstam said a bit frantically. “Nothing so depends on eroticism as poetry.”
“That being the case,” she said with a pout, “I shall have to say . . .”
I could see my husband was hanging on her reply; the prospect of an erotic encounter with this gorgeous creature had pushed from his mind everything that had happened to him that evening.
“I shall have to say yes.”
The three of us fell into lockstep as we headed toward Herzen House and our flat. “I outfoxed that asinine Ugor-Zhitkin, didn’t I?” Mandelstam said, his spirits soaring. “Two hundred rubles for a phony manuscript! Come along, Aida. Come along, Nadenka. If I am unable to publish poetry, I can at least produce counterfeit manuscripts until the inkwells run dry in Russia.”
Nashchokin Street was caked with ice. Linking arms, we made as if to skate the last thirty meters to the writers’ building. The hallway inside our wing reeked from the rancid insecticide used to kill bedbugs. We were convulsed with laughter as we threw open the door to our ground floor flat and, flinging the overcoats to the floor, sprawled short of breath on the bedraggled sofa in the living room. We could hear the Swiss clock, with the heavy weight hanging on the end of the chain, ticking away in the kitchen. The radiator under the window that I’d painted rose red hissed and belched as if it were human. Somewhere above us a toilet flushed and water rushed through pipes in the walls, but nothing could dampen our spirits. The telephone in the niche at the end of the corridor started ringing and kept at it until one of the tenants answered and then shouted, “Lifshitz, Piotr Semyonovich, your wife would like to have a word with your mistress,” which set us to giggling like schoolchildren.
When I’d caught my breath, I said something about how sexual relationships were never uncomplicated in this socialist paradise of ours.
Mandelstam set three thick kitchen tumblers on our makeshift coffee table (actually an old suitcase plastered with stickers from Heidelberg, where he’d spent a semester in 1910) and poured out what was left in the bottle of Georgian Khvanchkara, then raised his glass. “I propose we drink to the health of those who are responsible for this happy life of ours.”
“No, no, let’s drink to the three of us,” I suggested.
“To the three of us,” Zinaida exclaimed.
“Well, then, to the three of us,” my husband happily agreed and we clanked glasses and drank off the wine.
“Three is a lucky number,” Mandelstam said, pulling his cravat free as he licked the last of the red wine from his lips. And he launched into a self-conscious soliloquy (one that I’d heard before) about how the Bolshevik Revolution had had sexual as well as social and political consequences. “In the twenties,” he told our guest, “the ménage à trois began to be widely practiced in intellectual circles. Everyone remembers the relationship between Osip and Lily Brik and Mayakovsky. Shostakovich had an open marriage with Nina Varzar. Akhmatova once lived with the very beautiful Olga Sudeikina and the composer Artur Lurye.”
I supplied the succulent details. “She used to say they could never
decide which of them he was in love with, so they both loved him and each other.”
Mandelstam said, “I speak for my wife—don’t I, Nadenka?—when I say we consider a three-way marriage to be a fortress no outsider can conquer.”
“Is he accurately representing your views?” Zinaida demanded.
“Yes,” I said. “It seems to me that in this dead country, where nothing can be reborn, the ménage à trois is the ideal citadel.”
“Did you ever see any of his conquests as a threat to you?” Zinaida persisted.
I exchanged looks with my husband. “When our paths first crossed, in a cabaret in Kiev, we appeared to be ships passing in the night until, as he later put it, I blew him out of the water. Soon after we met, Mandelstam and I were separated by the Civil War. I was your age at the time and missed him terribly. He wound up in Petersburg, where he had a three-month fling with Olga Arbenina. What I resented most was not Arbenina—I can understand any female of the species being attracted to Mandelstam. No, what I resented most was Mandelstam. When he took up with that woman, he and I were on intimate terms. He called me sister and addressed me using the familiar ty. But when he got around to writing me after meeting Arbenina, he switched into the formal vy and I understood we would have to begin from zero in our relationship.”
“What did you do?” Zinaida asked, looking eagerly from one to the other.
“The answer is as plain as the beauty mark on your chin,” Mandelstam said. “We started again from scratch.” And he added, more for my ears than Zinaida’s, “Loving a third person is not without risks.”
Zinaida wanted to know if we had ever come close to splitting up.
The Stalin Epigram Page 2
