by Teffi
“Heavens! What do you mean? It just says the simplest things, nothing dangerous.”
“May I have a quick look?”
“Please do. There’s nothing secret.”
He took the letter. Read it. Sighed.
“Just as I thought. A firing squad within twenty-four hours. That’s what happens.”
“For the love of God! What’s wrong with the letter?”
“Everything. Every sentence. First, you should have written as a woman. Otherwise, your brother will be arrested as the brother of a man who has evaded military conscription. Second, you shouldn’t mention having received a letter, since correspondence is forbidden. And then you shouldn’t let on that you understand how awful things are there.”
“But then what should I do? What should I write?”
“Allow me. I’ll reword your letter in the appropriate style. Don’t worry—they’ll understand.”
“All right then. Reword it.”
The barrister did a little writing, a little crossing out, then read out the following:
Dear Volodya!
I didn’t receive your letter. How good that everything is going so well for you. Is it really true that now people have stopped eating human flesh? How truly delightful! What’s got into you? They say your birth rate is terribly high. All this calms us like crazy. Life’s going badly for me. If only you were here, too, everything would be quite terrible. I’ve married a Frenchman and I’m awfully unhappy.
Your sister Ivan.
The postscript:
To hell with the lot of you.
Teffi.
“There,” said the barrister, grimly admiring his composition and adding commas in appropriate places. “Now the letter can be sent with no risk at all. You’re safe and sound, and the recipient will remain alive. And the letter will reach him. Everything in order and subtly worded.”
“I’m just worried about the postscript,” I remarked timidly. “It does somehow seem a bit rude.”
“That’s as it should be. We don’t want people getting themselves shot because of you and your endearments.”
“All this is quite brilliant,” Ivan Andreyevich said with a sigh. “The letter and everything. But then what are people there going to think of us? After all, the letter is, if you don’t mind my saying so, idiotic.”
“It’s not idiotic, it’s subtle. And even if they do think we’ve become idiots, who cares? At least they’ll still be alive. Not everyone today can boast of having living relatives.”
“But what if it frightens them?”
“Well, if you’re scared of wolves, don’t go into the forest. It’s no good being frightened if you want to receive letters.”
The letter was sent.
Lord, have mercy on us. Lord, save and preserve us.
1920
MARQUITA
THERE WAS a suffocating smell of chocolate, tobacco and warm silk.
Flushed ladies were powdering their noses, haughtily and languidly surveying the clientele, as if to say, “We’re certainly a cut above you, but we won’t make a thing of it.”
And then, suddenly, forgetting their haughty languor, they were bending down over their plates and hurriedly, sincerely and greedily munching their pastries.
The waitresses, all of them daughters of provincial governors (did we ever imagine our governors could end up with so many daughters?), pulled in their stomachs as they squeezed between the tables, abstractedly repeating, “One chocolates, two pastry and one milk…”
The café was Russian, which is why it offered music and “entertainments”.
First came a genial, lanky fellow with blue eyes—one of the seminarians who had been sent into exile. Sticking out his Adam’s apple, he danced an Apache dance together with a skinny little woman whose bow legs were like sticks of macaroni. He hurled her around with fierce abandon, but the look on his face was good-natured and rather abashed.
“What else can I do?” his face was saying. “We’ve all got to eat.”
Next was the “Gypsy singer Raisa Tsvetkova”—that is, Raichka Blum.1 She curled back her upper lip, like a yawning horse, and then, in a nasal voice, burst out with:
Fanweell, fanweell, my deear frieend!
Fanweell, fanweell—my geepsy femeelee!…
But she couldn’t help it. Raichka thought this was how Gypsies sang.
Sashenka was next.
As always, she had stage fright. She crossed herself inconspicuously and, looking around the café, wagged a finger at her little Kotka, so he would sit still.
Kotka was very small, but with a large head. His round nose was only just above the table top, almost touching the pastry on his plate. He was sitting very still.
Sashenka put her hands on her hips, proudly stuck out her own nose—which was every bit as round as Kotka’s—raised her eyebrows Spanish-style and began to sing ‘Marquita’.
She had a pure voice, and she enunciated the words simply and with conviction. The clientele loved it.
Sashenka turned pink. Returning to her seat, she kissed Kotka with still trembling lips. “You’ve been a good boy, you sat nice and still—now you can have your pastry!”
Raichka was sitting at the same table. She whispered, “Get him out of the way. The owner’s looking at you. He’s by the door. There’s a Tatar with him. There, with the black nose. He’s rich. Smile, for the love of God! Smile when someone’s looking at you! Heavens—men look at her, and she hasn’t even got the sense to smile!”
As they were leaving, the cashier looked pointedly at Sashenka and handed Kotka a box of sweets.
“I was asked to give this to the young gentleman.”
The cashier, too, was the daughter of a provincial governor.
“Who by?”
“How should I know?”
Raichka took Sashenka’s arm and whispered, “These, of course, are for you. And I really must give you some advice: don’t drag that brat around with you. Believe me—I know everything. I can assure you—it really does put men off. A little child, some sweets—and there’s the end of it! A woman must be a mysterious flower (honest to God!) and not give anything away about her domestic arrangements. Men all have domestic arrangements of their own—and that’s what they want to get away from. Or do you want to go on singing romances russes in this teashop until you’re an old woman? Until either you or the teashop come to the end of your days?”
Sashenka listened with fear and respect.
“But what do you want me to do with Kotka?”
“Oh, get an aunty of yours to sit with him!”
“What aunty? I haven’t got any aunties.”
“I can’t believe the way Russian families always manage not to have any aunties!”
Sashenka at once felt very guilty.
“And you must learn to be a bit more fun! Last week Schnutrel came to listen to you twice. Yes, and he applauded, and he came and sat down at your table. And what did you do? Probably you told him your husband had abandoned you!”
“I did nothing of the kind,” Sashenka insisted, blushing deeply and guiltily.
“As if your husband is of any interest to him! No, a woman must be like Carmen. Cruel and fiery. Now, when I was a young girl back in Nikolayev…”
And Raichka launched into her stories about the wonders of Nikolayev, that luxurious Babylon of passions, where she herself, though she had barely started at secondary school, managed at once to be Carmen, Cleopatra, Madonna and milliner.
The following day the black-nosed Tatar said to the owner of the café, “Please introduce mee, Greegory, to young lady. She take my heart. She keess her leettle boy—she have soul. I wild and shy man—she now like my fameely, like my own tribe. Introduce mee.”
The Tatar’s small, bright eyes blinked, and his nose swelled with tender emotion.
“Yes, all right. But what are you getting so worked up about? I’ll introduce you. She really does seem very nice—though one never can tell.”
&n
bsp; The owner took the Tatar over to Sashenka. “This is my friend, Asayev. He wishes to be introduced to you, Alexandra Petrovna.”2
Asayev shifted his weight from one foot to the other and gave an embarrassed smile. Sashenka stood there, looking red and frightened.
“We could have supper…” Asayev said all of a sudden.
“We, we don’t do suppers here. Only tea, faif-of-clok tea until half past six.”
“No, I want you go have supper with me some place. Shall we-e?”
Sashenka took fright even more. “Merci… Another time… I’m in a hurry… My little boy… at home.”
“Your leettle boy. Then I come tomorrow.”
He bowed crookedly, quickly and mechanically, as if this were some formal occasion, and went off on his way.
Raichka grabbed Sashenka by the arm.
“I really can’t bear it. That was plain lunacy. An extremely rich man falls in love with her—and what does she do? Thrusts her little brat at him. Look, tomorrow I shall give you my black hat and you must buy yourself some new shoes. Yes, you really must—it’s important.”
“I don’t want to be a kept woman,” said Sashenka, and let out a sob.
“You what?” said Raichka in astonishment. “Who’s making you do anything? And where’s the harm in having a rich man pining for you? Where’s the harm in having him send you flowers? Of course, if all you do is sigh and dandle children in front of him, then he won’t hang about for long. He’s an Oriental—and they like their women fiery. Believe me—I know everything.”
“He seems… very sweet,” said Sashenka, smiling.
“Play your cards right—and he’ll marry you. So, come round this evening for the hat. And what about perfume? Have you got some?”
Sashenka slept badly that night. She kept thinking about the Tatar, moved by his ugliness.
“Poor man. He needs affection and love, but that’s not allowed. I have to be proud and burning and altogether a real Carmen. Tomorrow I have to buy patent-leather shoes. His nose is all pitted and he keeps puffing and snorting. It’s a shame. He’s lonely, I know it. He’s got no one to look after him.”
She thought about her husband—who was handsome and no good.
“What does he care about Kotka? All he does is go dancing in nightclubs. And someone just saw him with a sallow Englishwoman—and in a car of his own.”
She had a little cry.
She bought the shoes first thing, which got the day off to a Carmenesque start.
“Tra-la-la-la!”
And—better still—her neighbour had developed another gumboil. This meant she’d be staying at home for the next three or four days. The neighbour promised to keep an eye on Kotka.
In Raichka’s hat, and with a rose pinned at her waist, Sashenka felt she was a real demonic woman.
“So you think I’m a simpleton, do you?” she said to Raichka. “Ha! You don’t know me yet. I can wrap any man round my little finger. And you don’t really think this Armenian is of any importance to me, do you? I could have dozens like him if I felt like it.”
Raichka looked at her sceptically and suggested she put on more lipstick.
The Tatar arrived in the evening and went straight over to Sashenka.
“Let’s go. For supper.”
And while she was putting her coat on, he hung about just beside her, almost touching her with his nose.
His own private car was waiting outside. This was beyond Sashenka’s wildest imaginings. She almost lost her nerve, but her patent-leather shoes ran up to the car and jumped into it of their own accord—as if this were what they’d been made for.
In the car, the Tatar took her by the hand and said, “You be like my fameely, like my own tribe. I want tell you something. Veree soon.”
They went into an expensive Russian restaurant. The Tatar abstractedly ordered some shashlik. He kept looking at Sashenka and smiling.
Thinking it would help with her demonism, Sashenka downed a glass of port. The Tatar began to sway about and the lamp careered to one side.
She seemed to have overdone it.
“I wild and shy,” said the Tatar, looking into her eyes. “I sad and lonelee. I all alone. You too onlee one?”
Sashenka wanted to say something about her husband but remembered Raichka.
“Onlee one,” she repeated robotically.
“One and one make two!” said the Tatar, suddenly laughing and taking her by the hand.
Sashenka failed to understand, but she didn’t let on. Instead, she tossed her head back and laughed provocatively.
The Tatar let go of her hand in surprise.
“Carmen,” thought Sashenka. “I’ve got to be a real Carmen.”
“Are you capable of madness?” she asked, languidly narrowing her eyes.
“Don’t know. Never opportunitee. I from small town.”
Not knowing what to say next, Sashenka unpinned her rose, and, twirling it about next to her cheek, began singing, “Marquita! Marquita, my beauty!” The Tatar watched sadly.
“You be bored, you must sing? Is hard for you?”
“Ha-ha! I adore singing, dancing, wine, revelry. Ha! You don’t know me yet!”
Rose-tinted lamps, a soft sofa, flowers on the tables, the languid wails of a jazz band, wine in a silver bucket. Sashenka felt she was a beautiful señorita, with huge black eyes and imperious eyebrows. Yes, she was the beautiful Marquita.
“Your son be veree good leettle boy,” the Tatar said softly.
Sashenka knitted her imperious brows. “Oh, please! We’re not going to talk about children, nappies and semolina, are we? To the wondrous strains of this tango and while wine sparkles in our glasses, we must speak of beauty, of life’s poetry, not of its prose… I love beauty, madness, all that dazzles. I have the soul of Carmen. I am Marquita… My past seems so far from me now that I can’t even see that child as my own…”
She threw her head back bacchante-style and pressed her wine glass to her lips. But then her soul quietly started to weep. “I’ve disowned him! I’ve disowned my little Kotka! My poor, skinny, blue-eyed little Kotka…”
The Tatar silently downed two glasses of wine—and down drooped his black nose.
Sashenka wasn’t sure what to do next. She too fell silent.
The Tatar asked for the bill and got up.
On the way back they sat in the car in silence. Sashenka couldn’t think how to start up another dazzling conversation. The Tatar was still letting his nose droop, as if he were dozing.
“He’s had too much to drink,” she decided. “And he was over-excited. There’s something rather sweet about him. I think I’m going to end up really loving him.”
As they were saying goodbye, she squeezed his hand with feeling.
“Until tomorrow, yes?”
She wanted to add something Carmenesque, but she couldn’t think what.
At home, she was greeted by the fellow tenant with the gumboil. “All your son does is whine and throw tantrums. There’s nothing I can do with him. This is the last time you’ll catch me looking after him!”
And there was her little Kotka—shivering on a huge sofa bed in a half-dark room, under a light bulb shaded by newspaper. Seeing his mother, he shook even more and wailed, “Where’ve you been, thtupid?”
Sashenka took the angry, whining little boy in her arms and slapped him—but before he could start bawling, she started to cry herself. She hugged her little Kotka closer.
“Never mind… be patient, my darling little chap. Just bear up a little longer. It’ll be our turn soon. Someone’s going to love us, someone’s going to be looking after us both. It won’t be long now.”
The next morning, the owner of the café happened to run into Asayev. The Tatar was trudging along despondently, his cheeks blue and unshaven, one eye a little swollen.
“Why so down in the dumps? Will we be seeing you this evening?”
The Tatar looked away blankly.
“No. All ended.”
<
br /> “What do you mean? You’re not saying Sashenka’s given you the push, are you?”
The Tatar shrugged his shoulders.
“She… you not know… She be demon. I make meestake. No. I not come this evening. All ended!”
1924
Notes
1 It is clear from Raichka’s surname, Blum, that she is Jewish. Her stage name, Tsvetkova, is a Russian translation of this name. Both names mean “flower”.
2 Both “Sasha” and “Sashenka” are affectionate forms of the name Alexandra.
MY FIRST TOLSTOY
I REMEMBER… I’m nine years old.
I’m reading Childhood and Boyhood by Tolstoy. Over and over again.
Everything in this book is dear to me.
Volodya, Nikolenka and Lyubochka are all living with me; they’re all just like me and my brothers and sisters. And their home in Moscow with their grandmother is our Moscow home; when I read about their drawing room, morning room or classroom, I don’t have to imagine anything—these are all our own rooms.
I know Natalya Savishna, too. She’s our old Avdotya Matveyevna, Grandmother’s former serf. She too has a trunk with pictures glued to the top. Only she’s not as good-natured as Natalya Savishna. She likes to grumble. “Nor was there anything in nature he ever wished to praise.” So my older brother used to sum her up, quoting from Pushkin’s ‘The Demon’.
Nevertheless, the resemblance is so pronounced that every time I read about Natalya Savishna, I picture Avdotya Matveyevna.
Every one of these people is near and dear to me.
Even the grandmother—peering with stern, questioning eyes from under the ruching of her cap, a bottle of eau de Cologne on the little table beside her chair—even the grandmother is near and dear to me.
The only alien element is the tutor, Saint-Jérôme, whom Nikolenka and I both hate. Oh, how I hate him! I hate him even more and longer than Nikolenka himself, it seems, because Nikolenka eventually buries the hatchet, but I go on hating him for the rest of my life.
