A combination of things, I suppose. Naively, yes, seeing that dreams don’t come true—or if they do, what you get is disappointing or downright hurtful.
Men, right?
To a degree. But not only. I also blame myself.
He looked at her sympathetically, creasing his brow. You shouldn’t, he said eventually, lowering his voice. People can be fucks. Society—it’s rigged, corrupt. Even here. He waved his arm to include the well-groomed Swiss shoppers at adjacent tables, then added, You have to protect yourself. You think I haven’t been there, too? That disappointing, hurtful place? I had to learn very early to defend myself, even when it meant deceiving, cheating.
You?
Not in a way that would harm others; just self-protection, really. Anyway, look at us now, two well-fed, cynical members of the intelligentsia, with the luxury to debate imaginary trips to Ukraine. Although I hope you will seriously consider it.
Let me see what I find out in London. Maybe if I manage to see the publishers, they will give me some sort of lead, a concrete reason for going there.
Mongoose, he said, wagging a finger at her. Don’t forget.
KATYA STARED FOR A long time at the email.
Peter would tell her not to answer the message or to say no. She opted halfheartedly for a middle course. I might not be here, she wrote. That would give her time to focus and decide. How much to reveal, if anything. And if she said yes, she would be able to tell right away whether the translator was someone she could trust. Thus far, she was obviously on their side: motivated, interested, eager. But later?
The Chekhov novel.
She and Peter must decide soon.
She did not want to think about it. As long as she didn’t think about it, she didn’t have to decide or do anything. Everything was urgent, and she wanted to drift.
What Katya feared more than anything was Peter’s desperation. She had never, in their years together, seen him so disheartened, so glum. Even in the early nineties, when they had been going through the transition from samizdat and avant-garde poets to guidebooks and autobiographies of figure skaters, he had remained upbeat. His inner capitalist, as she teasingly called it, had come alive at last. They enjoyed the new freedom to travel to Russia, to visit Katya’s mother without worrying that the neighbors might make her life difficult afterward. Katya had been able to renew her relations with old friends: a poet who now sold pirated CDs in the open-air market; a novelist who had become an English teacher to survive. They were all struggling. Peter counted his blessings, in the end. He was British, after all, heir to an old, stable economic environment.
But now. There was a bleakness about now.
One of her friends in Russia had done very well. Misha the painter turned entrepreneur. He had taken her to a very expensive restaurant—Peter had not joined her on that trip—and spent the evening lecturing her on how to turn her small publishing house into a big business. Katya hated the sound of the word in Russian—beezness—and now, even when she heard it in English, she often saw Misha’s face, pink with vodka and champagne, his pale eyes promising her an earthly paradise. At the end of the evening he had tried to kiss her; then, disgruntled but still a friend, he’d sent her home in his silver limo with all the appurtenances—bar, stereo, TV. No doubt a stash of handguns, too. Katya had tried to engage the driver in conversation, to rescue the evening somehow, make it human again. Never in her life had she tried harder to be a comrade than on that long ride through Moscow’s glittering snowy streets. In vain. It was too late for any of that. The driver was probably a thug at heart. He drove in stony silence, his resentment thundering.
Misha, in the course of their conversation, had offered to help. Say how much. Just say the word. It was some years ago, but as far as she knew, he was still prospering. She had seen him in a newspaper photograph, posing with Medvedev. It was always an option; but was she still so kissable? What would she give in return? Above all, how could she handle Peter?
No, it would not come to that. There must be another way. Anton Pavlovich would help them, she felt sure of it. Simply by being who he had always been.
July 10, 1888
Anton Pavlovich has left for the Crimea.
His two younger brothers are still here, as is Masha; Kazimir Stanislavovich was too shy to stay on without Anton Pavlovich, and our cousin Sasha has left and taken his flute with him. It is very quiet. Ivan Pavlovich brings us fish—he is every bit as eager a fisherman as his brother—but does not have the same gift for conversation. Natasha and Maria Pavlovna spend a lot of time together, plotting something to do with Vata and Ivan Pavlovich. Vata and Vanya, they mutter, dissolving in laughter.
I see them through Anton Pavlovich’s words, still echoing in my mind: by the pond in their long white dresses, their gestures of mirth.
Elena sits with me in the evening. She is withdrawn. She won’t tell me why, but I wonder if she is thinking about Aleksandr Pavlovich. When the silence grows too heavy, she takes up the volume of Tyutchev. When I ask her why she doesn’t read something more contemporary, she says she needs to go to an inaccessible sort of place, one that no longer exists, for it is easier to bury her discontent in the past she hasn’t known than to try to struggle with the present. This will pass, Zinaida Mikhailovna, she says, please don’t worry about me. Just let us read Tyutchev for a change.
She is right. The past may be inaccessible, but with each reading, the words and music become stronger, more familiar. They burn into you, and with each new reading, you feel something like a joy of rediscovery, so poignant it is almost sorrowful.
I have memorized this one poem by Tyutchev and copy it out here, for my little niece.
Pray do not speak, but hide from sight,
Conceal your feelings and your dreams—
To let them rise and set again
As soundlessly in your soul’s depths
As stars adrift upon the night—
Admire them—and do not speak.
How does one tell the hidden heart?
How might a stranger understand
Whereby you live, and who you are?
A thought, once uttered, is a lie;
To stir the source disturbs its calm—
So drink from it, and do not speak.
But live within yourself alone—
For in your soul there is a world
Of secret and enchanted thoughts;
Protect them from the world’s great roar,
And shield them from day’s blinding light—
Yet heed their song—pray do not speak.
I’ve been ill again. A seizure on the veranda at dusk. Poor Grigory Petrovich was passing; he did not know what to do. I heard his voice as if from very far away, Poor miss, what are the devils doing to you, may God have mercy. Then a hand on my forehead, gently stroking, for a long time. I didn’t know whose it was, it seemed to belong to a sort of greater entity, not a person. I was in a place where such disembodied hands stroked and comforted, a place of supreme gentleness and love, until Mama’s voice reached me at last: And you seemed so much better these last weeks.
She led me to bed and helped me undress. She sat with me for a while and talked to me about the Chekhovs, musing about this brother and that brother, and about the father, and wasn’t he an upstanding religious man, but she wasn’t sure the sons followed his example, just like her own sons, until finally, I waved my hand and said, Enough, Mama, let me sleep.
I felt her arranging the sheets and the blanket, trying to find a way to keep me closer to her for a moment. My head was throbbing, my hands and feet were icy cold. I drifted in and out, lost all sense of time. I had nightmares: I was able to see Anton Pavlovich, and he had huge wild eyes and was leering at me, and he had a basket full of crayfish in his hands and was shaking them at me and saying, They are good for you! If I had not been so ill and uncomfortable, I might look back and think it was funny—all that was missing was his smelly hat—but there was something so helpless and
powerless in the dream. I had regained my sight, but I was so frightened that I could not speak, could not defend myself.
I slept, then had lucid moments when I wondered how much longer I wanted to live—not how much longer I would be allowed to live but whether I would be allowed any control in the matter, any choice. I felt as if I were at the bottom of a great hill, and to go on living, I must decide to climb; but then on each step of the way, I could sense others looking at me, reaching out to me, encouraging me. Their voices filled me with tears and a burning, desperate desire to be with them—Mama, Elena, Natasha, Pasha, Georges, Tonya, and little Ksenia; for their sake, for what I have with them, I could not leave. I felt then as if I had reached the top of that hill and could look around me at a serene, verdant landscape, and even if it was all in my imagination and there was no proof of any of it, no reality, in my half-dazed state, not knowing if it was day or night, it seemed the most important thing, a kind of vivid truth. Was it faith? Or just the ravings of my disturbed brain?
After that I slept, and when I awoke, Natasha was there and said, I’ve been waiting for you to wake since dawn, it’s midmorning, would you like to have some breakfast?
She told me I’ve been in bed for two days; I haven’t eaten, I’ve only drunk some water. Elena and Natasha watched over me all that time.
Through an open window, I heard his voice in the distance, laughing, scolding. I thought he had come home early, and I waited eagerly, until I asked Mama, and she told me no, it couldn’t be Anton Pavlovich, but Ivan’s voice was remarkably similar. I could hear the regret in her voice, and she went on to say, Poor Zina, do you feel dull without his conversation?
I assured her I was fine, but my cheeks flushed hot with a wave of disappointment and annoyance at my reaction.
The days are long. I sit on the veranda or above the river with Natasha and Masha, little inclined to speak. I listen gladly to all their conversation, give my opinions and advice, which they accept eagerly. A part of me lives through them—their concerns about teaching, their doubts and hopes regarding marriage or eligible men in the district, their opinions on all our brothers and their lives, which seem infinitely more complicated and passionate than our own. Did Masha have news of Anton Pavlovich? She’d had a few letters; he was traveling, after staying some time at Feodosia with Monsieur Suvorin and his wife. He was on his way to the Caucasus with one of Suvorin’s sons. Through places with fairy-tale names: Sukhumi, Novy Afon, Batum, Tiflis, Baku . . . We sighed, thinking of the exotic treasures of the journey, then laughed and agreed we were surely happier here above the river, and what could be more beautiful than our own Luka and the river Psyol? Did Anton Pavlovich need the journey for his writing, or was it merely a luxury, a gentleman’s adventure he could undertake with his wealthier friends? Natasha seemed to envy him—she is adventurous, after all—but Masha just sighed and said, I wish he would settle down, I do worry about him.
July 27, 1888
Maria Pavlovna led me down to the river, with Rosa following us or trotting ahead, panting in the heat. We found a shady spot and spread a blanket. I lay down and curled up with my head on my arms.
You are so fortunate to have such honest, hardworking, and talented brothers, she said suddenly, almost bitterly.
I sat up again. Whatever do you mean, Maria Pavlovna? Look at Anton Pavlovich—
Oh, yes, everyone goes on about how good and talented he is, but the others . . . You’ve no idea how exhausting it is at times. Especially with Sasha and Kolya.
Well, at least they stay out of politics—
Yes, but they get up to no end of mischief otherwise. She leaned closer. I don’t know what to do, Zina. Sasha has written to me twice now, and I’m sure it’s because he knows Antosha is in the Caucasus and can’t do a thing.
About what?
He wants to marry your sister. He’s insisting, in fact, and he wants me to speak to her.
Elena?
Of course Elena.
I thought Anton already—
Yes, there was the business of that letter he tore up, but you don’t know what they’re like, the two of them together. Antosha cannot stand Sasha’s . . . bohemianism, the messiness of his life, his women, his drinking, his brats—I’m sorry, but that’s what they are, no discipline at all—and it’s a constant battle, Sasha provokes him, Antosha replies with long letters, trying to talk sense into him, as if words were vodka and could change Sasha’s nature. Now I’ve been dragged into this. What do you think?
It’s dreadful. He has no right to expect this of you.
And he’s gone behind Antosha’s back.
I’m not sure it’s up to Anton Pavlovich, after all. What do your parents say—
My parents! Her tone was one of impatient exasperation. My mother will do nothing but weep, and my father will shout about our lack of religion. They hated poor Anna Ivanovna, may she rest in peace. They would probably love Elena because she would sacrifice everything for their son and make their lives easier. But they won’t get involved, they’ll only wring their hands or fling them in the air.
There was a moment of silence. I heard little Panas shouting to his friend Mishka down on the fishing pier.
Maria Pavlovna said, Do you think Elena has any feelings for him? Because if she actually does, we must of course take them into account.
If she does, she won’t say. Although I don’t think she has heard from him since he left, I think we would have known. Where is he now?
In Petersburg. He works at Suvorin’s newspaper, perhaps you already knew that. And thank God for Suvorin, he does keep an eye on him, gets a semblance of professional behavior out of him for a few hours a day.
He won’t suddenly come here?
I hope not. I hope he won’t do anything rash, such as write directly to Elena.
Will you say anything to her?
Of course not. I’ll wait until Antosha is back.
We sat in companionable silence for a while. Panas caught something, and Mishka cheered. Then Maria Pavlovna said, What about Georges? Does he intend to marry?
I suppose, but his music comes first for now.
Mmm.
I wonder now what was behind Masha’s question about Georges.
August 9, 1888
I sit with my feet on the ottoman, fanning myself. I can hear Grigory Petrovich in the distance, grumbling about the heat. There is nothing to do, Natasha and Mama have gone off somewhere. Tonya promised to come by with the baby later, so I wait patiently, listening to the birds. I feel better, restored, almost buoyant, as if something lovely is about to happen. I just need patience. There will be a visit, or Georges will begin to play.
I was right. I have begun to develop a sixth sense for such things. Like Rosa, who knows when you’re coming and races across the field to greet you. I wish I could race across fields—that is how I felt when I sensed he was coming. He didn’t come racing, no, I heard his voice with Natasha and Masha when they were still some distance away; I was surprised, I thought he would be gone much longer, there’d been talk of Persia. But there was his voice, not his brother’s, here he was, back from the Caucasus.
He kissed my hand—lightly, it is so hot—and sat down beside me. The others went in the house to prepare the tea.
You’ve returned early, I said.
He sighed, cleared his throat. There’s been a tragedy. Diphtheria. Suvorin’s third son. We turned back; we had gotten as far as Abkhazia when we received the telegram.
And . . . you didn’t want to carry on alone?
He cleared his throat again, as if he were having trouble speaking; if I could have seen him, perhaps he would have shrugged apologetically, at a loss for words. But he murmured, It was best that I return to be with the family. You understand. It would have been insensitive to go on traveling.
Then he slapped his hands against his thighs and said, But I’m very happy to be back at Luka, all the same! Traveling takes a lot out of one, constant demands on the nerves a
nd the senses, everything unfamiliar and exotic and slightly dangerous. I love it, but I confess I’ve been missing my fishing pole.
We laughed, and then there was a prolonged silence. I would say, if I did not believe otherwise, that it was an awkward silence, that neither of us knew what to say. As if things were not the way they were meant to be; as if he knew he could not joyfully relate his travels to me when Suvorin’s son had just died. His thoughts were elsewhere, his feelings, too; and we must seem very provincial to him now.
I sensed he was looking at me. Staring right at me. When you can see, you can look back at someone, absorb or deflect the gaze; but a blind person has no control over another person’s gaze, and the sense, the very suspicion, that this gaze is lingering on you—staring, as it were, however sympathetically—makes you feel exposed, quite naked, regardless of your own lack of vision. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, I did not know which way to turn my head. Finally, he said quietly, And have you been all right, Zinaida Mikhailovna?
I’ve been fine, everyone has been reading to me, I feel like a regular library! This rather too hastily, so I added: But I’ve missed our conversations, it’s true.
And so have I, Zinaida Mikhailovna, so have I. We spoke a great deal with the Suvorins, of course, but . . . He paused for a long time, then said, You have a different way of perceiving things. Through you, I see things differently.
I believe what he might have said, had he been bolder, was that in my unseeing presence, he could be another, perhaps truer self; without my gaze, he was free in a way that no sighted presence could ever allow. That is the harsh, uncomfortable truth about sight that I have discovered only since I’ve lost it: Others may use one’s blindness to find a place of comfort.
August 16, 1888
This has been a quiet week. The last two days have been unusually cool, and when I am in the garden, I sense that the sun is behind a thick cover of cloud. The air seems to breathe in relief; there are new scents, subtle and fresh, from the flowers.
The Summer Guest Page 13
