The Museum of Abandoned Secrets

by Oksana Zabuzhko

  “Going to lunch?” the man asks.

  This sounds like a send-up for a recently concluded conversation to which there is nothing to add, and it’s not hard to guess who this type, stuffed into his mass-produced suit like into a corset, might be—that very same archive’s employee who left the office on Aidy’s heels and should’ve kept going instead of coming to loiter around us. The mister’s head hovers at about Aidy’s shoulder, and the rest of him is not much to look at either—the rump significantly outweighs the top, legs sort of stubby—but his bearing and face are remarkable: a strong face, he must’ve been a real hottie when he was young; schoolgirls doodle such Mephistopheles profiles in their notebooks, only he’s not my type. I don’t like those Mediterranean-swarthy, sepia types with eyes that become more prominent and black the more white strands they get in their black wool, and something vaguely hawkish in their features—the whole aging Arab terrorist look. Or Israeli military. For some reason, I think they must be constantly sweating—like someone used too much oil paint on them and forgot to daub the painting. And he’s got military bearing alright; they all carry themselves like that—even when all they’ve got is an archive job. What’s his rank, I wonder?

  Aidy cleverly makes a point of not introducing us. A cow would get it—go on, move right along, nothing to see here—but this forward-chested stub of a terrorist is much less perceptive than a cow; he’s about as sharp as my Nastya, and he proceeds to shower Aidy, verbosely, paternally, solicitously, with patronizing notes, with some utterly unnecessary details, belaboring the already belabored—that it’s better to telephone them, anytime after tomorrow, the more time they have for the search the better, not all cases have been cataloged yet, priority is given to requests for rehabilitation of which there don’t seem to be getting any fewer, not at all, quite the opposite, much has been done already, but there’s still at least as much to do. And there he stands, good and sturdy, with his thick, oily eyebrows and his hawkish profile, and bullshits and bullshits, and does not intend to shut up anytime soon, and I catch him glancing at me again and it finally dawns on me: he recognizes me! (Is that why he stopped?)

  Shit, of all things, we could really do without this. Dude, why couldn’t you just go to lunch? Damn television—soon as you stick your nose out in public, someone’s always staring at you, liable to ask, “Is this really You?” And not even to get an autograph, but just because, to confirm they’re right. I keep mum like a real Ukrainian partisan, not a peep, standing beside them as if we’re on a subway and not in the middle of the street, and focus on breathing through my nose, keeping my face straight as a passport photo—it’s not actually your face people recognize as much as your expressions and, especially, individual intonation, so I stubbornly drag out my pause, long, endlessly long, folks’d be shuffling and coughing already if this were the theater. And he has no desire to wait forever either; it is his lunch break after all.

  “I’m sorry; you’re Daryna Goshchynska, aren’t you?”

  Here we go.

  “And I’m sorry, who would you be?”

  Aidy makes a grudging entrance—like a double base in a jazz band, “Pavlo Ivanovych, from the archive.”

  Pavlo Ivanovych, sure. A purely KGB way of introducing oneself. I heard this from my mom: they were all either Pavlo Ivanovyches or Sergei Petrovyches, all those operatives, “guardians,” men without last names, just name and patronymic. For no reason I can grasp, this gesture of loyalty to the age-old traditions of his guild suddenly pisses me off—I mean really pisses me off. I go blind with a rage that’s rushed to my head—or maybe I’m just slow to react today and there is a whole cocktail of accumulated ingredients exploding now, all my aggregate irritation beginning with Gucci Nastya (or maybe it was Nastya who infected me); but at this particular moment, I am just as ready to bare my teeth and growl—so furious my jaws cramp.

  “In that case, I am Daryna Anatoliivna!”

  “That I knew,” he says, regarding me as if a fed condor atop a tall cliff: the heavy, wrinkled eyelids half shield his unmoving protuberant eyes—eyes fit for an Oriental beauty, velvet and languorous, a pair of jet stones. What are they doing on him? A prank of nature. With a very slight emphasis, just a skosh of pressure, exactly enough to make sure his words don’t go unnoticed, he repeats, “I know it’s Anatoliivna.”

  Am I supposed to fuss, fawn, and flip right over? Gosh, wherever from, how, pray tell, I’m dying to find out? Piss off. Jackass.

  “Your matinka still alive?”

  That’s exactly what he says—matinka. In Russian, this would’ve been matushka—appropriate, even respectful. That’s how they used to talk among themselves—matushka, and also supruga, as in “Send my regards to your good supruga,” never “wife”—“wives” were something the people they interrogated had, men not to be considered or given regard. But for their own: matushka, supruga—the jargon of power, the victors’ argot. How did I not notice that he is translating from Russian in his head?

  If he and I were iguanas, we’d be set in a perfect shot for Planet Earth on Discovery Channel: face to face, rearing with angrily unfurled hoods, waiting to see who strikes first. Or cobras—those also sway in the air before darting at the enemy, a lightning-fast whiplash. (I do also have Aidy on my side, calm like a boa constrictor, wise to keep his peace, and this, undoubtedly, gives me extra strength, but we’ll leave him outside the frame.)

  “Yes, she’s well, thank you. And yours?”

  Did I imagine this, or did the other iguana shudder, slump on its feet a bit?

  “Please send my regards to her,” he goes on—not one to be knocked off his course, that’s another habit of the powerful—ignoring anything out of line, letting it slide as if it never happened. Canceled as being not in effect. Except, if your matinka’s off limits for me, then why the hell should you be messing with mine?

  “Regards from whom?”

  “Boozerov,” the iguana finally cracks and names himself, and it sounds unexpectedly intimate: the hood falls, the frill folds, there are worn loose sacks around his eyes, sagging jowls of well-cured skin above his shirt collar—a man in his fifties, and deeply so—with liver spots on his cheekbones, troubles with digestion and very likely his prostate, too, his career mostly played out, and obviously not too brilliantly, ahead of him only retirement with its pension and the constant worry that it’ll be cut, and what has he done to be snarled at like that?

  “Pavlo Ivanovych Boozerov,” he confides further—almost embarrassed as if he were whispering something lewd into my ear, a man pestering a woman in the street, following her—and is transformed right before my eyes, this poor, ill man, just think about living with a last name like that, sheesh, that’s quite a favor his mom and dad did him! A serious name—earnest, genuine Ryazan-Tambov vintage—the kind often found among old army retirees, like the unforgettable lieutenant colonel Plankin who taught PE and history at our school and was rumored to have become Plankin after he took his wife’s name, having himself been born Dillrodov. So Boozerov is actually not that bad, could be worse—unless, of course, Pavlo Ivanovych is pulling my leg, because he looks no more like an authentic Boozerov from Ryazan marshlands (Tatar cheekbones, gray eyes, a general watery indeterminacy of color) than I look like Osama bin Laden. The casting’s all wrong. Is he expecting to hear how pleased I am to meet him, or what?

  “Just say it like that, to your dear matinka—Boozerov, Pavlo Ivanovych. I think she’ll remember me. Our paths crossed.”

  “It’s a small world,” Aidy observes philosophically, inserting his head into the frame, and, thankfully, right on time—I have not the slightest clue what to say to Pavlo Ivanovych’s lyrical pronouncement. Really have no desire whatsoever to learn when and under what circumstances his path may have crossed with my matinka’s, and thus proceed to say nothing, obtusely and not politely at all. Over and out. And anyway Pavlo Ivanovych’s digestive juices must be trumpeting their call to battle: I see two yellowish-white streaks curdled
like old sheep-cheese in the corners of his mouth and get genuinely queasy. Pavlo Ivanovych, on the other hand, feels quite the opposite.

  “A pleasure,” he helpfully voices the line I missed—if no one’s serving, he’ll help himself. “A pleasure to know that she’s raised such a… famous daughter (last word spoken with the Russian stress). I myself often watch your shows, although it’s not always easy for me to find the time. And my daughter (with the Russian stress) just worships you.”

  This stiff little stump in his corset suit smiles for the first time. What a surprise—an awkward, meager smile, à la Shtirlitz from the classic Soviet TV series. It looks as though he had to engage untrained and long-calcified facial muscles; maybe that’s what they did in their Cheka schools: set everyone’s faces to the same standard, one mold for all, but still—at the mention of his daughter, the smile works, comes out warm, likeable, brightens his face—he’s basically a handsome man, even exotic-looking, so what if his shape let him down a bit.

  And I do smile back and say thank you, and that it’s very nice to hear: an automatic reaction like a camera’s flash once you pushed the button, but wait, it’s not over yet; he reaches into his chest pocket (No gun under his arm!—then again, should there have been?) and pulls out a notepad and shoves it at me, opened to a blank page of checkered graph paper. His daughter (with the Russian stress!) would be so thrilled to have my autograph. A loving dad—how nice. I’d be happy to, of course, only I would need a pen, too. And something for her personally, he mutters. Just a few words, one line. Of course, my pleasure. What’s her name? Jeez. Very nice… thank you… me too.

  Sheesh, that was it?! All this sending of mysterious regards to my matinka (but I’ll make sure to ask Mom what his deal is, if, of course, she remembers him), all this drawn-out hanging on, and five minutes of utter bullshit—all just to get an autograph that’s given to anyone free, just for the asking?

  Either I’m missing something or this customer’s really a little off his rocker. Not an iguana, maybe, but a different form of life for sure—the kind you have to study purposefully or you’ll never figure out what’s going on in its head.

  “Call,” he says, by way of parting, putting his precious notebook back inside the pocket of his frock, “if you need anything.”

  As if it were I who’d been the petitioner, and it is now I who’ll be extended the privilege, as one of “their” people—of the private, backdoor access, far from the hassle of the public entrance, whenever I call, as is only right and proper among “our” people. It’s like he doesn’t even see Aidy anymore, doesn’t look once in his direction—as if Aidy hadn’t been here, and his name’s not on the list, and his relatives don’t merit to be sent any regards (like, for example, Dovgan Olena Ambroziivna, year of birth—1920, year of death—1947, place of death—unknown).

  “Your friend…” (a blitz pause, a double take, a quick stab of eyes: How much of a “friend” is Aidy to me really?) “has my office number. Call anytime.”

  I just didn’t know any better and like an idiot sent Aidy down the straight and narrow honest path, through the turnstiles and security checks up front—could’ve saved us all a world of trouble just by using my national name, and not for official business at all, imagine that! Who’d have thought that Diogenes’ Lantern would turn out to be Security Bureau employees’ favorite show? Or, rather, the favorite show of Veronika Boozerova (poor kid, she must’ve gone through hell in school with a name like that!)—a Conservatory student and a future musicologist. Wow. I gotta admit sometimes it is useful to work in television; it has its perks, not just irks.

  Nonetheless, we shall do just fine without any handshaking (judging by his momentary hesitation, the idea did occur to Pavlo Ivanovych). His hands, surprisingly, are not plump and stubby-fingered, but quite cultured, intelligentsia hands, but still—they must sweat. And no matter how stiff and upright he stands, his body is plain unmanly—everything sort of slipping down into the hips, pear-like. Can’t find a suit coat that could hide his butt—it is too well padded, and sticks out. A woman’s butt. I must be having an expressive-butt day.

  Finally, we’re alone. A few more steps toward the Golden Gates (without speaking, we both head for the café next to the fountain)—and Aidy hooks his arm around my neck and lets it ride there, heavy like a small hungry animal with a mind to dart, nip below, and just as instinctively, I hug his torso, fall into step with him, let my side gnaw into his, and feel his warmth: the law of communicating vessels, as he says. And if Pavlo Ivanovych Boozerov is compelled by the incorrigible habits of his trade to watch us from around the corner (or whatever it was Shtirlitz always did), that’s his own problem. Let him go choke on his chops.

  “He, when he saw you, couldn’t get his pants down fast enough!” Aidy laughs. “You should’ve heard him in his office, before he signed my request: Who are you, and where from, and what for, and who’s she to you, and where did you get this information—a proper interrogation. By the end of it I began to seem suspicious to myself… and then—what a change!”

  “Behold the power of a father’s love.”

  “And Lolly’s popularity, let’s not forget that!”

  “Yeah, especially among the SB types. By the time I go on air, he’s out like a log, I promise you—I’ve no doubt he goes to bed right after the news. A fan—please!”

  “All the same, Lolly… you’re a TV star, a celebrity, and that pulls some weight—you can’t deny it. He must’ve had to make up that whole send regards to Olga Fedorivna thing right on the fly, just to rub elbows with you.”

  “You think?”

  “Bet my life on it. Anything to show that he’s not some pencil pusher, a no-name mutt. You’ll see; call your mom—I bet Olga Fedorivna will be very surprised.”

  “Boozerov—how would you like that for a last name?”

  “I almost lost it when he introduced himself. Took all I had not to crack.”

  “What’d he say back in the archive? Just stick to his Pavlo Ivanovych?”

  “I’m telling you, he was too good to look at me back there. As friendly as a rhino in heat.”

  “But at least he signed your inquiry, didn’t he?”

  “He signed it alright, said they’ll look, but they give no guarantee whatsoever that they’ll find anything. There’s only hope for those who enter here… something like that. At least now he’ll get his ass out of his chair.”

  “God, and Veronika Boozerova—who names their child like that! And what, I wonder, do they call her at home—Vera? Nika? Rona?”

  “Nika probably. Rona—that’s too high culture.”

  “Well, he’s not a cop, after all—he’s, like, intelligence service, no? Daughter a Conservatory student… and did you see, he’s got quite decent hands?”

  “I’ve met cultured cops, too. Once…”

  Aidy launches into a long and funny story—the story itself may not be all that funny, but the way he tells them, all his stories, is very funny, or, rather, he knows how to infect you with the sense of fun he has with whatever he’s talking about. He’s got the power of suggestion, the gift of puppies and small children, reserved only for the truly talented among the adults, people of beautiful and pure soul. And I am laughing my head off listening to how the charitable Aidy and his friends taught a cop to play bridge on a computer when said cop showed up in the middle of the night in response to a call from their highly obnoxious neighbor, while they were having a rocking good time, and what came of that. His stories are often raw, bratty, full of street-smart gallows humor that’s irreverent, irresistible, and always draws you in, with its youthful excess of vitality but more with its organic innocence, its unfamiliarity with the darker sides of life, or maybe, the carefree disregard for them that borders on courage and most often turns out to be precisely that.

  Somehow, incredibly, Aidy retains this purely boyish, friendly openness toward everyone he meets—as if the only things he ever expected from them were new and exciting adv
entures. People usually sense this, and the waitress who comes to our table to take the order, a blonde as pale as a flour weevil, also falls under his spell and begins to radiate friendliness, even throws in something in Ukrainian although the language doesn’t come smoothly from her lips. It’s always like that with Aidy, everywhere we go; I noticed this when things were just starting with the two of us, back when we were still on formal terms, and everywhere—in a line at the post office, in a taxi, at a video-rental kiosk—we goofed around and hollered and laughed out loud, and I saw the way everyone reacted, the loosened-up smiles that would spark around us, as if everyone remembered something nice, private, something long sunk in their memory; and that’s when I first realized that I wasn’t just imagining what was going on between us, that others could see it too.