by Robert Carr
I was too elated to give it further thought.
(How easy it was not to dwell on such matters. Even now, the simple imperative “I will not think about it!” works. It stops the imagination from taking over, and with it, the horror. And then, there are the easy justifications, “What good would it do?” or “By taking the apartment, you yourself haven’t done anything wrong, anything vile or abhorrent.”)
Bedrosyan refilled our glasses as we were standing near his desk. He looked at me with curiosity and deference. “You see, Pavel Nikolayevich, people in high places have taken an interest in you. They like you. Well, I don’t know if they like you personally, ha, ha, but they like your books. Somebody very high up took a liking to Boris Vinograd.”
“Oleg,” I said. “Oleg Vinograd.”
“Yes, precisely, do you know who likes the hero of The Iced Waterfall? Think high, very high.”
I shook my head—I had no inkling whatsoever. I was tempted to say Bedrosyan, but decided not to offend the messenger.
“The highest of all! Comrade Stalin himself! Yes, he’s read your book. Imagine, Pavel Nikolayevich, Comrade Stalin read The Iced Waterfall! He’s tireless, Comrade Stalin. Hardly ever sleeps. He read your book and liked it so much that he ordered a movie to be made of it. He was delighted with the way Vinograd made mincemeat of the English spies. I was told that he was laughing and telling the story to all those around him the other night in Kuntsevo. He said the English were the worst, the worst of our enemies, and this author—that’s what he said, referring to you, Pavel Nikolayevich—had captured it all: their intrigues, and their boasting and perfidy. He inquired about you, and Comrade Zhdanov instructed me to collect information about you. I don’t know who gave the book to Comrade Stalin, but you must have more than one admirer up there. Comrade Zhdanov read your book too, and many more around Comrade Stalin are reading it as we speak, believe me. That’s how it all happened, that’s how they found out about your application for an apartment. An order from high up. Very high up.”
Then, half-serious, half-ironical, he said, “If I were you, I’d apply for a dacha as well. Appetite comes during a meal, as the saying goes.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I kept shaking my head incredulously.
Bedrosyan went on, “He’s quite a reader, Comrade Stalin. Sharp, critical eye too. He asked about what you were working on nowadays, and when he found out that you had just forwarded the manuscript of your new Oleg Vinograd novel to Progress Publishing, he ordered a copy for himself. In no time, he read it. Yes, he just finished reading Under the Acacia Trees. He’s not that fond of the title. It’s not punchy enough, not congruous with the pace and the vigour of the action. He has marked down a few title suggestions—well, you’ll see for yourself. He made other observations too and sent his annotated copy back for you. With his own handwriting! Our dear Comrade Stalin’s own pencilled notes on how to improve the novel, how to make it more powerful, more pertinent. I have it here with me. You should take a careful look at it, see if you agree with what he’s suggesting. Between you and me,” he winked, “a cat always knows whose meat it eats.”
He walked to his desk to refill his glass and gestured at mine. I lifted my hand to signal I was fine.
“I was told that Comrade Stalin appreciates Oleg’s personal troubles,” Bedrosyan continued, “the difficulties he has with his wife, their inability to have another child, which seems to be at the root of their marital discord. That’s life, real life, that’s what he said. I agree, Pavel Nikolayevich. Oh, yes, I’ve read The Iced Waterfall too. When I became aware of the interest in such high places, I decided to read it myself. It’s a very good read, transcends the genre.”
Transcends the genre! He was mocking me, of course, but did I care? I practically floated out of his office.
I phoned Varya and told her to meet me in front of the Tretyakov Gallery. Right away, I insisted. I said I had a wonderful surprise for her and left it at that. Of course, she was very curious and wanted to know what it was all about, but I held firm. She said it would take her at least an hour, maybe more. She needed to find somebody to mind Tyomka. She also reminded me that, given her condition, she was rather slow getting anywhere.
It was still snowing, but it wasn’t too cold. I walked slowly along Povarskaya (I can’t think of that street as Vorovsky, no one can) toward Arbatskaya Square. Slowly because I liked the quiet, old street under new snow, but also to still my beating heart. How suddenly things were changing for us! It had been about a month since I first heard about the sudden popularity of The Iced Waterfall. I knew it meant money would be less tight, but it was more, much more, than that now.
I was overwhelmed with joy, and thought of the books I would write in my quiet study, with Varya happy in a tidy and clean kitchen, the quarreling Marchuks a mere memory. And yet, I felt a curious uneasiness and anxiety. Was I wary of being noticed by the mighty gods? Was I worried of being unable to stop thinking about the Fredkins?
I took the bus for a few stations. It was crowded, but mine was probably the only smiling face in it. Two women were whispering to each other, and I heard something about Finland and a dead cousin. One of them asked, “Finland? Do you understand, Lyusha, do you? Why Finland?” I did not catch Lyusha’s answer. I got out and, feeling impatient, walked the rest of the way. It had stopped snowing and the sky was clearing. On Kamenny Bridge I stopped for a few minutes and looked at the Kremlin, wondering about the frail, pockmarked creature who could change the lives of so many people between two puffs of his pipe.
I knew the building on Lavrushinsky Lane, but wanted to have another look at it before meeting Varya. Its grey stone façade looked massive, solid, indestructible. We’d be all right, more than all right, in this building. Imagine, Stalin liked Oleg Vinograd’s adventures, and before you could blink an apartment was found. And not just any apartment, but one in a new building in the heart of the city.
I wondered which were the windows of the Pasternaks’ apartment. I knew from Kolya Klyuchev that he had a large one on the top floor. Was he home, pacing, weighing the next line, now and then looking down on this mild December day as I was looking up? Paustovsky lived there too, and Vsevolod Ivanov, and others. A building for literary figures. Ehrenburg’s daughter, Irina, lived there with her husband. She and Varya had been best friends for many years, and they’d both be delighted by how close they’d be now.
I had joined the literary elite. An apartment in that building conferred that status —or its outward appearance, the peacock plumage. Its kernel, its real strength, came from the little man in the Kremlin, and from his zealous servants.
It was still too early for Varya to show up and so I strolled in a loop, along the embankment at first, then Pyatnitskaya Street, and back along Klimentovsky Lane. Near the metro station I saw Tsvetayeva, smoking and talking with another woman. Suddenly my joy disappeared—some of my joy, anyway. That woman carried grief with her like the plague and spread it to those around her. I turned back and crossed the street, hoping not to be seen. Walking along the other side of the street, I saw Sasha Cornilov in an animated discussion with another man. He didn’t notice me and I didn’t stop. I wondered what Tsvetayeva was doing there, so close to Lavrushinsky Lane. Had she been to see Pasternak? Was she on her way there?
Varya was in front of the Tretyakov Gallery when I got back. I told her about the apartment and we walked across the street to the building, and then back and forth in front of it, hugging and laughing. Varya couldn’t stop babbling. “Pavlusha, is it true? Stalin liked The Iced Waterfall? Stalin himself? How does he find the time? Four rooms, Pavlusha, four rooms! Is it true? Tell me again. It’s not a silly joke, is it? No, it would be too cruel. Pavel Nikolayevich, you are a genius, and I love you. And Irina, Pavlusha, Irochka, so close. What floor, do you know what floor? Not that it matters much. You didn’t ask? How could you not ask? Oh, well, I’ll find out from Irina—she’ll know which apartment is empty. Who lived there, Pavlusha, do
you know, which famous writer?”
I thought of hiding what happened to the Fredkins from her. But I knew she’d find out from Irina. Better she learned now—easier to put them out of her mind while her joy and delight was so fresh. So I told her, not in all the details I had from Bedrosyan, only that they’d been taken away.
Then I saw Tsvetayeva again, coming toward us, and there was no avoiding her this time. I introduced Varya. We were still smiling, couldn’t stop. Tsvetayeva said she hoped we had good reason for our cheerfulness. I felt uncomfortable, almost embarrassed, but luckily Varya told Tsvetayeva that her poetry, the little she could get her hands on, had touched her like no one else’s. She said, “God bless you, Marina Ivanovna.” Tsvetayeva took Varya’s hand and said, “It’s rare that I hear nice words these days. Thank you. News about my family would do me more good, though. Or a place to call my own, however small.” She told us that she and her son were now camping out in the few square meters of her sister-in-law’s apartment. She had some hopes for a place in Golitsyno, thanks to a vague promise from Fadeyev, but she wasn’t holding her breath. “I wish I had my own place to sleep, to call home, but it does not seem possible,” she said and she walked away.
It was hard to believe. It was almost as if she knew about our new apartment.
“There walks a killjoy,” I said looking after her.
“Tragedy,” Varya said softly. “Marina Ivanovna is tragedy.”
And then I saw Cornilov again, walking in the same direction as Tsvetayeva. He passed us, turned back and hugged his “dear aunt Varya, always beautiful, quite sublimely pregnant,” and gave me a mocking salute. He took off quickly, pointing at his watch as if he were late.
We didn’t talk on our way home. I began to wonder whether seeing Cornilov was accidental. Varya kept her thoughts to herself. Clearly talking to Tsvetayeva had upset her. Inside, Varya made tea. We drank quietly, and then Varya said, “What did poor Fredkin do?”
It was not a real question, and we both knew that. I sighed. “Let’s not think about it, Varenka. Especially you, in your situation …”
She asked, “What’s happening, Pavlusha? What’s happening with us, with our lives? How did we become what we’ve become?”
I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? I took her hands in mine. It was almost as if we felt ashamed of our luck, of our new apartment. Like everyone else, we were now fearfully elbowing at the trough. I forced myself to think of Tyomka, and of the new one, for now still swaddled in the safety of Varya’s womb, and of the fact that we needed a decent place to live, and I needed a room to write in.
Bedrosyan’s words keep coming back to me, “The apartment has been empty for a couple of months. It belonged to Fredkin. Well, it doesn’t matter now.” Who knows where Fredkin is now, if he is still alive. He doesn’t matter anymore. Fredkin has ceased to matter. How apt Bedrosyan’s words were.
In a better world, a world inhabited and governed by good, decent people, Fredkin wouldn’t be rotting in some cell, or freezing to death in a camp. And Tsvetayeva and her son would get a good, decent place to live (and her daughter and husband would not be in prison either). Or, the creator of Oleg Vinograd would invite Tsvetayeva to stay with him and his family in his new apartment. After all, we’ll soon have four rooms. Above all, he’d extend this invitation unafraid, without a doubt in his mind. And not only for a few days, but for as long as she needed shelter.
4
It was unusually hot for June, and Laukhin, who dealt poorly with the heat, suggested they walk to the gallery a bit later. They sat in his office and went through the second Tsvetayeva excerpt.
“What happened to the Fredkins?” Ben asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Your father never found out?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. A few years ago I tried to track them myself, so that I could add a scholarly note, saying, oh, I don’t know, ‘Fredkin died in nineteen-something in Camp X, or Fredkin spent Y years in Camp Z and was freed in nineteen fifty-something. His wife, et cetera, and his daughter, et cetera.’ I got nowhere. Being here, of course, didn’t help. I asked my friend Kyril to see if he could dig something up, but so far nothing.”
“How could no one know anything?”
“It happened forty-five years ago, Ben, forty-five years, and in the Soviet Union. A scorching war ago too.”
“People can’t just disappear without a trace. A whole family.”
He glared at Ben. “I don’t want to hear daft things from my students.”
“You never heard your parents talk about the Fredkins?”
“The first time I learned about the Fredkins was when I read the journal.”
“You didn’t ask your father if he knew anything about them?”
“No. He was already quite ill.”
“In the journal he seems quite worked up by what happened to them.”
“He was upset by how easily he accepted it—being ‘at the trough’, as he put it. He was upset for being no better than Bedrosyan, whom he despised, and because he ultimately agreed with Bedrosyan that Fredkin, or the Fredkins, didn’t matter anymore.”
Laukhin looked at his watch. “It should be cooler now,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“He tried to bribe me,” Ben said.
“What?”
“Lezzard tried to bribe me.”
“When? How?”
“I wanted to see the famous Chemakoffs and I went two weeks ago. Took Marion with me.”
“Who?”
“Marion, you know.”
“Ah. Is this relevant, the fact that Marion was with you?”
“No.”
“Tell me about it on the way there.”
* * *
Lezzard was busy with a group of tourists in the main room, and, as no one else was in the back room, they admired the Chemakoffs undisturbed. They were about to leave when Lezzard found them. Ignoring Marion, he planted his short body in front of Ben. “Get me a copy of Pavel Laukhin’s notebooks. I want to read them.”
“Sorry?”
“You heard me. I want to read the notebooks.”
“No, I can’t do that. Talk to Professor Laukhin.”
“There’s money in it for you.”
Ben was stunned. “What do you mean? What money?”
“I’ll make it worthwhile for you. I’m not stupid.”
“Out of the question, Mr. Lezzard.”
“Think what you could do with money, the things you could offer your girlfriend.” He glanced at Marion for a second, then went on. “I’m talking about serious money, not a paltry amount. It’s Ben, isn’t it? I have no family, Ben. What am I going to do with my money?”
“Mr. Lezzard, I couldn’t do it, even if I wanted to. It’s impossible for me to make a copy of the notebooks.”
“Why?”
“They are kept in a safe at the university. We have limited access to some copies, all closely monitored.”
Lezzard shook his head, incredulous.
“Anyway, I wouldn’t do it, Mr. Lezzard.”
Lezzard looked at him with something between pity and disgust. “What about the first volume? Come on, you can easily get a copy.”
“Of the draft?”
“Surely some draft exists already. The same financial offer stands.”
“Laukhin has it. He’s the one who is putting it together.”
“Tell him you need to have a look at it for some reason.”
“I thought Professor Laukhin already gave you the first half of the galley proofs.”
“I want the other half too, and I can’t get it. Your professor says that he hasn’t gone through it yet. He’s working on something else, I don’t know what.”
“There’s nothing I can do, Mr. Lezzard, and I don’t want to talk about it any more.”
“You are a mulish, stupid young man.”
* * *
The walk wasn’t long, but the air was still oppressively hot and humid. They
climbed the brick stairs to the gallery behind a middle-aged couple who moved with the uncertain steps of tourists. The woman wore a short yellow skirt and had powerful calves.
It was an oasis of cool and quiet inside. At the back of the room Lezzard was snoozing in one of the armchairs, his head fallen back, mouth open.
The couple began a clockwise tour. Laukhin and Ben went the opposite way, admiring the works of Dorbao-Uitlan, a painter—according to a loose sheet Laukhin picked up near the door—of the “dark heart of Brazil.” Thick, luscious strokes of oil. On the other side of the room the couple was making appreciative noises. Back from his nap, Lezzard stood up and walked toward them.
“Ah, unique, mysterious, yes? A mystery that makes demands on us, requires us to pause longer, to fathom the soul of the work. Dorbao-Uitlan, a robust, vital, hypnotic painter, n’est-ce pas? You sweat when you look at these paintings. You get the odor, the decay, the poisonous hazards of the Amazon forest. He was born there, Dorbao-Uitlan, a savage with a brush. Astonishing colours, wouldn’t you say? Luminous. Some of the pigments he uses are his own, extracted from plants he learned about while growing up. Real painter, not one of the piss-ass modernists of today who are proud of keeping the same colour inside a rectangle. Mais difficile, celui-la, très difficile. But then, all great artists are. Which one do you like?”
The woman seemed on the verge of saying something, but changed her mind after her companion whispered a few words in her ear. Lezzard’s eyes were darting between the two of them, unable to choose which one to concentrate on. He noticed Ben, who was closer to him, and then Laukhin. “Ah, good, the master is here,” Lezzard said. “Don’t go away, give me a moment.”
He turned back to the couple. They were from Michigan, from a small town that might have been a suburb of Detroit. They liked all of the Dorbao-Uitlan’s paintings, but they wanted to know if they were affordable. Lezzard told them the price of one of the smaller paintings. The Michigan couple had to think about it. They’d come back, though. They had a daughter studying in the city, and were in Toronto for several days.
