by Maxim Osipov
Rafael breaks out laughing again, then his eyes take on a wild look: “Excuse me, Yevgeny Lvovich, are you saying he’s never read the Old Testament?”
“Neither the Old nor, I’ll tell you frankly—”
“Wait, listen, but they all go to church now! They all, I don’t know, go to confession, take Communion.”
Lvovich looks deflated. He had said too much, gotten carried away. I understand that feeling. But it isn’t his fault; it’s Rafael’s.
“I don’t know, I don’t know. . . Yes, they take Communion . . .” He removes his glasses, wipes them. “Like little children.” And then he adds quietly, but I hear it, “I don’t know about you, Rafael, but this work has great value for me. In every sense.” And, with a sigh: “It’s all very sad.”
Then the phone rings. Rafael jumps up: “Your turn. It was a pleasure to meet you. You’re also here Mondays and Thursdays? Perhaps we can continue this at my place someday? But only if,” and he winks, the little bastard, “the conversation made a favorable impression on you. We’re close by, on Kutuzovsky. Although, my wife is renovating . . .”
Well, well, well. On Kutuzovsky. Expensive tastes, eh? So that’s why you’re giving private lessons. Or are you lying? Maybe you haven’t got a place on Kutuzovsky?
•
Rafael always shows up first, then Lvovich—after lunch. We don’t get lunch; it’s just a manner of speaking. In other words, around three.
As for Kutuzovsky, Rafael told the truth. I ran a search. Seven people registered at the address: his own sister, his wife’s sister, kids . . . Yevgeny Lvovich, on the other hand, has no wife, no kids. Just him and his mother. She was born in 1924, he in 1957.
Looks like today it’s Rafael’s turn.
“He found me all by himself, if you can imagine,” he says, blushing with pleasure. He’s half-gray, but still blushes like a little boy. “An amazing story—I tell it to everyone. The patron likes to survey his surroundings through a pair of binoculars. In his free time, when he’s not occupied with the construction of capitalism. And so he sees, and sometimes hears, that, day after day, year after year, certain people—some young, some not so young—are practicing instruments from morning till night. Girls and boys lug around cases larger than they are. Then our patron inquires as to how much a professor at the conservatory earns, how much musicians are paid for philharmonic concerts, how much of their own money they spend to make a record. And he discovers that all this activity has almost no financial component, you understand? As a person with a lively mind, accustomed to operating with economic categories, he develops an interest. And so he invites me . . . The thing is, back in the spring,” he blushes again, “a New Musical Encyclopedia was published, edited by, er . . . your humble servant . . .”
In short, the patron went to a bookstore, to find out who knows a thing or two about music. And they recommended this guy, this Rafael.
“I wasn’t hard to find. I teach the history of music and . . .” now he’s beet red, “sometimes check in to see how the encyclopedia is selling.”
“Extraordinary,” says Yevgeny Lvovich. “You too—‘from Romulus until this day’?”
“So far, it’s ‘Chopsticks,’ ‘The Flea Waltz.’ We do a lot of listening. Today, for instance, it’s the Russian Trio . . .”
The historian nods: “Katz, Goldstein, Berkovich. KGB. The Russian Trio. That’s what we used to call it when I was young.”
Even when Yevgeny Lvovich laughs, it’s only with his mouth. His eyes don’t change. But Rafael, he guffaws like a clown, his whole head shaking. It’s a circus. Then he looks at me. What’s he looking at? Is he nuts or something? Come on, out with it. Finally, he moves his head towards Yevgeny Lvovich:
“You know, we’re participating in a grand experiment. I don’t know about you, but I’m not even doing this for the you-know-what . . . I just wonder what will happen. Imagine, our patron wants to do away with the bass clef. I’m afraid even to mention the alto! And yet, these people,” his points his finger at the ceiling, “are our only hope. You and I, Yevgeny Lvovich, are a dying breed, don’t you think? Has he asked you about the brick yet? No? Oh, he will. Anyway, it’s time to go.”
I’m getting used to Rafael. But that’s a fool thing to say, that he doesn’t need money. Who doesn’t need money?
He leaves. I say to Yevgeny Lvovich: “The brick weighs four kilograms.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks.
And I think to myself, You’ll soon find out, Yevgeny Lvovich.
“Would you like some coffee?” I ask.
He looks at me so pitifully.
“Yes,” he says, “thank you. I wouldn’t refuse.”
Good. Now I can ask.
“I have a book here,” I say. “My neighbor gave it to me. The diaries of Nicholas II.”
He looks to be near tears.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” he says. “Very upsetting. Rode a bicycle, killed two crows, killed a cat, liturgy, prayers, handed out medals to officers, ate breakfast, took a walk. Lunch, maman, killed another two crows . . .”
“Crows,” I say, “are scavengers. No sense in feeling sorry for them.”
“All the same,” he says, “a nobleman, even just a normal person, shouldn’t spend all his time shooting crows. Especially at such a historic moment.”
All right. Just don’t go mourning for crows up there, Yevgeny Lvovich . . . He looks at me for a long time. What’s the matter with him? A normal person wouldn’t get so upset about crows . . . Rafael must have worn him down.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “He’s not even Russian. He’s,” we still have an acceptable word for it, “an immigrant.”
Yevgeny Lvovich goes over to the window, puts his cup on the sill. In principle, that’s no good: it’ll leave a stain. But fine. I’ll wipe it off afterwards.
“What does that have to do with it?” he says, “Immigrants. If you want to know the truth, we’re all immigrants. You, me, even our patron. Everyone who’s thirty or older. A different country, a different people. Yes, and a different language. Now, the younger one—what’s his name? Yes, Victor. He’s a native. I saw him take part in a religious procession, or rather, saw him circling the Golden Ring in helicopters with priests—with governors, holy banners, all the trimmings. There were photos in the newspaper,” he says. “As for us . . . We ought to leave the city, go somewhere far away, deep into the provinces. Our foreignness isn’t so noticeable there.”
I just don’t get it. Have I said something inappropriate? Whatever I said, I didn’t mean anything by it. Why’s he acting like this? But it happens. Sometimes you just can’t tell. Maybe his mother’s dying. When mine died, I was down in the dumps for weeks.
•
That’s our routine. I’ve gotten used to Rafael and, from time to time, I have a chat with Yevgeny Lvovich. Our patron probably bought ten lessons from each. But the last time they came, or rather, the next-to-last time, our chat, unfortunately, didn’t turn out so good.
It started the usual way. Rafael comes down from the seventeenth floor, stretching like a cat. Feels right at home now. He smiles at Yevgeny Lvovich: “A grand piano he has up there—really grand! But just between you and me, I’m casting pearls before swine. He’ll never get a decent sound out of it.”
It’s your job to teach him, I think, so do your job.
“Our lessons are unproductive,” he says. “I don’t know how you’re getting on, Zhenya,” they no longer use patronymics, “but I’d give up, if it weren’t for . . . the you-know-what . . .”
“Don’t lose heart,” answers Yevgeny Lvovich. “Playing the piano isn’t so easy. I myself never managed to learn, although my mother taught the instrument professionally. By the way, she thanks you for the encyclopedia. And I wasn’t forty when she tried to teach me.”
“Yes, he’s no spring chicken,” Rafael says. “But it isn’t a matter of age. For instance, today we were listening to . . .” and he comes out with so
me long name. “A good friend of mine, by the way. And you know what he tells me? ‘People can’t possibly get any pleasure out of that!’ ”
“Muddle Instead of Music,”9 Yevgeny Lvovich says, nodding his head. “Frankly speaking, I myself haven’t yet come to appreciate her art.”
“Yes, muddle, muddle . . .” Rafael repeats. Why’s he so pleased with himself?
They talk a little while longer about all sorts of music, then Rafael says: “Do you know what conclusion I’ve come to? Our patron is a man of above-average abilities, right? But the highest form of aesthetic pleasure he can appreciate is, alas, order.”
Yes, we maintain order. What’s wrong with that? But this guy just won’t let it go: “Everything’s smooth, clean, polished—the toilet is unrealistically white. My women must dream of a toilet like that.” He looks at his watch. “Late again. By the way, speaking of order,” this seems awfully rude to me, “I’m holding you up.”
“I’m in no hurry, Rafael.”
The little Armo’s awful brazen, I think. Get going, already. We welcomed you in on time, didn’t we? All right, let’s teach him a lesson—though I’ve gone pretty soft since leaving the service.
“Young man,” I say.
“Don’t you call me young man! I’m a professor at the Moscow Conservatory!”
My, aren’t we worked up! Eyes bulging and everything. The first time he’s paid any attention to me. I must be furniture to him. Don’t you worry, professor, we’ve broken harder men than you. I say to them, calmly and correctly: “Yevgeny Lvovich will be invited in as soon as the videoconference is over.” And add, to give it some weight: “With the chairman of MosTourBank.”
Did I say it wrong? Even Yevgeny Lvovich turns his face away. And the other one’s laughing so hard, he’s doubled over: “Masturbank!” he says, slapping his knees. “Zhenya, did you hear that? Masturbank!”
Lvovich turns to me and says: “No, that can’t be right. Must be a joke.”
How should I know? To hell with you both . . . There’s something strange going on. It’s half past three. I make them coffee. Rafael has also taken to drinking coffee. Looks like we’ve made up. Can’t figure them out for the life of me. I thought you were running late! He’s sitting there on the windowsill, this professor, his feet dangling.
“Hey,” he says suddenly. “What’s going on? A crow just fell off that roof over there. Look, another one. Are you seeing this? Another one, look—just flew up and bam! Down.”
Yevgeny Lvovich isn’t looking out the window. He’s looking at me.
“Are you seeing this?” Rafael squeals like a little boy. “See that one limping, jumping down to the edge of the roof, like there’s something wrong with it? Bam! What’s going on? It’s not that cold out. Maybe it’s a virus? Avian flu?” He struggles to open the window. Unskilled hands. Just leave it alone, professor.
Call from above. Today’s lesson is canceled. You’ll be fully compensated for the wasted time, Yevgeny Lvovich. No, he doesn’t wish to speak to you.
A total mess. Even the Armenian, who only has eyes for himself, seems to catch on: “Although you have to admit,” he says, “the patron is a striking character, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Yevgeny Lvovich answers. “A Renaissance man.” And after a pause, he adds his go-to phrase: “It’s all very sad.”
LORA
Women appeared in his life like targets on a shooting range, immediately taking up all his attention—for a short while, but all of it. After hitting the target, so to speak, he would keep up the relationship, very briefly, then break it off. So it went, as it should go. He had once read in some American book that love is a “power game.” He knew enough English to read books on psychology: the secret of success, how to win friends and influence people. When he was starting his business, these books proved useful to him; now there are Russian translations. In his memory, his girlfriends turned out to be more pleasant and enticing than they had been in reality. Their most valuable features were curves, surfaces, lines—and, of course, the overcoming of initial resistance, of mutual fear; all this remained in his memory, while the disorder these women had introduced into his life eventually faded away.
With Lora, however, things turned out differently. But instead of admitting that he had lost the game, or deciding that the “power” model is not universal and, in Lora’s case, simply broke down, and then moving on to make more money, work at self-improvement, and, in due course, meet new women—instead of that, he’s sitting at an open window and shooting crows.
It isn’t cold, though it’s already December. The thermometer shows five degrees. Rifle, telescopic sight—he’s sitting on the windowsill and knocking dirty black birds off the neighboring roof, one after the other. Shooting crows isn’t as easy an activity as it might seem: not only does one have to hit them, one also has to avoid making noise, not to mention avoid dinging people. He’s high up, above a quiet street leading to Bolshaya Nikitskaya; in the distance he can see the sidewalk in front of the conservatory, a sliver of the monument to Tchaikovsky. A good rifle he’s got, quiet. Shooting doesn’t make him feel good, exactly, but it does make him feel better.
Rafael had left forty minutes earlier. Once again, they had spent more time listening to music than playing; for the last two weeks, he’s had neither the time nor the desire to practice. First, humming, swaying, Rafael had played something old, rather pretty. That was all well and good, but then—he himself had asked to be introduced to some contemporary work—they put on a recording, and he developed the strong sense that he was being taken for a fool. Two and a half months—which was how long he’d been taking lessons—certainly isn’t a very long time, but look how much he had managed to learn and experience: he had heard all the Viennese Classics, as well as Shostakovich, and now he knew, for example, that there were two Strausses, and that it’s in poor taste to like Johann Strauss, whereas Tchaikovsky can go either way, and one must decide for oneself. He had also learned—Rafael loves to gossip—that Poulenc was gay, that Shostakovich wasn’t a Jew, and that ¾ is triple meter, while 6/8, despite all evidence to the contrary, is duple. But the recording he had heard today—what was the woman’s name?—could such a thing bring anyone pleasure, delight, joy, as music ought to do? No, never.
Things were going no better with sacred history, with his study of the most popular book in the world, that distillation of human wisdom. A welter of unmotivated violence—and he’s supposed to feel bad about shooting crows? Brother killing brother; father commanded to sacrifice his son, without any explanation; whole peoples wiped out—what had they done to deserve it? And why was Seoul—Yevgeny Lvovich always corrects him—Saul, why was he punished? For the humane treatment of prisoners? Mankind has come a long way since antiquity. “For thou wilt save the afflicted people.” Really? Then explain the flood, please. No, he’s a polite person, he wouldn’t bring this up with believers; in fact, he’s even going to study the book all the way to the end, very carefully, though it’s hard going—the thing is crammed with details and totally devoid of humor. He did complain about this the last time, and Yevgeny Lvovich promised to tell him something about sacred humor today, but it wasn’t meant to be. And besides, what did this sad, soft man—clearly a heavy drinker—know about humor? Today, in any case, wasn’t the day for jokes. Lora had called.
As for crows, to close the subject once and for all, they are nasty, filthy scavengers that carry infectious diseases. They attack children, pecking at their heads. There’s a crow near the conservatory that smokes. It grabs lit cigarettes out of people’s mouths and smokes. This is no urban legend—he has seen it with his own eyes, on the day he first met Lora. In fact, that crow had brought them together.
He remembers: it was a warm Saturday evening; he comes out of a café and sees a group of youngsters laughing near the monument—they’re watching a crow with a cigarette in its beak. He finds himself walking in the direction of what he would later learn is Rachmaninov Hall, following
the crow, but his attention is diverted by a skinny young woman with long legs and long hair. The girl is a brunette. Brunettes are his type.
“Would you care to hear some music, young man?” the brunette asks. She’s standing by the glass doors, legs crosswise, also smoking.
He would, but only if she would accompany him. That’s his condition. What are they. . . playing? Performing? What’s the right word? He can’t very well admit he’s never been to the conservatory before. The girl nods at the poster, which reads, in large letters: FRANCIS POULENC, THE HUMAN VOICE. And in even larger letters: LORA SHER, SOPRANO. So will she accompany him? The girl examines him rather boldly.
“Of course.” She tosses her cigarette butt and leads the way.
He has to leave his jacket at the coat-check counter. The brunette walks up the marble staircase, giving him a chance to see her from the back. Not bad. A minute later he’s already in the hall. Where’s his companion? Nowhere to be seen, though the audience is small and sparsely distributed. On the stage is a pretty young woman in a burgundy dress—a redhead with very white skin. That’s Lora.
•
A burgundy dress and a black telephone handset with a long cord. Hello, hello, madame . . .“A lyrical tragedy,” he would learn from Rafael’s encyclopedia. “A work of profound humanism and dramatic power.” The piece was written for a soprano and orchestra, but Lora is backed by a single grand piano. O Lord, I hope he calls me . . . There are also theatrical elements: Lora moves deftly about the stage, interacts with a chair, a music stand. She wraps the cord around her neck. Hello, my dear, is that you? You are so kind to call. The black chair, the red music stand, white Lora with her red hair. It makes an impression. A strong one.
Forgive my weakness! Lora sometimes addresses the pianist, sometimes the handset, but, most of all, the audience. She tells him that she has poisoned herself. Oh yes, I know I must seem silly! She begs him never to spend the night in the hotel where they usually stayed when visiting Marseille together.
