by Maxim Osipov
“But do you know his real name?” He glances around: “Silverstein. It’s Silverstein.”
The shock dries my tears. Where, I ask, did you get that from?
“Everyone’s saying it.”
•
I didn’t go for a walk that day. After apologizing to Makeyev, I went down closer to the water and read the whole newspaper, front to back: a lot of things I hadn’t known. Yes, serious matters—and here we are, with our little heartbreaks.
For a long time I didn’t dare look at the photos again, turning and folding the paper so as to hide them. Finally I looked again—this time without tears. It was as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders: the story was over; there was nothing to worry about. Fate had delivered four final blows, killing no one—you could even say it had smiled down on us, waved to us with its wing. Nothing left to be afraid of. And Slavochka would have liked this finale: bang! Cast to the wind. Lyubochka too would be fine, I was sure of it.
And—impossible to believe!—the next day I received a letter. Yet again, providence. How could I not think that my life was already written down somewhere? Not a letter, exactly—a postcard: “Alexander Ivanovich, we went to the ocean today, to watch the whales. I fell asleep in the car on the way back, and I saw you in my dream—not you, but some man who said you were gone. I cried so hard I woke up.”
Now I have Lyubochka’s address. I sent her a telegram: “Alive.” They laughed at the post office: no one sends telegrams anymore, and if they do, the content is usually exactly the opposite. I’ll write to her later, tell her everything.
•
At that point I stopped dreaming of it. I had no more dreams about the theater, or about Eternity, for that matter. As to commanders in chief, we’d never really given them much thought. Just once, after a long performance. We sat around talking, late into the night. Lyubochka suddenly says, so plaintively: “If only someone turned their attention to us. How hard we work, how we suffer.”
Gubaryev, across the table: “Whose attention do you want? The president’s?”
“Yes, the president, and why not? I’d gladly”—and she had only had one little glass—“give him an heir.”
Gubaryev bangs his fist on the table: “Who needs your heir, you idiot? NATO’s already at the gate!”
Gubaryev wasn’t like the rest of us. He followed the news.
•
Makeyev follows it too. Another month has passed. We’re out on our walk. I stop from time to time, as if to look around or touch a twig, but, in truth, in order to catch my breath. I’ve had trouble with that lately.
“Have you heard the news?” Makeyev laughs: “No surprises this time, Alexander Ivanovich.”
Vladilen Nilovich, I answer, you know I don’t read the papers, don’t watch television. Sometimes I hear the Krutovs’ radio through the wall, but that doesn’t count. You’re my radio and television.
He nods: “We’ve made serious progress in recent days. Reinforced our position. Stirred a fine cauldron! Gave ’em hell!” His words were stronger: “Shoved it where the sun don’t shine!”
Makeyev looks fresher, rosier, his eyes are burning—you can’t help but admire it! Events of this sort have a rejuvenating effect on certain older men. “If God should send us war, then I’d remain prepared to mount, if groaningly, my horse once more . . .”22 And so, Vladilen Nilovich:
“I’m raring to go. When I served my compulsory stint, they called me a machine gunner from heaven. Sergeant Makeyev, a top-notch student of the arms. Remind me to show you the photos. I was one with the instrument. Did you serve, Alexander Ivanovich?”
No, I wasn’t accepted. Vladilen Nilovich, you and I are old men. But Seryozha, your grandson—aren’t you worried he’ll be called up?
“No, Seryozha’s in Germany, with his mother. Studying.”
He pauses, then says: “You know what I’ve decided? If my novel is passed over again, I’ll push off for Germany myself. At least they have a normal medical system, unlike ours—you can’t get anything out of our doctors. I’ll sell everything I’ve got, the whole kit and caboodle, before the economy goes to . . . Ah, yes, I forgot: you don’t like me to use real Russian words!”
Oh, I don’t mind. If you’re in a mood to use them.
“I understand what you’re thinking, Alexander Ivanovich. But the idea of dying . . . I hate it. It’s as if you’re a guest in someone’s house. The hosts have plans: tomorrow they’ll go to the movies, the day after—somewhere else. And you—well, time to leave, you know what I mean?”
Are you unwell, I ask?
“No,” he replies, “nothing like that. Not yet, touch wood.”
We reach our destination—the crossing over the stream. We usually say our goodbyes here. And he suddenly asks: “What will become of us? What do you think, Alexander Ivanovich?”
I don’t know what to say. You have to trust . . .
“Trust what? You don’t read the papers, don’t listen to the news.”
No, I had something else in mind. I can’t express it. Somewhere someone knows what’s best for me. Yes, that’s probably all I can say.
•
The lilac has long since faded; the days are warm, but I can no longer go on walks with Makeyev: I stop at every turn, take every hillock with difficulty. But I visit the cemetery, the old one, more and more often. It’s right around the corner, quiet, green. I wander through the rows, read the inscriptions, look for my mother’s family name or at least a similar one. It’s an ancient town, many people are buried here—it’s easy to find any kind of name. Or maybe I find a plate with the letters worn off—reminisce, read a poem.
•
A home for the elderly is an unhappy place, but it’s time to take a closer look. They have one here in town. That’s good.
“For veterans,” the director corrects me. Quite a young man, not yet forty. “We call ourselves veterans. No one knows of what!”
He’s easily amused: “In our line of work, if you don’t laugh, you’ll go crazy.”
I race after him up the stairs, which isn’t easy for me, but I don’t stumble, I make it.
“The rooms are on this floor. Are you coming alone, Alexander Ivanovich, or with your wife? Ah, then we’ll find you an interesting neighbor. Perhaps an eligible bachelorette?” He winks. “Let’s pop in here.”
But there are people in there.
“We don’t stand on ceremony around here.” He opens the door to someone’s room.
No need, I’ve seen enough. And on the first floor?
“ ‘The Feebler.’ For the ill and enfeebled. We won’t go down there. And we also have a certain . . . Problematic population. They steal people’s teeth—hell, entire jaws! We have to call the cops every other day. And I’ll tell you one other thing: the hazing is as bad as in the army. You’ll have to prove yourself right away.”
We go to the kitchen together, sample the food, which I like a great deal: it’s been a long time since I’ve had anything hot. Then we walk to the director’s office. Suddenly he takes me by the elbow.
“I have an offer you can’t refuse.” He hugs me around the shoulders—I don’t remember the last time someone hugged me like that. “Let’s establish a theater at our facility.”
A theater? I even coughed. How does he know of my theatrical past?
“Espionage. I’m kidding.”
He shows an issue of the local paper, October. A short note, quarter of a page: “I Come from Eternity,” by V. N. Makeyev.
“The higher-ups want us to do something artistic. We’ll go around the region, and then—who the hell knows?—maybe secure a governor’s grant. Let’s get you signed up quick. We’ll put you in a luxury suite.”
I start laughing and can’t force myself to stop. The director might take me for an epileptic. What kind of plays could we put on? Shadow plays? Or are we not shadows yet? Do we still cast shadows? Or no?
“Why shadow plays?” Now he’s surprised. “A normal theate
r. Normal plays, comedies. Positive material. Old age is no picnic, Alexander Ivanovich.”
I can’t stifle my laughter. The director’s goodbye is far less friendly than his greeting. It figures, considering how much time he’d wasted on me.
•
I leave his office with all the admission papers, and I think I’ll take the long way home. There’s more to see along that route, while the light lasts, and besides, the short way runs through the ravine. And I don’t believe I can take the ravine today. I don’t want to start out in the Feebler. I can get used to any place, of course, but that wouldn’t be very pleasant. Not to worry—I’m not so far gone, I’ll bounce back. I’ll just sit down on the bench for a minute, catch my breath.
I see people wending their way to the door—veterans: six p.m., time for supper. I watch through the glass as those who will soon be my companions file into the dining room, sit down in their places. I should go too. It looks like it’s about to rain, and I don’t want the papers to get soaked. I’ll risk it—through the ravine. Not such a long climb. What will become of us? We were born in wartime and we’ll die in wartime. Isn’t it obvious?
•
I notice something: all my life, while death was far away, it wasn’t exactly always on my mind, but I did think of it. But now I seem to have completely forgotten about death. It’s only from time to time that I’ll take stock—not of what was, but of what is, what’s all around me—and think: How I’ll miss it, all of it! Those vast, those endless fields on the other side of the Oka. Past the woods there are towers, lights, a real town, but on the other side of the Oka—no, I don’t want to. In the evenings I wait for the buoys to light up; I take deep breaths, gaze up at the dark sky. I didn’t manage to see very much, to learn very much, but I’ll miss many, many things. Not only trees and rivers. Flakes of snow in the beam of a searchlight. Poems—first and foremost. Is there no way to take them with me, just a handful? It all comes back to me: the Urals, Lyubochka, Eternity.
“While far away—in Paris to the north . . .” I never did see Paris. But really, there’s no cause for disappointment. No one held me back by force. I had, after all, been given a glimpse of a little slice of the world, a slice all my own—and for a fairly long time, when all is said and done. And the things I witnessed in that time!
And so I stand there, thinking, until it grows too cold, too dark. Time to head home.
Great grapes do grow on Ararat.
Translated by Anne Marie Jackson and Boris Dralyuk
ON THE BANKS OF THE SPREE
SELF-CONFIDENCE is born of constant, lasting victories.
Liza, Elizaveta, a natural blonde, what some would call a steely blonde, is on a flight from Moscow to Berlin. Liza she is to her father alone—to everyone else she is Betty. And spirited, witty. . . yes, Betty suits her to a tee.
That maxim on self-confidence was supposedly coined by chess champion José Raúl Capablanca, although, if faced with our Betty, even a Capablanca would struggle to hold his ground: her hair is short, impeccably styled; her figure is sculpted, with long, strong legs and arms; she wears an elegant black blouse and light, close-fitting trousers that show off her flat stomach; and on her neck she has a subtle, abstract tattoo. Were it not for the single crease across her forehead, one might describe Betty as a thoroughbred, but Betty is no horse, no Arabian mare to probe for flaws. In any company—even as motley a crew as the passengers on a plane—Betty always commands attention. Beautiful, mature, sober, and erudite, she is also a project manager, second in command at a very famous corporation. Self-absorbed, but that goes without saying—who in Betty’s position wouldn’t be?
During the flight, Betty reads a magazine—cerebral, yet glossy. She reads every issue from cover to cover, the analytical pieces and the literature alike. Right now she’s reading a short story, by turns sad and funny, about the wedding of two mathematicians. In it, the bride is meeting her father for the first time: her parents’ was a whirlwind romance, a one-night stand; her father had, until recently, no idea she existed. Fast-forward to the wedding, the parents renew their, ahem, acquaintance, and the plot thickens, and there are also funny portraits of the artsy guests—many of whom are given wittily appropriate names, like something from a Mozart opera. Betty, as it happens, knows a lot about the opera. As a matter of fact, she’ll be going to the opera today—but not on her own, oh, no. Berlin always has something good on: be it concerts or operas; the fall of the Wall doubled the city’s cultural activity. There’s plenty of choice, and, from what the reviews say, the East has just as much to offer as the West. She doesn’t quite make it to the end of her story, but she finds it both funny and timely, almost as though it were written for her.
“What is the purpose of your trip?”
The border guard asks her in English, but she replies in German: She is here to see her sister.
“Good for you girls.”
That’s putting it lightly—he doesn’t know the beginning of how good it is. He gives Betty a long look all the same. Not her passport or face, mind you: he looks at her neck, then her chest. What’s her sister’s name, he asks, and has it been a while since they last saw each other? Her sister’s name is Elsa, and, yes, it’s been a while. Betty’s cheerful, the officer’s in a good mood, bam, bam go the stamps—welcome to Germany.
“Friedrich-von-Schiller-Allee, number 14,” Betty says to the taxi driver in German, relishing the words. “Kremer & Kremer. It’s a riding shop.”
She smiles as she remembers the advice her father gave her on the way to the airport: “Horse is Pferd, Roß is steed, nouns are capitalized. But the Central Committee has handled more difficult issues than that,” the latter being a phrase he often pulls out in tricky situations. As they said goodbye, he gave her a long, tight hug.
To be young, single, strong, and beautiful: Could there be a happier state? Men make their appearances in Betty’s life—how could she go without?—but she never keeps them around for more than a few months. They tend to end up being too sporty, somehow. Not that Betty has anything against sport—it teaches hard work, and the ability to jump hurdles—but for a serious, long-term relationship she’s looking for something more: fun, flair—brains, ultimately. This is no fixed principle, no misandrist (misandronist?) philosophy of hers. No, Betty isn’t one for such philosophies: just live and let live.
“We’re not in any hurry, okay?” says Betty, after a somewhat coltish maneuver on the driver’s part. She needs to be at Schiller-Allee at six—closing time—no earlier.
The taxi driver is a dull, poorly shaven, bloated man the wrong side of fifty. She asks his name, but immediately forgets it: Günter, something like that. From East Germany. Betty was under the impression that only Turks or Russians drove taxis in Berlin. She quickly slips in that she’s Russian, just in case. He’d taken her for a Dutch woman, maybe even Swiss. That’s kind, she thinks. Maybe this Günter can enlighten her, show her something of the city: Betty very much wants to love Berlin. She is full of goodwill.
Berlin is currently warmer and more humid than Moscow, but it’s also darker, somehow. The sky is gray, no rain. To the right is the new Brandenburg Airport: they keep building and building, and yet not much happens. It’s still nothing to look at.
Anyway, back to sport: Betty’s father had taught her to swim. She knows swimming as well as she knows herself; it comes as naturally as reading or talking. She had also taken lessons in fencing, running, horseback riding, even shooting: the modern pentathlon—a most harmonious sport. What she took most pleasure in, naturally, was the horses. But, as it happens, they were also why Betty had had to drop the sport: her eyes would water uncontrollably in the stables, an allergic reaction to the hay. So she had dived into synchronized swimming instead, kicking those legs up out of the water, much to her parents’—especially her father’s—delight. As a child, Betty had always associated her father’s past, before his marriage to her mother and her own arrival (which came relatively late in his life
), with water, lots of it: he had a degree in geography from Moscow State University, he spoke many languages—German, English, Serbian, Arabic (the latter only with a dictionary)—and he was a superb swimmer. Even at seventy, he swims in the Moskva River from mid-May to September, and in a pool the rest of the year.
As for now, outside the window everything still feels somewhat disjointed, stuck together at random. Concrete, steel, glass . . . so much is new. Berlin: a city of unfinished ideas, unfulfilled potential.
“That’s Karl-Marx-Allee,” says the driver, breaking the silence. He points out the buildings where the GDR leaders once lived. Slightly bigger windows, slightly wider balconies, but somewhat derisory by today’s standards. It’ll take more than architecture like that to impress Betty: she grew up in a so-called house of superior design in Moscow’s Strogino district. As a matter of fact, her father still lives there, as did her mother, to her very last days.
Her poor mother: her death was so empty, so out of the blue. She had popped into the hospital for a health check—more for reassurance than anything else—and never left. To this day, Betty and her father treat Russian doctors with suspicion.
But yes, let’s not dwell on such sadness. A few years ago, Betty had moved into the city center, to Moscow’s Golden Mile. With her father’s help (why hide the fact?), she had taken her first steps into the world of business. He had introduced her to the right people, but everything beyond that was all her own doing. With her smarts, knowledge of languages, and looks, why shouldn’t Betty, of all people, go far? It’s not as though her father had helped her so very much; there’s no point exaggerating.
Through these thoughts, Betty doesn’t notice them entering the western part of the city. How strange Berlin’s layout is: all these great big avenues that lead nowhere; that end not in squares, nor at monumental buildings, but more often than not, in nothing at all. Theaters, concert halls, embassies, government institutions: it’s a city of bohemianism and bureaucracy. Ah, there’s the opera house, the one she and Elsa will be going to tonight. Her plan is to pick up Elsa from the shop, then take her to the opera, followed by dinner and some frank discussions. Betty would be open to any type of food—Elsa can choose what they eat. Something tells her Elsa doesn’t eat meat. And if she’s a bit dim? Her English is certainly far from fluent—not a good sign in a youngish German. But she’s bound to enjoy the opera: the Germans are a musical people, after all, and even simpletons have to eat. It’ll all be fine. Betty has a good feeling about this.
