The Museum of Abandoned Secrets

by Zabuzhko, Oksana

  Daryna’s déjà vu, however, comes to her as a direct extension of her negotiations with Vadym the night before—still warm, still swirling in her mind in shreds of dirty foam: in the yokel and his wife’s naïve determination to bite off a piece of the action, no matter how small, and hide it in their cheeks, even when backed into a dead corner, Daryna recognizes the same element of a behavioral matrix she encountered the day before, the same “election platform”—to get off the shoals in a way that allows one to keep the controlling stake. And in this very instant, as Vadym and the cuckoo yokel become in her mind a single entity, the laughter that took her over lets up like a sudden spring downpour—as if she’d heard a joke that stopped being funny after it was explained—and Daryna, still shaking her head in amazement (Can you believe this?) feels for a pack of Kleenexes in her purse, sniffing, and pushes at a white plastic door, decorously hidden in a niche, on which a stenciled peeing boy glows proudly like polished brass on a military uniform.

  The bathroom smells of sweat and perfume: this is a well-off home, built to every city standard. From the mirror above the sink a woman she has seen somewhere before but doesn’t recognize right away looks back at Daryna: a clown or Lady Dracula. No—rather, a silent movie actress washing her face in the dressing room: the shoot is over, the role’s been played. (The terrifying beauty with fire hidden under her skin who once flashed up from under all that artful makeup is not coming back—and there isn’t anyone left to make her up anyway.) Her mascara is smeared into dense, predatory black fans around her eyes, and those eyes themselves, still not quite conscious, as if drunk with laughter, radiate, in contrast with their grotesque frames, a glowing, uncanny detachment, as if focused on something unseen. Something beyond reach.

  A sudden understanding intrudes upon Daryna: I am not alone, she thinks. Who else is here? Who is with me?

  She runs the water and puts both hands under the icy stream. What bliss, what boundless joy—just water, even when it’s merely coming from the tap, like this. The living water, the same as that which flows in the Dnieper. Or do they have their own well?

  She bends over and catches the stream with her lips, drinks, swallows, and drinks more as she once saw a pigeon drink from a fountain where he perched: beak open hungrily, his whole body feasting on every sip. Or was it a dog? Lord, there’s so much life all around, and—dear Lord, what unthinkable things we do to it.

  She raises her head and looks at the woman in the mirror: the Revlon lipstick smudged around her mouth as if she’s been kissed—like on a compact mirror in a purse found on the scene of the accident. That was a painting, that was a photo, I’ll use this somehow, I just don’t know how yet—wet streaks run down her chin, hang there like tiny stalactites of sweat, her wounded lips move, and on her skin, she somehow feels her own breath as she whispers, “I did everything as you wanted, Vlada. Everything. I will take them back. You go now.”

  “I got him to sell me the clock, too!” Adrian announces.

  “You should be in the right lane,” Daryna advises, focused on the road. She’s allowed him to take the wheel because he is now in better shape than she is, but she hasn’t relaxed; she’s alert; two heads are better than one, and the Lord helps those who help themselves. “What clock?”

  “The one that they had sitting on top of the TV, you didn’t see it? A prewar piece, German-made—a trophy! He said his father brought it back from the front.”

  “Sweet. And my gramps brought back a piece of shrapnel in his chest, which killed him within a year. And two cans of American meat stew from his rations—he didn’t eat it, saved it for the kids, as a treat.”

  “You can’t compare. Didn’t you see, they have a tradition? Runs in the family.”

  “Oh, look, another cemetery!”

  “That one’s new, clearly.”

  “Yeah.... Look, gas and food—do we need to fill up?”

  “You know I wouldn’t mind filling myself up with something. How about we stop after Boryspil somewhere? All these Petrivna’s-and Mariyana’s-type places don’t inspire much confidence in me; there’ll be better places closer to the city.”

  “After the interchange? Sounds good. I’m hungry too. Could eat a horse, actually.”

  “That’s from an overdose of emotions in a single twenty-four-hour period.”

  “If you say so. But you know, I’ve still got no clue what got me back there—what was so damn funny about anything?”

  “A normal defensive reaction. But you wouldn’t believe how agreeable they got after that! All warm and fuzzy. The wife started asking me right away if you were the one she’d seen on TV. They were so scared; they must’ve thought you were about to broadcast them to the rest of the world. It worked even better than Vadym’s name. They cracked on the paintings without any fuss—said their daughter has them. So you, my dear, basically made the breakthrough in high-level negotiations. For which you shall receive a special commendation.”

  “In the form of a big smooch? Hey—you should go ahead and just hire me as your secretary! At least I won’t rob you.”

  “Can you start today? If you really mean it.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely. It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

  “But I know nothing about antiques, Aidy.”

  “I’ll train you. No problem. You won’t even have to go to college.”

  “I see you’re skimping on me already.”

  “I’ll be your dream boss! You’ll see.”

  “I don’t remember you ever propositioning me like this before...”

  “Do you now appreciate the seriousness of my intentions?” He smiles but receives no smile in return. “Do you know, by the way, how Yulichka got him? He told me this at the very end, when we stepped out for a smoke—turns out she claimed that she was the owner from the beginning. Like it’s her gallery, and she’s this hotshot businesswoman who’s being stalked by her ex-husband, an alcoholic maniac. Meaning, me.”

  “I’ve always suspected she was a crook.”

  “But not this big! And I kept wondering why the dude disappeared and how she, with her bulldog grip, let him slip away. First she called me to say we got this diamond in the rough—and I, naturally, squealed like a little girl, said I was on my way and she should keep him there—and by the time I swooped in, the dude was gone. She told me this whole story about him being late for his bus. And proceeded to handle him behind my back from that day on.”

  “Why did she call you at all?”

  “She must have wanted to make sure that this particular hide was worth tanning, you know? That this was the right moment for her to go in on her own. And I was so thrilled, I blurted it all out—that we’d never had such luck before...which, by the way, is the sacred truth: that yokel’s cuckoo clock, turns out, was also from his father, and also a trophy—from Schwartzwald! That’s the top manufacturer, goes back to the eighteenth century. That’s where they all came from, the cuckoos—Schwartzwald in Germany; it was only later they got called Swiss clocks, after they started making the body in the shape of a chalet...”

  “Watch out! He’s got his turn signal on!”

  “Yeah, I see him. Come on, jack, turn already!” Adrian honks at the gray Mazda in front of him. “And the yokel, when he decided to sell the clock, just went from store to store and asked—to see who’d pay more. That’s how Yulichka got him.”

  “Well, they’re meant for each other. A fine pair.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You got the daughter’s address, right?”

  “Yep. And I got the number in my phone too, the dude called her on the spot. She lives on Berezniaki, Davydov Boulevard. Name’s Ruslana. I thought it’d be Lolita or Angela or something.”

  “Ruslana’s not much better...and Aleksei Davydov, by the way, was that Kyiv city administrator who was in charge of liquidating Babi Yar.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Not even a little. They just never got around to renaming that
street from the Soviet days.”

  “No shit. So it was on his watch that the dam on Kurenivka broke?”

  “His alright. The project, of course, came down from Moscow; he was just the one who implemented it...for which he was recognized accordingly. That’s how it goes, Aidy.”

  “Makes me wonder—is anyone ever gonna set this country straight?”

  “’Tis a chore, as Ambroziy Ivanovych says.”

  “And Granny Lina used to say, call it a chore and treat it like your job. I called him yesterday, by the way. My dad. He sends regards.”

  “Thanks.”

  “He is still putting together materials for your film. He’s dug up some interesting stuff. I didn’t tell him that the film won’t happen...”

  “The film will happen, Aidy.”

  He looks at her sideways, blinking.

  “It will,” Daryna repeats, with the unshakable certainty of an ancient Sibyl in her voice, so much so that Adrian gets goose bumps. “I have not a shred of doubt about that now.”

  Adrian doesn’t say anything. He keeps his eyes on the road.

  “You don’t see it yet, do you?” she says softly.

  “Don’t see what?”

  “Remember the tape of my interview with Vlada? The one in the Passage, the one you dreamed later, only starring Gela?”

  “Not very clearly. Why?”

  “In that interview, Vlada promised to give me one of her paintings as a present. From this very cycle—Secrets. You’ll just come over and choose one you like, she said.”

  “And then she died. And you didn’t have a chance to go and choose one. Lolly, I understand how much you regret not having a single tangible memento of her. Pictures or video—that’s totally different, it’s not the same as the things a person leaves behind that she made with her own hands. I understand this very well.... ”

  “You don’t understand anything. I did have a chance to choose.”

  He blinks at her again. This woman will never cease to amaze him.

  “It was this very work, Aidy. This one, the one we took back from them.”

  “Can’t be.”

  “This very one. Only intact, not cutoff, of course.”

  “Are you certain? Are you sure it’s not just something you think now, in retrospect?”

  “No, there’s no mistake. I recognized the painting right away, the moment I saw it. It’s her present. Vlada’s. She’s the one who brought me there. To the place where her Secret was buried. Except for the two of us, no one knew about the painting she’d given me.”

  “God almighty.”

  “Nah, it’s simple, really. She was a very neat girl. You know, one of those people who always picks up after herself and hates to have unpaid debts. I think she is closing her earthly accounts. She is fulfilling all the obligations she took on. Apparently, she cannot leave until she’s done. I mean, leave for good. You see?”

  “Uhu. Looks like she’s not the only one either.”

  “Yeah, I can’t get these 1933 dead out of my mind...”

  “A road over a mass grave, how about that?”

  “Well, almost every village this side of Zbruch had a pit like that, but not every one of those has cars driving over it, thank God.”

  “Horrible story with that skull.”

  “You know what occurred to me as she was telling that story? The place of the skull—that’s Calvary in Latin!”

  “Lolly. My Lolly.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Hey, you know what—come be my secretary?”

  “And we’ll go around together buying up trophy mantel clocks from the descendants of the ‘liberation army’ and selling them to the new breed of pillagers?”

  “Nope, wrong answer. Try again.”

  “Sorry. Don’t get me wrong, Aidy, but that’s what it looks like to me...”

  “You know what I would really like to have?” Adrian says. “What kind of a shop?” he is not looking at Daryna; his eyes are fixed on the road. “Not a boutique—boutique is a bad word, too glam, something for the new little Russians—a shop. One that would carry things that are no longer made. Good, necessary things—from a Singer sewing machine to a hand press for rolling your own cigarettes. Clever everyday things that one could use today. Things that were meant to serve a long time but have been made redundant by industrial production. You would agree with me, wouldn’t you, that tons of women out there would be thrilled to make clothes for themselves and their kids instead of wearing something made in China. And how many people would smoke honest tobacco instead of this trademarked trash!” He nods at the pack of Davidoffs next to the gearshift. “And so on...that sort of thing. And next door to this shop, right behind the wall—I’d have a few repair shops. Like the ones on Khreshchatyk, you know, in the courtyard next to the McDonalds, where we went to have the clasp on your necklace fixed last autumn. Good, honest repair shops. Staffed with serious men who’d spend their time giving new life to all these things. So that people would buy them not just to show off, but because they want them. And would go on using them.”

  “A store called Utopia, no?”

  “Let it be a utopia. Let it be a dream. Call it what you want.”

  “And put up a handloom in there, would you please? That’s for me, personally. I’ve always wanted a real homespun dress.”

  “No problem. I’m ordering it as we speak.”

  “I like this game.”

  “It’s not a game. You said it yourself—it’s a utopia. That’s better.”

  “Actually, I think you’d pretty quickly attract your circle of dedicated customers.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “And you’d find other followers, too. Maybe you’d even start a brand. Like those Swiss Freitag guys, only yours is more ambitious.”

  “See now?”

  “And then one night, a bunch of boys would roll up in SUVs and burn your utopia to cinders, with all its wonders inside. As soon as their sales of made-in-China shit drop.”

  “Eh, maybe they would and maybe they wouldn’t. You don’t know until you try, right?”

  “This is a very nice idea, Aidy. I mean it.”

  “You like it?”

  “I do. And you know who else would’ve liked it? Vlada. She’d have been insanely in love with it. It’s her style. She brought me a Freitag bag back from Switzerland, as a present, that big black one...”

  “Are those the ones they make from old truck tarpaulins?”

  “Yeah. Vlada loved them so much, you’d think she made them herself—it wasn’t so much the design for her as the idea. The rehabilitation, as you put it, of honest craftsmanship. She considered herself a craftsperson. She always said so, even to the press.... Oh, Aidy, I’m so sorry you didn’t get to know her!”

  “I am sorry it’s impossible to know all the good people who are already gone.”

  “The two of you are very much alike in a way. Very much. You both have an abundance of some essential spiritual vitamin that I chronically lack.”

  “Man, you must be hungry. We’re almost there; just a bit further there’ll be a nice little place. In a forest, under pine trees.”

  “I’m serious! I may not have put it the best way; I’m sorry, but that’s only because there’s too much stuff coming at me all at once...”

  “Try not to fuss so much. You’re vibrating like you’re plugged into the wall. You’re jumping up at every car we pass. Baby, don’t.”

  “Aidy. Listen. I’m thinking about this one thing. A bad thing, a terrible thing. I’ve been thinking about it the whole time, since that woman told us about the grave. I’m afraid to say it out loud even to you.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “It’s about Nina Ustýmivna. About her parents, actually. About Vlada’s grandparents.”

  “What do they have to do with anything?”

  “I’ll tell you. Listen. Vlada suspected that back in ’33 they worked the hunger. They were redistributing property, going aft
er the better-off farmers, the kulaks—and it was somewhere here, around Kyiv. That’s where Vlada’s grandfather got his career started; it was only later, when the starvation began, that they were transferred into the city itself. They never spoke of it at home, of course, but Vlada accidentally overheard something somewhere once. And it matched their bios. She said her grandmother, when she was already a distinguished—for outstanding service to the country, what else?—pensioner chasing kids from the apple trees in their yard would, if she got really angry, call them kulak spawn. That was her worst cuss word.”

  “You’re a two-faced and evil folk, you the kulaks who’ve been thrice-cursed!” Adrian recites with pathos.

  “Good God, where’s that from?”

  “Ukrainian Soviet poetry, of course. Stuck in my mind since high school, I don’t remember who wrote it. Didn’t you guys cover that, too?”

  “Jesus, Aidy, don’t you understand what I’m saying?”

  He puts his hand over hers.

  “Of course I do, Lolly. Don’t think about it. You shouldn’t.”

  “But it’s unfair!” Daryna all but moans. “Why did she have to...? Why did it have to be her? That she’d be the one, on that very spot...Aidy, she was so full of light, if only you knew! One of the best people I’ve ever met in my life...”

  “That, Daryna, is not for us to know,” he says, flipping on the right-turn signal, causing Daryna to glance back instinctively to make sure the road is clear. They turn off the highway and, kicking up gravel with a great noise, pull up to a small roadside restaurant. “You’ve said it yourself—Golgotha,” Adrian says as he pulls the key out of the ignition, and in the silence that descends upon them, like a healing compress on a burning forehead, they remain, her head on his shoulder, his lips touching her hair. “And Golgotha,” he utters, barely audibly, “is, among other things, death for the sins of others. Also, you could say, a way of tidying up, of leaving things clean. Someone has to do it when too much stuff piles up. A way of purifying the system, according to the law of large numbers: many, many small Calvaries...”