I’m old enough to remember those ritual pre-holiday, nationwide convulsions: reports from the miners and the steelworkers, from the workers of the fields and the animal farms—this is how much we have mined, milked, melted, and harvested for the Great October’s 60th anniversary; and the workers of the jails and execution chambers must have also reported, correspondingly—this is how many we have arrested and eliminated, so this operation had been planned as a sure win in advance; the squad Gela’s unit encountered had come for a certain victory. They had come after easy prey—after medals, ranks, vacations, engraved watches, and cigarette cases with ruby-encrusted Kremlins on them. They knew where they were going: someone had shown them. I could feel the trail of treachery quivering within my grasp, like a rabbit’s tail.
“What if you looked by date,” I asked Pavlo Ivanovych.
“How do you mean?” he asked, on guard.
“What if you just, you know, checked the Lviv GB archives for November of 1947? To see if there’s a report about the liquidation, on the Lviv Oblast territory, of a five-member bandit group, four men and one woman, timed for the Great October Revolution’s 30th anniversary—that’s not a needle in a haystack, is it?”
Pavlo Ivanovych again blinked his protuberant eyes at me in that strange way of his, as if his eyelids twitched—and looked away immediately: “That wouldn’t be here, it would be in the Lviv archives.”
“No, Pavlo Ivanovych,” I said, as kindly as I could, “it is here. It’s all here, in the central archives—all the plans for the liquidation of the postwar resistance are here, the entire ‘buried war,’ almost a hundred volumes, code name Bear Den. If you gave me access to these files, I’d be happy to look myself. But you won’t give me access, will you?”
“I’ve no authority,” muttered Pavlo Ivanovych. My inside knowledge was clearly a surprise for him; he’s new to this territory—a journalistic investigation—he’s not used to it. He’s used to dealing with a different demographic—harmless scholars no one cares about, quiet academic historians, acne-ridden students, and bespectacled postdocs who submit their inquiries composed in compliance with form N-blah-blah-blah, who receive the answer “the document is not found,” and politely write it down as a research outcome—he is used to the absence of material strength. So I even felt a stab of professional pride: Don’t mess with us! He’d look, Pavlo Ivanovych promised. It was at that moment that it crystallized—the impression I got that for some reason he really would rather not look. And if I called him back in two weeks, like he told me to, he would again shrug regretfully and report, with his officer’s word, that he did not find anything.
Daryna Anatoliivna, Daryna Anatoliivna...
Actually, now that I think about it, I must have picked up that vibe a bit later—when he was escorting me back to the entrance and, no longer having anything to add, kept talking anyway, as if someone forgot to turn him off—talked on and on, like sand out of a gashed sack. He even reminded me, for the first time in our entire interaction, of that captain with shifty black eyes who had once “interviewed” me in the chancellor’s office before I began my pre-graduation field studies—they talk you to death, these people. Old schooling, done by the same old textbook, and what dickhead wrote those?
Pavlo Ivanovych, for some reason, started on his father again—as if he were still trying to play in the same sandbox, make his father friends with my hero, with the old man’s former adversary, make it all nice; there was one thing in that whole verbal torrent that stuck out and stayed with me—it didn’t sound like something Pavlo Ivanovych made up on the fly—that his father told him, in moments of sincerity (When he was drunk?) that he, Boozerov Senior, had “a lot of respect” for the banderas (this did sound like a straight calque from Russian), because the way they, the banderas, “stood up for their cause” was something “we” (one would understand this to mean both Boozerovs’—father and son’s—colleagues) still had to “watch and learn.” How about that?
Pavlo Ivanovych had said something similar about my mom, except not about the banderas but about her loyalty to her husband, that he would have liked it if his wife “stood up” for him like that—apparently he was having some trouble at work then, Pavlo Ivanovych was—and my poor mom was so proud of this KGB compliment that she remembered it for the rest of her life. I must confess, however, that I suspect this almost-dissident’s (Heaven help us, were they all dissidents back then?) respect for the banderas on behalf of Boozerov Senior stems exclusively from the fact that they were the ones who crippled him: all these “banditism fighters,” just like common bandits, respect only those who can kick their asses, and the harder their asses get kicked, the greater respect they feel for the one who did the kicking. But, so as not to ignore Pavlo Ivanovych’s aspirations to fulfill the official presidential policy of national reconciliation completely, I mumbled agreeably that it seemed like at some point, while working on the film, I came across this name—Captain Boozerov, could it have been his father? But this, for some reason, did not make Pavlo Ivanovych happy, as I had expected it would, and he only said that his father retired in the rank of the major—straight from the hospital. Captain Boozerov, then, had paid a steep price for his promotion.
That’s what I’ll say to Aidy: I went after Gela, and got Captain Boozerov, damn it! (Really, though, where did I hear this captain?) And, okay, there’s a miniscule, microscopic chance that Pavlo Ivanovych, for old times’ sake, will be moved to look in the surviving part of the archives where I so helpfully pointed him. And will, after all, produce out of its dark depths the victorious report of a certain MGB anti-banditism squad written just in time for the Great October’s 30th anniversary. And yet somehow, I find this very hard to believe. I failed to evoke in Pavlo Ivanovych the appropriate level of professional enthusiasm; I failed to recruit him....
I wonder how many people he recruited in his day, when he was still on operational duty? And now all their cases are sitting somewhere in his stacks, and he knows them, those people; he might be following their careers and could at any time pick up his phone, call someone like Aidy’s professor who squealed at me at The Cupid, and express his wish for something practical in exchange for his silence. Not much fat to be had off an old professor like that, of course, but there’re bigger fish—tons of them, whole schools of them that rushed, like salmon to spawn, into politics and government after 1991, to build up the country that had finally freed itself. And they, too, thought they had freed themselves—from the agreements they had signed with the KGB—they were giddy with freedom.... Meanwhile, Pavlo Ivanovych just sat, like a spider, in his dungeon and spun the threads of new dependencies. Maybe his life isn’t as hard as I so charitably worried it might be, and by the time he retires he, too, will have, bit by bit, put aside enough for his own modest yacht to sail the Dnieper—and the climate here, thank goodness, is so much better than London’s. And I foolishly thought I’d tempt him with my consultant’s fees—two fifty an hour, money I don’t even have yet. Come to think of it, I don’t have any money at all. You’re such a nitwit, Miss Daryna, Daryna Anatoliivna....
“Miss Daryna! Daryna Anatoliivna!”
Someone’s actually calling after me, and I didn’t hear it...I feel as if I’ve been caught in the middle of something indecent—it’s always like that when people recognize me in the street: an instant transition, like being captured in the sudden light from the soffits, like being catapulted from the darkness of the audience straight onto the proscenium: Hoop-la, the thunder of the applause, you turn around, stand there like a pillar of salt, grinning a plastic grin; oh shit, are my trousers splattered with mud in the back?
A girl—plump, dark-haired, and pretty cute, an expensive leather jacket thrown open, scarf messed up on the run. She’s breathing hard, wide-open eyes like plums, spellbound, she’s glowing, so thrilled she can hardly see straight: She made it! As if she’s run a marathon to catch up with me.
“Daryna Goshchynska!” She is not asking, but trium
phing like a soccer fan who’s spotted Andriy Shevchenko and can’t wait to shout to the whole world about it, name, exclamation mark, pointing finger—look, look!—before her deity disappears or changes itself into something completely different as deities in every myth are wont to do.
“Ooff!” She’s trying to catch her breath, hand on her chest—some rack she’s got there, C-cup at least—she shakes her head, laughing at herself now—at her breathlessness, at having run, and having caught up with me, and at having me stand now here before her, and at it being spring, and at the downpour that’s just passed, and at the sun shining—and I smile, too, infected, unwittingly, with this puppy-like burst of her young youthful energy: What a funny girl! Sweaty, flushed, clothes in a mess.
“I’m so sorry...I recognized you from afar; I’m so glad I caught you.” She’s still not taking her gawking black eyes off me, her plump-lipped mouth is stretched ear to ear; this must be the first time she’s seen Daryna Goshchynska live: “I would very much like to invite you, may I? Here!” she exhales, full-chest. “Take this, please.”
A white, or rather, a gray butterfly—a cheap booklet, on thin paper, like all free concert invitations.
“On the twenty-fourth...in the Grand Hall at the Conservatory...”
“Thank you.” I react with my standard working smile now, and put the flyer, without reading, into my purse: I’ll throw it out later, I get mountains of this junk every month, and the mail’s not letting up yet—the news that Daryna Goshchynska no longer works on television has not yet gained national currency. It’ll be a full year before my name is taken off all the mailing lists, and I must say something encouraging to the girl: “Your concert? Congratulations.”
“It’s our class concert...for our whole year, I’m in the second half. Piano, it’s in the program...I have two pieces—Britten and Gubaidulina.”
“Difficult composers,” I nod knowingly, about to wish her the best of success, anoint her with a ritual blessing by way of taking my leave: go with God, child—but the child has no intention of giving up so quickly, she needs to pour it all out, since she’s caught me, and, without giving me a chance to break away with another word, she bursts forth, like rainwater gushing from a gutter.
“This is my first serious performance, Miss Daryna, please come if you can, please. It would mean so much to me! It’s so important for me, if only you knew.” She clasps her hands prayerfully to her C-cup breasts, which protrude vigorously under her leather jacket and the fashionable short sweater under it, so that a pale strip of her belly winks every time she moves—the current fashion is meant for stick figures, and this girl—nothing to complain about—sports a good childbearing shape, but her hands—her hands are made for the piano indeed: large, with beautiful long fingers. And who wouldn’t melt a little hearing this: “You are my hero, I watch your every show; I haven’t missed one in two years! I even ran away from a date once, to watch it.”
“Thank you,” I say, waiting for her to ask me why the show didn’t air last Wednesday; I have to change the topic: “That’s very nice to hear, but running away from a date—that seems a bit much, doesn’t it? Unless the boy wasn’t anything special.”
She wrinkles her nose, laughingly shines her enamored bovine eyes at me, and concedes that he was not anything special: a moment of female solidarity; we are both laughing. This is it, my audience. This is what I have managed to accomplish in my life. How many of them are out there, across the country, girls and boys like this? Lord, the letters I used to get! This is Diogenes’ Lantern and I’m Daryna Goshchynska, stay with us. And they’ve stayed; they haven’t even noticed my absence yet.
“As soon as Dad said you were coming to see him, I just couldn’t wait...I had a class at the Conservatory; I don’t know how I sat through it, and as soon as it let out, I ran uphill! I tried to flag a cab on the way, didn’t see any, and just kept running, the whole way...I rang my dad and he said you already left! I didn’t think I’d catch up with you!”
“Your dad?”
“Well, yeah,” the joyous stream whirrs forth from the gutter unchecked and unstoppable. “I called after you back at Zolotovoritska, as soon as I spotted you from afar, but you didn’t turn to look. And I recognized you right away, from the way you walk, the way they show you in your show’s teaser when you enter the studio, you’re unmistakable.”
“I’m sorry, and who are you?”
The stream plugs up, the prominent eyes freeze in their sockets like prunes in whipped cream. “Oh...I’m sorry. I, I didn’t think.... ” Catching herself, she blushes even deeper—all the way to her ears now, “I’m Nika...Nika Boozerova.”
Never underestimate the value of professional training: all my facial muscles remain in their places. Well, well. Of course, how did I not figure it out—the same eyes like jet stones, the same plump lips, and the same high cut of the nostrils that makes them appear constantly puffed, and her body is built the same, too—she’s short-legged and big-bottomed, a dark little pony, but a girl with hips like that can do alright for herself, much better than her dad. Pavlo Ivanovych can be congratulated on this improved replication of himself—a softened, more delicate version, not as oily-spicy-Al-Jazeera cast as the original: the features are seemingly the same but the treatment is in watercolor, not in oil. “My daughter,” as he bragged at our first meeting, with the stress on the first syllable. Nika, of course—Veronika Boozerova, a Conservatory student, my fervent admirer. This is she, in person. Apparently, the Boozerov family has decided to parade its full ranks in front of me today—who do they have left, mom, grandma? Bring them all out!
“Aha,” I say to the girl in the voice of an anti-banditism operative. “Very pleased to meet you.”
“Me too,” she blooms, malapropos, not having noticed how much like an idiot I feel. So, that’s why Pavlo Ivanovych took his sweet time shooting the breeze with me—for her sake; he was holding me back for his kid, until her class let out. But she is still too young to appreciate such complexities; she, with the happy enthusiasm of youth, is still filled to the brim with herself exclusively and her urgent need for self-affirmation (little princess, Daddy’s girl, and a late child to boot—Pavlo Ivanovych must’ve been pushing forty). And she springs at the chance to unload on me, all at once, everything she didn’t spill along the way while she raced after me with her booklet all the way from the Conservatory, up the hill from Gorodetsky Street to St. Sofia (and that’s quite a trek, must be what, about thirty minutes, and all uphill, no wonder the plump little thing is drenched!).
She reminds me, happily, that she has my autograph—in her mind, this must constitute some kind of intimacy between us, a sign of a connection—of course, I remember, the same loving father solicited it for the child the first time he ever laid eyes on me, must be nice to have such a loving dad! A strong, healthy one, not an invalid. A dad you can be proud of instead of swallowing every mention of him, mangled, as quickly as you can—oh yes, I remember the feeling: the last time I had it was at the opening of a fairytale palace, when my dad stood in the glowing crystal foyer in a huddle with other serious men, and they all took turns shaking his hand. I was still little then, but I remember; I know what it’s like.
Nika’s Ukrainian is natural if a touch too literary, as with all children from Russian-speaking families, without any slang—a Sunday language, starched for going out, not for home use. Although, it could be that she is making a special effort for me, cleaning up her act: I am a different generation, an adult woman, and she is speaking to me the way she would speak to one of her professors at an oral exam. Asking me for her A+, the straight-A girl. A good girl, engaged, diligent.
Aidy’s right, I have gone all sentimental like on the first day of a period—my eyes mist over as Pavlo Ivanovych’s daughter, and Captain Boozerov’s granddaughter, rattles off the list of the Diogenes’ Lantern episodes that made the most indelible impression on her—changed her life, Nika declares a bit too dramatically but with clear-eyed candor.
She and her friends discussed these shows; they have a whole fan club going. They even tape me (used to tape; what are they going to tape now?). Of course, these are students, I mentally subtitle Nika’s nourishing babble for my exboss’s benefit, or perhaps for addressing the new owners of the channel—who also act as producers of a sex-industry show—these are students, gentlemen. These are the young people; this is our fucking future, you motherfuckers, young people always need role models—“who’s out there to shoot for,” as a boy taxi driver once said to me, spitting furiously through his rolled-down window. Young people need to have before their eyes not only millionaire gangsters and their Lexus-driving sluts but also—Vadym had a good phrase for it—moral authorities, and that is precisely why my never-heard-of heroes and heroines that hold for you no authority whatsoever are for these children like water for parched land: they gulp them down with a hiss, and beg for more! And what gets me the most, what cuts me to the quick, is that Nika unerringly names all the episodes of Lantern that were most important, closest to my heart, as though running her fingers over the departed show’s acupuncture points that only I could see, and by doing so, revives the pain I thought I had lulled to sleep. It is incredible how precisely this child is honed in to the same wavelength as me, and this wave washes me from inside, finally closing around my throat when she brings up my interview with Vladyslava Matusevych—she says she was still in high school then, and it was that interview that cemented her determination to devote herself to art. “Is that so,” I manage to gurgle.
The Museum of Abandoned Secrets Page 69
