These people have no connection to her; she has nowhere to store their problems—and fails to see why she should be compelled to do so. At this instant, Daryna thinks her mother did the wisest thing of all: what had been is gone; it’s closed, and stored up in the attic, and really what point is there in dredging back up what’s been buried for years? You can’t go your entire life pulling everyone who’d appeared in one or two episodes of it behind you; no one’s life is big enough for that!
She looks at Pavlo Ivanovych unable to overcome her sudden dislike—those streaks in the corners of his mouth are especially disgusting. Doesn’t he understand that his girl has already grown beyond the age at which one tries one’s best for one’s daddy—and that no matter how much he fusses and beats his wings he can’t keep her under the glass dome of his warm and cozy world? At her age, Daryna thinks angrily, I was already living with Sergiy—and thank goodness, she, Daryna, chose well, because at the time there were many more men eager to live with her than is recommended for a young fool, feeling abandoned by her dead father and living mother at once, who would have plunged into bed with anyone who’d mistake her for an adult.
Nika still has all these problems ahead of her, and one can be sure things will not go smoothly for her either: such unhinged daddies guard their baby girls like bull terriers, another year or two and it’ll be Nika’s singular dream to be abandoned by her daddy—a diagnosis completely opposite to my own, Daryna thinks—and freezes with her mouth open. Oh shit, what if that’s the thing—our diagnoses being opposite? What if Nika actually senses in me what she herself urgently needs to survive and lacks completely—that very vitamin of early freedom (which I have digested successfully, thank goodness!)—and that’s why she is pulled to me like an iron filing to a magnet?
Daryna feels faint, fears she won’t stay on her feet. And instantly remembers what she has been trying to forget: her period is four days late. Her breasts are swollen, can’t even touch the nipples, last night, when Adrian kissed them, she cried out in pain—but still no period. No, it doesn’t look like the men noticed her dizziness. Daryna stubs out her cigarette. I cannot hold it all, she thinks, in desperation, there’s too much of it! I can’t put this story together even for myself, can’t seem to gather up all the loose ends. Nika—my shadow, my doppelgänger, an antipode of my forced orphanhood. Yes, my orphanhood—because at fifteen a girl is still very much in need of a father, and at seventeen, too—to have him guide her into the world of men without bumps and bruises; until she herself becomes an adult woman, she needs him. Is it really possible—that Pavlo Ivanovych is making up with his own child what he once witnessed (And lent a hand to, didn’t he?) taken from someone else’s?
Now he seems to her to be manufactured from a super-hard material that does not let through any light: he has filled all the available space between her and Adrian, and stands there beaming shamelessly, like an infant in a bath—mad biblical eyes on fire, white streaks of saliva in the corners of his mouth. She wants to push him away—and in the same instant, with a kind of lustful, disgusted terror she senses his nakedness under that luxurious suit: he is drenched with sweat and probably hairy as a baboon. She thinks she can even detect his smell: a heavy, military smell—leather, sealing wax.... It’s a dizzying, nausea-inducing intimacy—as if the three of them were in the same bed together, no boundaries between them. Is she now going to have erotic nightmares about him? Slope-shouldered, with a woman’s behind, on stubby legs? Men like that are usually good and eager at love play. Lord, how disgusting, what’s happening to her?
Finally, she catches Adrian looking at her with concern—and it’s like all her glands swell instantly with tears of gratitude: she is a little girl again, and Daddy (Adrian) is sitting in the first row nodding his head in time to the music. My man, she flares up, the dearest soul in the world, I’d give anything to touch your hand right now. But the other one—hard, dark inside, solid, with the heavy military smell—is pushing them apart with his body. He has wedged himself between them (and here a vivid physical memory flashes through her mind—that he has taken this position from the beginning, from the first time they met: wedged between them, and with such unshakable self-assurance as if he had a right to do so). He fixes Daryna in the gaze of his magnificent Judaic eyes, half-covered by the drooping cowls of his wrinkly eyelids, and all of a sudden says something so ill-suited to this scenario—in which Liszt’s lost measures spin and swirl around them in a neurotic dance (years of pilgrimage, Switzerland, pastoral symphony) together with the white-maned professorate that have seen better days, and the musicophile old maids who go to concerts to get their orgasms and sleepwalk through intermissions youthfully flushed—something so unexpectedly divorced from the young Nika, who is listening to her teacher’s last instructions somewhere backstage right now, that at first Daryna thinks he has spoken in a foreign language.
“Actually, I have something for you. On that case that you inquired about.”
Adrian and Daryna exchange glances quickly; the air between them crackles.
“You found it?” she asks, stunned. “You found what I asked you to look for?”
She doesn’t dare say “found Olena Dovgan,” as though complying with the rules once established by Pavlo Ivanovych: no names, no allusions, a schizophrenic secrecy, who needs it now? But let it be his way; this must be their reward—a thank-you gift for coming to his daughter’s concert, a barter. This, Daryna feverishly thinks, must also be something they teach them in KGB school—that any relationship between people is merely barter: an exchange of favors. But what did he find, what is it?
“Did you really? Pavlo Ivanovych? You found what I thought might be there, didn’t you? The anniversary liquidation report?”
“Not exactly,” Pavlo Ivanovych says reluctantly: he is letting it out slowly, pulling their guts out, the sadist. “But I can shed some light on the matter. Choose a time...”
“I’ll come whenever you say.”
“No, don’t come to the office, that won’t do.” This now sounds abrupt, sharp, like a cry of alarm. “It’s more of a private conversation. You know what?” He turns to Adrian, one man to another, as though struck with a sudden insight. “Do you by chance fish?”
“Should I?” Adrian responds.
Daryna laughs and listens to herself laugh from aside: no, everything’s okay. Simultaneously, she realizes that the lions at the next column are not discussing the just-heard Liszt interpretation, but are talking about someone’s recent concert tour—to Japan, it sounds like. “They have fish in abundance, whatever you like!” She hears distinctly the same dramatic baritone that’s “been in art since 1956.” “But it’s pricey, more expensive than meat!”
She looks back at Pavlo Ivanovych—did he hear that or not? She knows it can happen like this: when life, either under the pressure of your own efforts or on an incomprehensible whim of its own, clicks on to an invisible track and rolls off all by itself, and it takes all you’ve got just to keep your feet moving fast enough to hang on, this is what happens—everything you run across, down to accidentally overheard snippets of conversation and advertising slogans, hammers home the same message from every direction, confirms the rightness of your course, as if put there on purpose, to make sure you get it. And sometimes, this can be funny, even very funny: the director with the full version of the script in his hands certainly does not lack a sense of humor. Fish, then. Alright, let it be fish.
“I, you see,” Pavlo Ivanovych shares, “love to get out on the Dnieper when I have a chance, when I have time...on a weekend...to fish at night—it’s the best kind of rest, you see.”
Adrian nods thoughtfully. At the worst possible moment, the bell summoning the audience for the second part of the concert rings out from the foyer, and the whole of Pavlo Ivanovych comes into motion—from his rearing Mosaic forelock to the hem of his Voronin suitcoat (the bottom button, Adrian observes, unbuttoned, very civilian-like: did his daughter teach him?). He roils wit
h impatience like an electric kettle, flares his nostrils, and turns for the entrance at full steam; he waves with a sudden unmanly, country-fair fluster at someone in the crowd that is rapidly congealing into a clot by the door, and instantly loses any resemblance to an SBU officer, or even just to a grown man, that he may have reclaimed in the last couple of minutes. I wonder where his wife is, Daryna thinks—she wouldn’t have missed this, would she?—and manages to find, directed at them from the crowd, a frozen, even it seems, a bit scared (fish-eyed, of course!) look from an inexpressive lady, clearly not one of the musicophiles, dressed in a fashionable pink-tweed, fringed jacket that nevertheless does not look good on her at all; Pavlo Ivanovych, however, does not lose professional form and demonstrates appropriate vigilance just in time, managing (he’s burrowed himself between the two of them again, and they are moving, three abreast, in the reversed current, back inside) to touch both Daryna and Adrian with his elbows and to nod, with every sharp angle he has in his body at once.
“My wife.”
They acknowledge each other over the distance, mutely, as if underwater, and the pink, fringed fish stretches her lips into a smile the same way Nika does, only the mother, unfortunately, bares her gums when she does it—not the most photogenic sight. It would have been just fine if Mom had come, Daryna concludes, feeling somehow comforted. But then, on the other hand—why should she have?
And then she hears Pavlo Ivanovych’s rapid-fire muttering above her ear—hypnotically similar, this time, to his daughter’s dove-like cooing, “Come this Saturday to the South Bridge...from the left, the Vydubychi side...right around midnight, fish bite really well there...and no one will bother us.”
***
From Daryna Goshchynska’s Audio Archives:
Night on the Dnieper. Boozerov.
Format: MP3
Sampling: 22 kHz
Bit rate: 88kBit/sec
Created: 04/27/2004
Modified: 04/27/2004
I didn’t want to scatter the fish—so I didn’t call out to you.... Voice, you see, it carries far at night—someone coughs on Trukhanov Island, and you can hear it all the way over here. Crawfish? Yes, boys trap them at night here...and a ways over, beyond the Paton Bridge. You can buy some; they sell them for two hryvna a piece.
A drink?—of course, anytime! Good thinking that you brought some, it’s an indispensable part of fishing, ha...like tackle. I have some with me, here. In a flask. Would you like some? No? And you...what’s your patronymic? Adrian Ambrozievich? Yes, it’s cognac. Transcarpathian. I always bring some when I go fishing. Here’s to your health! Bud’mo, yes. We had this delegation from Israel once—took them to dinner at The Presidential, top-notch, everything like it’s supposed to be...and their interpreter did not know this word, he asked, whose “buddy” are we talking about? Ha...well, bud’mo!
Uff. Have a pickle—it’s homemade, marinated. I highly recommend it; my wife’s a wiz at these.
Yes, we cooperate with them. With Israelis, and the Poles. Mainly on the Holocaust, we have the war period fairly well represented as it is. With the Poles, we also work on Starobilsk, where their officers were executed in the camp, the ones from Katyn group. Pardon, I didn’t catch that? Sure, if we need something from them, they don’t turn us down either...
Oh, in that sense.
I know, Nika told you.
You know, she has the highest regard for you. Highest. She’s an ambitious girl, thank God...I’ve no idea where she gets it—I was never known to have any special ambitions, and my wife’s the same. And you know—I’m happy to see it. I’m happy. Having ambition in life—one needs that. Yes, we hope so, knock on wood.... Her teacher praises her too...her professor, I mean. Of course, one worries, how else? She’s my only one, you see. Do you have children?
You must. Children, young people, are a must. Absolutely. Otherwise—what’s there to live for?
Oy, stop with that talking, as they say in Odessa! Work—please. You know what they say: it’s not like work will run away, and someone else can drink the vodka. Here, let’s have another round. To your health! Bud’mo! Have a pickle...homemade.
Yes, so that’s how it goes.
And as far as my Jewish origins are concerned, I know everything I need to know already. I don’t need those...Israeli contacts for that.
Only, I must ask you—this is all just between us, okay? Not a word to Nika. She doesn’t know everything, and she doesn’t need to...
Fuckin’...! Lost it! That was a bite...beg pardon. We should talk quieter, the fish—they’re smart. Some, you know, grab the bait and don’t even touch the hook. Like people.
That’s alright though. We’ll bring them, as they say, to light. Let me just hook a new worm...
Yes, according to Israeli law I am, basically, Jewish. The way they have it, one’s nationality comes from your mother. If you’re born to a Jewish woman—you’re a Jew. But then my daughter is not, because her mom’s Ukrainian. It’s funny, a kind of a...zoological nationalism. I never understood this; we used to all be—Soviet people...alright, Russian, what’s the difference. But what country we had! Everyone was afraid of us. Oh! Now it’s coming, good things come to those who wait, as my father-in-law used to say. Fishy, fishy in the brook, Papa catch him on a hook...
And you are from Lviv, Ambrozievich? Well, then, we’re compadres. I was born there too. Peace Street, former Lontsky Street...the MGB prison. Yes, that’s where I was born. In prison. So the organization, you could say, is where I come from, my native land. For life. My native land and nationality...and my mother, the woman who gave birth to me—she also had a relationship with the organization. She was sent to infiltrate the banderas in ’45...with a particularly important mission. That’s how it goes...
Only it’s not a woman’s work. God forbid.
I do know her name. Lea Goldman—that’s how she was called. My mother, the woman who gave birth to me. In Israel, by the way, she is listed among the victims of the Holocaust. As perished in 1942 in Przemysl, in the ghetto. That’s how it goes.... And you say—approach your Israeli colleagues. You think they, over there in Israel, would be thrilled to learn that in ’52 they received compensation from the Germans for a person who actually survived on the Soviet side?
Of course, she died. And in the same prison even. But not until ’48! That’s a completely different story.
But please, I don’t want you to think that I am, in any way, making excuses, so to speak, for Stalinist methods. Our side did not, of course, value people...never did. My father—the one who raised me—he used to say, we put to the wall people who, truth be told, should have been made Heroes of the Soviet Union. Obviously, we weren’t fighting Hitler for human lives. And had Stalin struck a separate peace deal with the Germans in ’42, it would have been the USSR eradicating Jews on our territories; the Soviet side promised Hitler as much at the negotiations in Mtsensk—in exchange for the Germans closing the Eastern front; these documents have been published already.... But that’s, you know...who knows what went on! We have what we have: my mother was supposed to die back in ’42, from a Nazi bullet. And that’s how they counted her in Israel, because it suited them better. The Soviet government gave her the gift of life. So, if you see things from the government perspective, was it so illogical to suggest she return the favor by working for us?
Nika doesn’t know all this, she doesn’t need to...my wife doesn’t know all this, either. You have to understand...I’ve seen her picture. My mother’s, Lea Goldman’s. In her agent folder. Full face, profile. You know...it’s terrible. Especially in profile—it’s Nika, exact copy. Sends chills down your spine, you know. Don’t think me superstitious or anything. When you have your own children, you’ll understand. Nika doesn’t know, and doesn’t need to...
My father told me, yes. The one who raised me. Gave me life the second time, basically. That I survived, and grew up—it’s all thanks to him. He made me a man. Made sure I had my own two feet to stand on...I
raised Nika to be that way too—she’s always taking flowers to her grandparents’ graves—at the Lukyaniv cemetery; they’re buried at the Lukyaniv. On Victory Day, the Cheka officers’ day, the week after Easter...I wasn’t even two months old then...in prison. They had me in the juvenile criminal system.
Shhh! Nope, not biting, I just thought it did.
Well, if it’s not biting, it’s not biting. No use beating the dead horse, right? Let’s have another round, so we’re not just sitting here.... Your health! Uff.
That’s how it goes. So I’m a lucky one as you can see. Knock on wood, where’s a piece of wood here? A lucky bastard. That’s what they said about me back when I was at the Institute. Yes, here in Kyiv, at the Red Army Street. I was the youngest in my class, signed up straight out of high school. Sure, at first everyone thought, you know how it goes, he’s here because of his dad, a protégé...Father a decorated officer, veteran. None of them knew what kind of schooling I already got from my father. You couldn’t get it in the Dzerzhinsky Academy. And I am grateful to him for it! Grateful, yes.
You know, I only felt I really understood him after he told me. Mom worried so much about it; it was such a stress for her...she had a weak heart already.... It wasn’t easy on her, living with Father; she spent half her life deaf in one ear—he, when he got angry, hit her from the left, he had a heavy hand, may he rest in peace. But it wasn’t easy for him either...to be crippled at thirty, that’s, you know.... He could not have children after he got wounded. He was ferociously jealous, once threw an iron at her right before my eyes...an electric one.... Whenever she went out, he’d yell at her in the hallway when she came back, “Take your pants off!”—he was checking, you know...to make sure she hadn’t cheated on him while she was gone. For the longest time, I thought that’s how things were supposed to be. That everyone lived like that.
The Museum of Abandoned Secrets Page 72
