Brisbane, page 18
“Not bad. But it’s your image.”
“It separated from me.” I point up. “More or less the same way the smoke has from your cigarette. Tell me, Nestor, what does this cloud look like?”
Nestor stares carefully at the puff of smoke hanging over our table.
“Maybe a famous musician” – he takes another drag – “a diplomaed philologist.”
“There, you see. And I think it looks like a certain famous writer. I suspect the cloud brings to mind all famous people simultaneously. But that has nothing to do with you or me.”
Nestor sips from his mug and runs his tongue over his lips.
“Gleb, my dear man, the last thing I would want is for my book to be a story of success. Success in the crudest sense. That would be too simple.”
“Especially since life is never the story of success.” I raise my mug. “Prosit!”
“Even yours?”
“Especially mine.”
1983
Fallen idols have an affinity for revenge. In this category, even Lenin was no exception. Smashed to smithereens and even dust, he rose from the ashes on September 1, 1983, when the Philology Department decided to open the first day of classes with a “Lenin lesson.” Lessons like that were an ordinary event in high school, but up until now the university program had not envisaged anything of the kind. The reason for the plan may have been an uncertainty that had arisen in Party minds with the change of Party General Secretary. Newly in power, Andropov revealed no more signs of life than his predecessor Brezhnev had. Given the situation, it was decided to look to someone who had the status of the eternally living. The Lenin lesson at the Philology Department was led by a certain Burtsev, who taught Scientific – known to students as Antiscientific – Communism. Deep down, Burtsev guessed that the students’ designation did not lack foundation, and over the years this guess had led the teacher to an ambivalence and then to a frantic zeal. People said that his one love was fat failing grades on his test, which he assigned right and left, regardless of the respondent’s knowledge or ideological firmness. The waverers got them for their wavering; the convinced, on the contrary, for their conviction, inasmuch as you can’t be an idiot and believe in fairytales, Burtsev thought maliciously. For some reason, he began his talk to the students with a criticism of religion. Burtsev might have criticized something else (he liked to criticize), but he forced himself to stick to what was allowed. After an extended introduction he began to cite the statistics on Lenin’s executions of clergy. While his audience was pondering whether this was what the Lenin lesson consisted of, Burtsev moved on to the third part of the event: each person had to stand up and say whether he believed in God. Execution certainly did not threaten those who confessed, but expulsion from the university seemed a definite possibility. As for Gleb, expulsion would automatically have led to him being sent off to the army as well. With a chill in his stomach, he realized that the exchange of opinions had lost its academic character. There was something to consider here, only there was barely any time left to do so. His classmates stood up one after the other and said they didn’t believe in God. Renunciation began with the first row, but this time Gleb had sat in the last. A stopwatch started in his head, click after click coinciding with the pounding in his temples. Father Pyotr used to tell him that only one thing had been demanded of the first Christians. To the question, Do you believe? answer no. Then go believe quietly; your entire life is your reward. They answered yes because a life after no lost all meaning for them. For some reason, Gleb looked at his neighbor, Dasha Perevoshchikova, who had come from the obscure town of Totma. Totma comes from to t’ma – obscurity – Dasha would say about her hometown. She calmly observed what was going on in the classroom. The calmness of clarity, Gleb thought irritably, as if she were going to say something. Sing something, maybe. I don’t understand how anyone can believe in God, she might say. But he did understand, only he didn’t know whether he’d admit it. Because the same Father Pyotr had said that judgment can be made only about someone in his natural state. He’d said, you can’t hand someone a bill if he’s being tortured. And isn’t this torture? Dasha stands up as if in slo-mo; he’s next. “I do believe in God. How could I not?” This isn’t him speaking, it’s Dasha. Burtsev doesn’t react. With a bored face he looks through his papers for something. The dean’s secretary appears in the door: “Gennady Nikolaevich, you’re wanted immediately in the dean’s office.” Burtsev nods. Goes out. And doesn’t come back before the two hours are up. What was that? Gleb asks himself later. A miracle? And the dyed blonde from the dean’s office is God’s instrument, the Angel with Golden Hair? Ultimately, what do we know about angels? Yes, it was a miracle. Gleb found out the name of the one who’d saved him when he was delivering the newspaper to the dean’s office: Krylova – from krylo, wing. Thus his third year began. That year Gleb became obsessed with Bakhtin. Now he knew everything about carnival and Rabelais, and about how the narrator differs from the author, but what made a special impression on him (as should have been expected) was Bakhtin’s work on polyphony in the novels of Dostoyevsky. Polyphony had interested Gleb back in music school, but only with respect to music. Now he had discovered for himself that the whole world is polyphonic. The many-voiced sound of trees in a grove, automobiles moving down a street, conversations in a line. Gleb thought about how this could be expressed in his thesis. In third year, Philology Department students chose their specialization and had to choose between language and literature. Gleb chose literature. Moreover, he found an advisor who, in his opinion, suited the goals of the research he was contemplating. Unlike many of his classmates, who tried to write under professors’ direction, Gleb asked to have appointed as his advisor a graduate student, Ivan Alekseyevich Sergienko. Ivan Alekseyevich had just been an undergraduate and was noted for his rare erudition, and, not unimportantly, for his literary name and patronymic. Strangely enough, Gleb chose as his mentor a person with those professional virtues for a quality that had nothing to do with literature: Ivan Alekseyevich played the guitar. Not that he was a virtuoso, but he played with feeling and was the life of the party. He played and sang – Okudzhava, Vysotsky, Kim. In trusted company – Galich. He wore an elegant three-piecer, not baggy professorial suits. Once he showed up in an ascot, but after the dean’s stern criticism he went back to his usual tie. Only a person like that could have a correct understanding of polyphony. And could defend it as well. Once, in Gleb’s presence, Dean Chukin walked up to Ivan Alekseyevich and called polyphony a false doctrine. Chukin had built his scholarly career on his dispute with Bakhtin. A polemic with a deceased opponent was convenient and reminiscent of a chess game against yourself. Coming up with moves for his opponent, Chukin would race around the board like an enraged queen and take out piece after piece. Observing Chukin’s perpetual battle, many began to fear him. But not Ivan Alekseyevich. He responded wittily to all of Chukin’s anti-Bakhtin speeches. When they got to the French poststructuralists, who had promoted Bakhtin, Chukin began to huff and puff, and Gleb got the definite sense that he hadn’t read their works. True, Gleb hadn’t either, but he wasn’t the one disputing Bakhtin. It ended with Chukin accusing Ivan Alekseyevich of a preference for bourgeois theories and kow-towing to the West. Gleb’s advisor paused and then noted that he had one more weighty argument he might present to Chukin in private. An intrigued Chukin withdrew. Since then, Gleb had run across him in the department corridors several times, but the topic of Bakhtin never came up again. In the end, Ivan Alekseyevich had succeeded in convincing Chukin. Sometime later, Gleb asked his advisor what his decisive argument had been. He replied that his argument had been of an extraliterary nature. Not strong in terminology, Gleb only understood that the proof had been weighty, and he started taking pride in his teacher. Gleb also liked the fact that, unlike the advisors who were professors, Ivan Alekseyevich didn’t harass him with strict oversight. They met rather rarely – and not at the department but at the Brigantina, a beerhouse. His mentor was satisfied with oral reports from his ward. Listening closely, he sometimes interrupted, asked for clarification. And always gave good advice. Sometimes Ivan Alekseyevich’s attention would become all-consuming, and his stark eyes would focus on a single point – most often the chandelier, executed in the shape of a ship’s wheel. Sometimes he would notice the wheel turning and report this to the waiter, Lyosha, a towheaded boy missing his right index finger. Lyosha would shake his head contritely and suggest Ivan Alekseyevich not drink anymore. Alluding to the lost finger, Ivan Alekseyevich would say that Lyosha was in no position to be making any suggestions to anyone. A while later, he stopped Gleb’s report and called over Lyosha to ask whether the Brigantina was on course. “Aye, aye, captain,” clever Lyosha responded, since he knew this would be reflected in his tip. On days like that, Ivan Alekseyevich had few words and no advice at all, he just sipped his beer silently. Very quickly it became clear that the beer was the final link in a chain that had its start in the morning hours. But Gleb was happy for this silent attention because it was invariably good-natured. It was then that he allowed himself to lay out his boldest ideas, confident that they would be accepted without objection. Gleb saw polyphony not only in the parallel voices of the heroes but in counterposed plots, in the different narrative timeframes whose point of contact might be found in the text of the work or outside it – in the reader’s mind. The young scholar could not always cite examples of such works, but on his better evenings his advisor would suggest those examples to him and even cite scholarly works devoted to them. On one such evening, Gleb repeated his question regarding the decisive argument for Chukin. Carefully considering the question, Ivan Alekseyevich said, “I just punched him in the face.” He brought the lighter to his extinguished cigarette. “Read the poststructuralists, my friend, and you’ll avoid a lot of trouble.” Generally speaking, Ivan Alekseyevich’s best evenings with Gleb were those when he did not come alone. As a rule, he was accompanied by young women – lecturers and university students. In their presence Ivan Alekseyevich shone with erudition and wit, quoted from memory page after page, and regardless of how much he drank his gaze didn’t fix on one point. It’s quite likely that he brought the ladies on purpose, inasmuch as there can be no better backdrop for a teacher than the presence of a pupil. Gleb understood that his academic advisor was spreading his tail for the ladies, but that didn’t bother him in the least. Ivan Alekseyevich’s tail was wonderful. Moreover, a companion’s presence meant the evening’s continuation. From one bar they’d move on to another, and Ivan Alekseyevich’s wit was never depleted – and most of all, neither was Gleb’s wallet – because his advisor paid for everything. A few times Gleb tried to chip in, but Ivan Alekseyevich reminded him that in this case it was a teaching process taking place for which he, as the advisor, bore full (including financial) responsibility. This was simultaneously the most joyous and most fruitful learning process in Gleb’s life. Much of what Ivan Alekseyevich said Gleb wrote down, so that the notepad next to his beer was no surprise to anyone. At the same time, his advisor’s generosity reached such heights that he was often in no shape to get home without help. More than once or twice Gleb helped the ladies put Ivan Alekseyevich in a taxi and sped off with them through nighttime Piter to Fourteenth Line on Vasilievsky Island. He would help his advisor up to the fifth floor and say goodbye. To the suggestion he stay until morning he would respond with a polite no. He explained that it wasn’t at all far from Fourteenth Line to the Mytninskaya Embankment. And it really wasn’t far, except for the bridges. Often Gleb had to wait – for a short time or all night – for them to come down but that didn’t really bother him. Gazing at the black mass of the bridge, he realized these nights would remain with him always, and his heart felt a tug for his future memories. He knew he would remember the checkered tablecloth with the ring left by the sweating mug, the rickety Viennese chairs, the loud toasts and the laughter in the room. Thirty years from now, for instance, would they all be laughing? And if so – where?
OCTOBER 20, 2013, MUNICH
I half-recline on the sofa, hands clasped behind my head. Katya is in the swivel chair at the computer, finger on mouse.
Biting her lip, she scrolls through text on the screen.
“Tomorrow is the last warm day. Then it’s winter, by the way.” She sighs and turns the screen around. “Winter, Gleb.”
The window of the neighboring cottage reflects a red evening ray, which glances off, like a soccer ball, into the Yanovskys’ living room. And trembles on the ceiling.
I say, “Write Mayer that I’m canceling the Berlin concert.” Pause. “That I’m canceling my concerts in general.”
Katya does a half-turn in her chair. Looks at me silently.
“What are you staring at!” I glance at Katya and change my tone. “Write …”
Katya opens the mail program.
“Are you going to give him a reason?”
“Let’s skip the reason.” I walk up to the window. “The reason is that I can’t play anymore! I can’t. Do you understand?”
“You know even with diseases things can go different ways. There are known cases where everything passes by itself.”
I laugh loudly and artificially.
“I practiced for four hours yesterday. A total crock. Did you hear that gurgling? You did: when you walk up to the door the floor creaks loudly. And you know why it creaks?” I head for the bookshelf, move aside a volume of Goethe, and take out a flask with two fingers. “Because alcohol makes you fat. I know all your stashes.”
“I’m a fat old sot. If that makes you feel better.”
She says this almost in a whisper. Stares hard at the screen. I put my hands on Katya’s shoulders and press my forehead to the top of her head.
“Forgive me. You’re not old and you’re not fat. But you are a sot.”
Katya covers my hands with hers. She looks up at me.
“Gleb, darling, bear in mind, I haven’t touched spirits for two weeks. Didn’t you notice?”
“No, because yesterday you smelled of it.”
The computer signals incoming mail. Katya touches the mouse, and the dark screen comes to life.
“I had a drink yesterday when I heard you playing.”
Email from Anna Avdeyeva.
I go back to the sofa.
“To hell with Anna Avdeyeva. Write to Mayer.”
“She writes her maiden name.”
“To hell with her maiden name.”
“It’s a funny name: Lebed.”
Swan.
I run my hands across my face. The skin stretches like a rubber mask.
“And what, I wonder, does Anna Lebed write?”
“‘Dear Gleb, despite all the years that have passed, I hope you remember me. I’m sure you do, although your memories are probably not the nicest.’”
“Not the nicest. And her style is straight out of Turgenev. What a fool.”
“Just a sec.… ‘I was married twice but never did manage to have a child.’” Katya looks over briefly at Gleb. “‘So. Marrying for the third time, I moved to Leningrad. And had a daughter, her name is Vera. Soon after Vera’s birth my husband died.’”
“What do I need all this slobber for? Trash it!”
“Wait. ‘Vera started having liver problems, and recently they gave her a diagnosis of cancer.’” Katya continues to read the letter silently for a while. “The girl is thirteen. Anna writes that she studies at music school. Piano. Amazingly talented.…”
I look closely at Katya.
“Anna was my first woman.”
Katya continues to run her eyes over the lines.
“‘After the way we parted, it’s probably wrong to turn to you, but I’m beyond proprieties. I’m snatching at any straw.’ She’s asking for help, Gleb.”
Amazingly talented. And what parents don’t think their child is talented? Maybe only my father.
“What can we do for her?”
“For now, nothing, but she might need a liver transplant.”
I watch the gardener push the wheelbarrow into the shed. When he steps outside, he slowly pulls off his gloves.
“Are we going to help her, Gleb?”
“Do you want us to?”
“Yes.”
“Then write her that we’ll help. Only in your name.”
1983–1984
Gleb greeted the new year of 1984 in Leningrad and, for the first time in his life, not at home. On the morning of December 31, Gleb took his last exam and went straight from the university to the airport, hoping to fly to Kyiv. Unfortunately, there weren’t any tickets. En route to the dorm he tried to buy champagne, but he failed in that department as well. Gleb was filled with confidence that both (this is how life works) had wound up in the same hands. He could even picture quite well those lucky people flying into Kyiv and toasting with champagne. The dorm was half empty. Gleb’s roommates (now they were students from Novgorod) had left, actually, for Novgorod. It took them three hours to get to their hometown by train; they had no need of air service. Gleb wasn’t even sure there was such a thing between Leningrad and Novgorod. Stretching out on top of the bed-spread, he remembered how, just a week before, Novgorodian Valya had told Novgorodian Kostya he’d bought two bottles of champagne for the occasion. To Kostya’s suggestion that they drink them immediately, Valya said sternly that he was taking the champagne home. Kostya fell silent and with cool dignity advised him to keep the bottles in the refrigerator. Already half-asleep, Gleb managed to marvel at the Novgorodians’ foresight. When he woke up, it took him a while to realize what time it was: the clock not wound yesterday had stopped. Ten thirty, came a suggestion from the hallway. Late already. Damn. The door slammed and he heard steps accompanied by clinking bottles. Gleb thought sadly that, unfortunately, he wasn’t late. Sitting on the bed, he rocked, and the springs lamented in response. The light in the room was turned off (it had been daytime when Gleb fell asleep), but the ceiling reflected the streetlamps. Their lunar flickering was even sadder than the springs’ creak. The flickering fell on the calendar with views of Kyiv that hung over Gleb’s bed. The Kyiv views did not cheer him up. They reminded him of the inaccessibility of the city where, had things turned out differently, he might have been right now. A pitiful ersatz reality, a drawing of a hearth in Papa Carlo’s little room. Gleb stood up decisively and turned on the light. He heard quiet steps outside the door. These weren’t the steps of someone rushing somewhere; their general rhythm did not speak to the existence of a goal. They piqued Gleb’s interest and even amused him. Leaning back against the door, he tried to imagine the person moving – maybe even creeping – tentatively down the hall. The unknown person would stop by a door, and evidently peer at it. Gleb felt uneasy. What was there to look at in doors? Locks! Taking advantage of the dorm’s desertedness, a thief was walking up and down here.… Gleb abruptly opened his door and saw a young woman in the hall. Gleb’s unexpected appearance frightened her. He recognized her. It was Katarina, a German from East Berlin. She was studying Russian philology, two years behind him. They didn’t know each other, and he doubted Katarina had any idea who he was, but Gleb knew her because everyone knew this tall, skinny German. Foreigners were a rarity at the university. Actually, this wasn’t just about her being a foreigner. Katarina was remarkable in and of herself: straight blond hair, a cartoonish teenage walk, and a turned-up nose on a Gothic face. Behind her back she was called the Rail, as in “skinny as a.” Ill will has a keen eye. The nickname reflected, besides Katarina’s features, the hurt felt by those she’d rejected. Despite her entertaining appearance (in fact, because of it), Katerina had won the hearts of a few philological youths. They all knew, though, that she had a fiancé in Berlin, to whom she remained faithful. This elicited legitimate respect, yet couldn’t help but annoy. This was the Katarina who now stood in front of Gleb. She smiled in embarrassment, her initial fright dissipated. She was looking for her girlfriend. “I vas supposte to tselebrate New Year’s vif friends of my parents, but they got sick. Grippe.” “Grippe. That’s bad,” Gleb agreed. Her parents had asked her not to celebrate in the dorm. They said there’d be terrible drinking and carousing. “But it’s empty here.” Gleb cast an eye over the hallway. “No drinking, no carousing for you.” “Ferry dull.” Katarina laughed. “That’s not the word for it,” Gleb confirmed. She gestured: “I always get it wrong. I still don’t know Russian well.” “Not at all. Your Russian’s fine, quite okay even.” Gleb pretended to think hard. “I never did manage to come up with any alcohol, but I’m prepared to invite you for tea. We could celebrate the New Year with tea.” “Do you have tsugar?” Gleb looked down, afraid Katarina would see something that had nothing to do with sugar in his eyes. “Yes.” “Then we can tselebrate.” He heard a smile in her voice. Gleb looked up – and there it was. She’d been smiling the whole time. Letting her into his room, he said, “You have a wonderful smile.” Pause. “Really?” This time she didn’t smile, and Gleb thought he’d spoiled everything. He got busy, looked in his nightstand for his box of refined sugar and put it on the table; the unevenly torn carton jutted up like a piano lid. The sugar as proof of the purity of his intentions. His thoughts pure as the driven snow, so to speak. Now she was going to ask who’d opened the box so barbarically. Russische Arbeit. No, instead she asked, “Do you have anything besides sugar?” He nodded. “Of course I do. Bread, sausage.” He feverishly tried to remember. “Marinated mushrooms, for instance.” Katarina said she had something, too, she’d just go get it.… It was clear as day. He’d scared her off. Why did he say that about her smile? He’d scared her and she’d found an excuse to leave. He got it. She had a fiancé in Berlin, and here he’d started in on the compliments at this time of night. Watching Katarina go made Gleb sad. He picked up his guitar and started strumming. He thought he heard steps outside the door – no, the window.… Enough time passed for her to get to any room and return. She could have done it ten times. No point in waiting. Gleb lay the guitar on the bed and turned on the radio so he wouldn’t miss the New Year. He heard light scratching at the door. Katarina. Katarina! She was standing there with a plastic bag – a genuine Snow Maiden, a real Schnee Mädchen. Now she was dressed differently, and she smelled of something not from here. Not Red Moscow, for instance, the perfume Gleb’s grandmother used. That was why she’d taken so long. Entering the room, she started putting her German provisions on the table. “There’s so much!” Gleb said admiringly. She replied that this was her little apology for taking so long. Gleb opened the refrigerator and took the liter jar of mushrooms off the shelf, put it on the table, and realized he’d noticed something unexpected in the refrigerator. A return visit to the refrigerator made everything clear. Lying on the Novgorodian Valya’s shelf were two bottles of champagne. When he was packing, Valya forgot the champagne. “I spent my time well, too,” Gleb said calmly, as a true magician should. With a snap of his right hand a bottle appeared in his left. “Champagne? Really?” Katarina was amazed. “No.” Gleb shook his head. “Two champagnes.” Katarina opened the refrigerator. “Confess, you had them!” Gleb still maintained his serious face. “No, I didn’t, or rather, I didn’t.” Katarina said that one bottle was enough, and Gleb immediately agreed. “Of course it is.” The main thing was that she shouldn’t think carousing was about to ensue. When the General Secretary’s congratulations came over the radio, Gleb started opening the bottle. He did it without a bang, so no one would have any doubts about the evening’s peaceful nature, but Katarina expressed disappointment. To her mind, champagne should be opened noisily. Gleb apologized and promised to open the second bottle that way. That was the last thing Katarina wanted, though, since then they knew what would happen. When the congratulations ended, Gleb poured champagne into two dark blue enameled mugs. They also had a faceted glass and a half-liter cup with a view of the Novgorod kremlin, but Katarina rejected those volumes as unpaired. The mugs were true twins (the mole that differentiated them was a chip in the enamel on one), which, when clinked, made the metallic sound of a cowbell. They clinked a second before the bells’ peal, as Gleb and Katarina saw out the old year. To the hymn of the Soviet Union the metallic sound was repeated: now they were ringing in the new year. Soviet music hall tunes started playing. After listening to a few songs with all seriousness, Katarina pointed to the guitar: “Will you play?” And added: “I’ve heard you play well.” Gleb was surprised but tried not to let on. Katarina turned out to know more about him than might have been expected. He switched off the radio and picked up the guitar. He glanced at Katarina with a certain pride; her words were still ringing in his ears. Might she have known that he was here? Might she have been roaming the hall not at random? He started playing. He purposely chose a couple of difficult pieces to demonstrate his technique. He wondered whether her fiancé could do that. Whether he played the guitar at all. Gleb seriously doubted he did. With these thoughts, he moved on to simple, melodic pieces. When he played “The Story of Love,” Katarina sang the lyrics in English. Quietly at first, shy, but when Gleb joined in with his humming, she started singing in full voice. He’d never heard a voice like Katarina’s before, powerful and low. Suddenly she broke off singing and said she wanted to drink to Gleb, a stupendous musician. Feeling himself blush, he poured what was left of the champagne into the mugs. Katarina glanced briefly at the empty bottle, and Gleb thought she was about to take back her toast. She didn’t. Then she set about slicing the salami she’d brought. Gleb asked whether that beauty was from Berlin. When Katarina answered in the affirmative, he asked whether it was a present from her fiancé. She smiled with restraint: “You mean in the USSR fiancés give presents of salami?” A second later she couldn’t hold back anymore. She laid out the neatly sliced pieces on the plate and let the laughter shake her. Subsequently, Katarina admitted that it was neither Gleb’s guitar playing nor his humming but the salami that had finally won her over as a bridge to the main question. She said her fiancé was moot. Because she didn’t have one. Gleb felt a surge of happiness and didn’t even ask why not. The main thing was she didn’t. And maybe never had. He’d been made up so she could reject admirers. Katarina asked permission and took the calendar down from the wall. She sat on Gleb’s bed and started leafing through it. “Tell me about Kyiv.” Gleb sat down beside her. He watched Katarina’s hands, watched her eyelashes tremble. “This is the university.” “Why is it that red?” “I don’t know, I’ve been used to it that way since childhood. At the word ‘university’ I always pictured something red. The word itself was red, even.” Katarina’s pale fingers slid over the red building. Gleb no longer dared look up and looked only at them and loved them infinitely. He covered them with his hand – and Katarina didn’t pull them away. Her fingers were trembling. He squeezed them lightly – very lightly, to reassure her. He sensed the moment when he and Katarina turned into a single whole and he pressed his forehead to her shoulder. Katarina leaned toward him, and he felt her breath. He didn’t feel his own. “Can I kiss you?” The pause that arose was filled by a car outside. “I’fe nefer made luff.” Gleb slowly raised his head and touched his lips to her half-open lips. Forget any fiancé.… The calendar slid to the floor.
