CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

‘Why don’t you go to sleep?’

‘I haven’t yet learnt to sleep by your side.’

…

‘Shall we have you come one more time, gently?’

‘I’d rather stay where I am.’

‘Well, shall I pretend that I’m asleep, and you will…’

‘As a special agent!’

‘Or a maniac rapist… I would really like to hold back as long as possible, ‘cause as soon as you came today, I did too, I rushed…’

Did he and Lora really have conversations like that? Did they really talk this happy nonsense? Did they just. And the feverish whispering, with the apple breath flowing from mouth to mouth, and the pungent odour of their mutual love sweat were more real than this eyeless mummified separation. But even when Sidelnikov unexpectedly fathomed the horrible thing that would have been better not known by anyone, he still did not stop aching for Lora. And what he fathomed was that, at the end of the day, no-one really chooses anyone in particular, so in place of the one and only sweetheart, there could have been somebody else – and here’s the horror – just about anybody else.

…

He was now sharing a room with chemistry students. They treated Sidelnikov and all others in the humanities rather like some profoundly military people treat civilians: civvies – what could one expect from them? However, there wasn’t any strong front-line camaraderie amongst the chemistry students either, everyone kept themselves to themselves, there were no feasts or even a common kettle. In the evenings, Sidelnikov would have tea on the fifth floor with the Turkmens who all of a sudden took a liking to him. The Turkmens were such a tight-knit bunch that it was impossible to meet them separately. When they were running down the stairs from their top-floor rooms with the gradual crescendo of stomping it was like a herd of lathery horses and it was safer to step aside. In the course of tea-drinking, the herd leader, Allayarov, elicited from Sidelnikov the particulars of his skirmish with Shtrausenko and said quietly upon emptying his third cup of tea:

‘I’ll morder him.’

The most unpleasant memory was the trip Sidelnikov and Shtrausenko made to the militia as per the summons. Sidelnikov was walking on one side of the street whereas the watchman, tail between his legs, was walking on the opposite side. The charming lady investigator met them with the vile question:

‘Well, have you settled everything between yourselves?’

‘I have got nothing to settle with him!’ Sidelnikov was so indignant that he became bombastic like a communist.

‘Well then, are you going to file a complaint?’

‘No…’

‘Why “no”?’ cried the lady investigator.

‘I feel sorry for him.’

When they were coming out of the room, Shtrausenko looked both triumphant and insolent. With hindsight, Sidelnikov could not sensibly explain to himself the cause of the wretched spur-of-the-moment “feeling sorry”. And in reply to Allayrov’s “I’ll morder him” he just gave a wave of the hand, meaning: the last thing anyone wants is to go to prison because of that turd.

A month later, when the watchman nipped into a bathroom for a drink of water and bent over the tap, which he turned upside down to make a drinking fountain, an unidentified malefactor came up to him from behind and bashed him on the back of his head with such force that Shtrausenko’s teeth were crushed against the cold metal. The watchman was weeping and spitting blood and saying that somebody had taken revenge on him for his vigilant service at the hostel lobby. The avenger was never found but Sidelnikov strongly suspected a trace of Turkmen.

Something was happening with Nadia. She left the hostel and was now calling in as if on an excursion to a reservation of poor, but proud, Red Indians. Her moods soared, or blazed, or plummeted. At times, she would even grow indifferent to her appearance and clothes. She would fade, her face darkened as if she was burnt out inside. In his mind, Sidelnikov called this “internal combustion” and secretly feasted his eyes on Nadia, but would forget her as soon as she was gone. Once, for instance, he found two small cold tangerines under his pillow, but could not guess who they were from.

Nadia often asked Sidelnikov “to walk her” and he dutifully, if not very willingly, complied with her requests. He picked all the best places for walking her: the railway station, or a greasy spoon in Pushkin Street that was crammed and grubby but famous for its hand-made pelmeni. Once, Nadia dragged him into the flat of a girlfriend who was away at the time. There he enjoyed a bubble bath (a rare treat for a hostel resident), had two helpings of Russian salad and, with the words, “much, much obliged”, scarpered despite the invitation to stay overnight – or forever. This dwelling put him off by its indistinct resemblance to the home of Darya Konstantinovna. But back there Lora and he were standing embracing each other in the middle of the room, anxious not to touch even the mere surface of somebody else’s life, whereas here, a semi-naked Nadia was lying on the orphaned sofa with a cigarette, with her wondrous ballet-or-circus legs up in the air. The legs were admirable, but this did not mean that he wanted to come and live in a circus.

…

‘Well, Nadia, where would you like to live?’

The people queuing for pelmeni were staring at Nadia like some exotic creature, with almost animal curiosity and, for some reason, with fear. Sidelnikov had a thought that the most dazzling beauty is scary, being obviously unapproachable, and therefore as often as not doomed to be unclaimed and, ultimately, unwanted by anyone.

‘I’d like to live in Venice. Or in Genoa.’

Shiny stains from spilled vinegar were drying on the table.

‘Because ours is shit and not a normal country. Why don’t you say anything? C’mon, say at least that you disagree!’

‘I disagree.’

The pelmeni were gone before the hunger.

‘I’d like to have your baby.’

‘It is the government that’s shit, not the country.’

‘I wouldn’t even bother you about paternity. This child would be mine only.’

‘Well, what about me? A stud, and it’s over?’

‘You’ll never have any money. Would you buy me more juice please? Don’t be upset. You know no-one can earn anything here, unless you do black market.’

‘There’s no apple juice left, only pomegranate and it’s really sour.’

‘You know, I’m going to have to get married, for the housing registration.’

Soon afterwards, it turned out that there already existed a contender who was giving her no peace and was practically treading on her heels, ready for anything. When Nadia called Sidelnikov long-distance since he was as usual spending the holidays in his hometown, he could not help asking out of curiosity:

‘How is your housing registration doing?’

‘There he is, outside the post office for the past half-hour.’

...

The summer was going wild in the town as if before an eternal winter or on the eve of doomsday. The shabbiest little parks and gardens let themselves go, breaking into rampant blooming, surrendering their leaves and countless petals to obliteration by the heat, brief powerful showers and renewed waves of heat. Come evening, Sidelnikov was longing to get out he knew not where, but at least out of the house and out of himself. In the twilight, he walked through the Park “of Culture and Leisure” overgrown with black currants and honeysuckle, through the lingering fragrance of maize pollen, to the slowly cooling asphalt of Komsomol Square, every time imagining himself a participant in indescribable adventures that were always too late and could never get started.

The weary town went to bed early. The more provoking seemed the late-night rumble of a band emanating from the “Jasper” café. A red-faced bouncer in an Army coat minus the epaulets was looking around just waiting to pour scorn on those longing to enter. In the street, a few of the excluded from the merry-making were hanging about pleadingly. Sidelnikov quickened his pace and assuming a purposeful air circumvented the red mug before the latter had time to react. Yet once inside where it was hot and noisy, Sidelnikov realised that the effort was pointless. About forty people, utterly rampageous, like first-year pupils without their teacher’s supervision, were jumping and stomping near the half-ravaged tables in time to the brutally loud thump from wardrobe-like speakers which fenced the semi-circular stage with the band members:

I cannot speak for the whole of Odessa,

The whole of Odessa is so very big!

Sidelnikov felt slightly lost, not knowing where to perch himself, but almost immediately, a sweaty wench in a tight lacy dress leapt out of the dancing throng, grabbed his hand and pulled him into the middle. He made a clumsy attempt at adapting to everyone else’s bodily movements but, at that moment, the song about Odessa ended and the public surged back towards the unfinished drinks. The lacy wench with a hot wine-smelling exhalation of “Come and join us!” steered Sidelnikov to the table where her crowd was sitting. Instantly, he had a full glass and a huge plate with meat was pushed towards him. It was a birthday party for the glamorous tall blonde sitting at the head of the table. While a young man with a golden fang shining in his mouth, resembling the famous rogue Ostap Bender, was proposing a toast, Sidelnikov looked about. Bottles of unfamiliar imported vodka and dry martini, five or six types of sausage, caviar, some black meat – nothing of the kind could be found on any other table in the café, let alone anywhere within thousands of miles of the reality surrounding them. A fat fellow with a childish haircut refilled Sidelnikov’s glass and candidly complained, ‘Lyusia’s been pestering me ‘cause she’d like another fur coat… I goes, Haven’t we got enough fur coats already, let’s get you those rings with nice little stones instead?’ Then he added in confidential whisper, ‘But you know what, this fur coat is re-e-ally something!’ Lyusia, who sported a delicate boyish moustache, hurried the gathering and reminded that they were in for a “tsar bathing”. The birthday girl, called Valentina, was glowing pink and divinely scented – she hailed from those bosomy Flemish paintings and the kingdom of haberdashery.

‘Are you coming with us for the “tsar bathing”?’ asked the lacy wench.

Sidelnikov nodded. He was led along by apathetic curiosity and did not feel like changing course.

In the lobby by the public phone, the red-faced bouncer, unprompted, obsequiously offered Sidelnikov a two-kopecks coin for the telephone, and Sidelnikov rang his mother to say that he would be out with some friends till late, maybe until morning. His mother snorted and slammed the phone down.

The gold-toothed Bender stopped two taxis in one go. They loaded in, cheerful and self-important. Lyusia and the lacy one were squabbling about who was going to sit next to Sidelnikov. The cars ripped through the sleeping town like fire engines to a fire.