CHAPTER SIX

She died suddenly, without burdening anyone either with her falling ill with an abrupt aggressive cancer, or with her very death. Everyone was busy getting on with their own lives. Sidelnikov’s father went out to the East in search of a destiny less tangible than that of a chief electrician of the Nickel Industrial Complex and from time to time he sent letters with diligent descriptions of the Siberian weather. The mother was engaged in a continuous battle with her boss, the headmistress of a night school. After coming home from work, she would immediately rush to the phone. ‘You are gravely mistaken, Natalya Andreyevna!’ And a little bit later, on the phone again: ‘Believe it or not, but that is what I told her, plainly: “You are gravely mistaken!”’ As to Sidelnikov, he had just begun to come to his senses after his first love, which was naturally the biggest and saddest, but to be more precise, an enormous and happy one.

The beginning of his parting from Rosa coincided with the beginning of the immensely long servitude that was hiding under the innocent facade of a “secondary school”. First of all, he acquired a hump in the form of a hefty satchel with rugged angles and seams that would not let him straighten his back and made him walk half-bending, lurching forward as if eternally bowing to everybody he met on the way. And very soon afterwards, with the way he walked, Sidelnikov started to resemble the smallest of the Volga River barge haulers in Repin’s famous painting. He would constantly bump into those around him with the insensitive growth on his back, for instance on the tram or in the narrow school corridor, and those around him would push him back with understandable exasperation. As a consequence Sidelnikov even got used to feeling others’ irritation upon his person.

Everything would have been all right, had it not gone beyond the satchel thing. At school, albeit “secondary”, one had to obtain some knowledge. The first bit of knowledge garnered by Sidelnikov from the school proved to him quite excruciating. For example, he learnt that various people, boys and girls each likeable on their own, change abruptly when gathered in a pack, become somehow identical and definitely worse than they really are. In addition, whatever they are doing, they are always on the lookout, their eyes and ears searching for the person whom they have chosen as their superior, whom they are a bit afraid of and want to be liked by and whom they would like to imitate. Once or twice, Sidelnikov even caught himself giggling at the stuttering Semyonov when the latter was teased (“ke-ke-ke”) by Vova Bartaev, the strongest person in the class. However, it was not just teasing people that Vova liked; he also liked to hit them in the teeth. Sidelnikov probably remembered those occasions for longer than the bashed stutterer himself.

Sidelnikov never aspired to become “superior” because to do that, one had to impose on others one’s own person and whims and inevitably humiliate them. He had to make desperate efforts in order not to end up amongst the giggling or the humiliated. But there simply was no other option. Therefore, another school-born truth was that he was now on his own and nobody would help him. This was the second thing.

And thirdly, in order to assert his dubious neutrality, he had to have regular fights. The fights normally could be summed up as follows. The hesitant Sidelnikov, after a punch in the face, would suddenly fly into a rage and start to pummel at the enemy (usually the leader’s sidekick) blindly and at random, until the latter gave up. Such a result of the match produced a most favourable impression upon his classmates, but Sidelnikov never reaped the fruits of his victory. Forgetting the infamous satchel or his hat, he would go home in order to cry secretly into his pillow, choking, swallowing the salty filthy taste of the fight. He would lie comatose for a few hours and then, having recovered, would firmly tell his mother that he would not go back to school on the following morning or indeed ever again. Failing to get any explanation out of him, his mother would finally transfer him to another school, where he would try to make a fresh start. But in the new class, there would always be a Vova Bartaev and after some time, history would repeat itself. All in all, by the time he received his school-leaving certificate, or so-called “Certificate of Maturity”, with all the highest marks, the reasonably matured Sidelnikov had managed to pass through four different schools.

When he became a senior pupil, he would turn up at Rosa’s on Saturdays, to stay overnight, and all he wanted was to get enough sleep and silence. Unlike his mother, Rosa did not ask personal questions. He would tell her things of his own accord if he felt like it. Sidelnikov was as happy and calm here as he used to be in his early days but he had already been uprooted from that life and it lost its essence.

By the time of his acquaintance with Lora, he had been in a painful and protracted conflict with his mother, the reason for which he could not recall for the life of him. Existence of the conflict manifested itself when his mother was in a foul mood, by loud addresses to “brat” and “scoundrel”. When in a merry disposition, she would say, ‘Well, you seem almost human!’

Sidelnikov came to the government building that was occupied by the city authorities on his mother’s errand to borrow a few fashion magazines from her acquaintance, who had promised to lend them. The office was noisy with the snapping of typewriters and smelled of perfume, new parquet floors and, for some reason, of plums. The owner of the magazines was having a hasty cup of tea behind a half-open door with the sign “Department of Culture”. A piece of fruitcake concealed in her cheek did not allow her to ask him strictly and clearly, ‘Whom would you like to see?’ It came out as ‘Whod’yelikesee?’ But of his awkward answer, ‘I think it’s you’, only a croaky ‘s’you’ remained audible. What did he manage to make out? Almost nothing, save for the girlish long legs peeking from under the desk, on her lips pink lipstick half-eaten with the cake, and short-sighted, unexpectedly old, eyes. Her name was Lora. For the whole week after this meeting, he cursed himself for having left too quickly and refusing the tea she had offered. Every now and then, he bit back his tongue in order to stop himself from inquiring whether it was time to return the magazines. And he kept holding the tattered rags to his face trying to revive the intricate bouquet of scents: the fresh parquet floor, plums and the perfume whose name he would never learn.

In exactly one week’s time, they bumped into each other on the tram stop of Gagarin Square. That is, she was first to spot Sidelnikov as he came stooping to the tram stop. She recognised him and called his name. He was not surprised by the encounter and forgot to say hello because during the days that had passed he felt as if he had never parted from her. Taught as a bowstring, he was standing a couple of metres from her and did not know where to start. Fortunately, the month of September in the year in question happened to be shockingly cold and naturally, that just had to be discussed however briefly, but better still, in detail. Yet she suddenly changed the subject and confessed anxiously that in the morning, she made an exceptionally good borsch, which there was nobody even to appreciate, let alone eat. Thus, the primary love experience of Sidelnikov revealed what “happiness in private life” is meant to be. It is when the woman of your dreams invites you to taste a beetroot soup of her own making.

...

She was not that young – twenty-nine. For six and half years she had been seeing one Mekhrin, a taciturn and extremely married man, who visited her without fail on Thursdays only and clearly intended to continue to do so into a ripe old age. Every time, in his breast pocket he would bring with him a small paper packet from the chemist priced at two kopecks. The bag had an inscription “Item No.2” in the colour of manganese solution. Usually within about twenty minutes, his visit’s agenda would have been exhausted. Mekhrin’s taciturnity was of a universal nature and forced those socialising with him to fuss involuntarily, thus proving the law of the moral superiority of immobile objects over the mobile. Occasionally, however, he opened his mouth in order, shall we say, to notify Lora what a parasite his wife was. He called his wife by her maiden surname, Salova.

At first Lora felt shy and nervous, and then became completely perplexed. Then she would cry after he’d left. Later still, she would cry more and once she told him to go to hell with his small paper bags. But he soon came to visit again, as if nothing had happened, and she was even glad because she could not make herself become completely indifferent towards Mekhrin. Besides, better him than nobody at all. An arid time arrived, with no tears, something akin to desiccation of the soul.

Sidelnikov came to her like a bolt from the blue, like an irrepressible June shower, like a confusing squall of the elements, and she realised almost immediately that she did not wish to and would not resist this incursion. Having got used to dealing with the dreary expectation of inevitabilities, she sensed for the first time that such expectation might turn out sweet and cause a flutter in her stomach similar to the flapping of a butterfly.

Incidentally, whatever it was that she realised, was not at all obvious to him. And, if on the one side of the emerged equation there was Inevitability by the name of Sidelnikov, all feasting and adoring eyes, then on the other side there was a complete Impossibility by the name of Lora living her own grown-up clandestine life.

He did not have any right to anything because he was always dressed in the same bottle green trousers, too tight and short, that his mother had bought him two years previously when he was still in the eighth form; because he was a brat and a scoundrel; because he was ashamed of himself before this long-legged lady. One may ask, what could he hope for? But mercifully, he did not hope for anything, when, inspired by two bowls of “happiness in private life”, on the next day he sold a few of his favourite books to a second-hand bookshop. For four mornings this availed him of the opportunity to buy, from obliging old ladies, sombre roses which he did not dare to give directly to the person intended; instead he furtively shoved them into Lora’s mailbox, scratching his hands to bits in the process.

During those days, when Sidelnikov, like a chicken about to lay an egg, was hanging around town with the roses, half-dead from fear, gradually narrowing the circles in inevitable proximity to the single address that existed for him in the whole world, Lora made some drastic changes at home, even without quite knowing why.

On Wednesday, upon coming home from work, she called her closest neighbour, Darya Konstantinovna, in order to inquire whether Darya’s husband, Nikolaich, was on the wagon at the time. It turned out that, already for the second day running, he was in excellent control of himself. In half an hour, Nikolaich, sober as a judge, and Pyotr, his inveterate domino partner, carried the old but sturdy sofa out of Lora’s flat, carefully took it down to the ground floor and, as per the instruction, delivered it to the rubbish heap.

Thursday night, the immutable Mekhrin came to visit, clearly in a great haste. Failing to find the requisite piece of furniture in the appropriate place, at first his face showed bewilderment and thereupon, displeasure. He heard in reply that it was over, definitely and ultimately. Moreover, he was not to come and visit her home anymore, or else there might be consequences. Surely, he must understand. Mekhrin, who did not understand anything, nodded meaningfully, uttered ‘well, well,’ and departed. He was worried by the hint to “consequences”, the worst of which would be publicity, insufferable in view of his status as a family man and, most importantly, of his official position. But he was not going to part lightly with something of which he came into possession long ago and to give it away to God knows whom. No later than the previous evening, sharing a bottle of cognac with a friend, albeit his junior in the office, he suddenly got all soppy and poured his heart out, boasting what first-rate breasts his mistress had. As well as the rest… So he did value Lora. But for the moment, it would be best to abstain from home visits, until such time as the circumstances had been clarified. For that, he could call on her at work, maybe even tomorrow during lunchtime.

On the next day, he entered Lora’s office with the same pleasurable sensation that he always had when visiting her throughout these years, driving up in his Lada every Thursday (the day of political training, according to his cover story for the family). He felt as if every time, he was presenting a valuable gift to this slightly odd and impractical woman whom he considered a loser. Mekhrin did not show off in front of her, yet he still was very pleased with his own conduct. When being with her, he would hold his head so as to be seen in profile; no fuss, not a single unnecessary word (women seem to like that). Likewise on this occasion, he walked in, silently pushed the chair closer, sat himself down snugly and placed his hat on the desk. Looking in front of himself towards the window, he waited a little in order to give Lora a chance to appreciate the very fact of his visit, to get a bit nervous (women can’t help that), and find the words for an explanation.

Indeed, she was nervous and tortured her handkerchief but, for some reason, did not wish to explain herself. She just repeated the words, ‘It’s over’ and added dryly, ‘Please leave.’ Mekhrin, who knew what women’s tantrums were worth, chose not to have heard. Yet somehow something felt wrong. Besides, there was a knock at the door, and a youth of sixteen or seventeen walked in. He was in need of a haircut and was dressed in a nylon jacket and khaki trousers, which were a bit too short for him. Some punk, Mekhrin registered. Yet, judging by his face, bright and cultured… The visitor uttered a shy hello and immediately headed off to the window where he found himself a place and leaned on the windowsill in the pose of one patiently waiting. Mekhrin had to turn his head away from the window and to the desk and say something for the sake of decorum. ‘Well… So that’s how it is. And what now?’ This time it was she who appeared not to have heard. Her handkerchief was in a critical condition.

As for Sidelnikov, the stranger in the chair reminded him of a stony crag. Sidelnikov longed for him to leave as soon as possible. But with a stony crag, one might have to wait forever. And he wondered what sort of event could shift it.

In a barely audible hollow voice, Lora once again asked Mekhrin to leave. She looked terribly pretty but resembled a reprimanded schoolgirl.

Mekhrin did not as much as stir.

‘Sir,’ said Sidelnikov, the cultured boy, ‘you have been asked to leave the premises.’

He had an ingenious idea: if an object is too heavy to lift, it could be taken away piece by piece.

‘Who on Earth is that scum over there?’ Mekhrin slowly asked, addressing the desk.

Next moment, Sidelnikov experienced a breathtaking sensation of weightlessness when, upon pushing himself off the windowsill he glided to the desk, pinched Mekhrin’s hat with two fingers, soared up back to the opening in the window and set his trophy free. While the hat, like a fat jackdaw, was swishing obliquely through the layers of air four storeys deep and was landing on the tarmac bank of a neat little puddle, Mekhrin had the time to jump up, make a few chaotic petty movements and rush out without saying a word.

Sidelnikov was priming himself for a harder test than the expulsion of the crag.

‘Perhaps you would consent,’ he started, ‘to go with me if, supposing… On Saturday. Because I’ve already got the tickets. It is just that today, I was passing by…’

She was looking up at Sidelnikov with a long gaze, that precious gaze, which would remain in his life as one of the greatest generosities that he had lived through and lost forever. But at that moment, her gaze is still lingering, and the bluish-grey icy irises hiding invisible heat begin to melt and resort to the cover of a subtle shade behind the eyelashes. Already, it started to seem to Sidelnikov that his tongue-tied invitation to see a famous French film of a love story was either a vulgarity or childish prattle. He would be put in his place any moment now and then he would have to do something about the bitter sandpaper in his mouth.

But she said, ‘I would go with you anywhere you like.’