Or just for the weekend. How long will you be here?”
“Till autumn. If all goes well.”
“Where are you staying? Would you like me to call the hotel? We have two of them, a good one and a bad one. Which do you prefer?”
“That,” I told her, “requires some thought.”
“The good one’s expensive,” explained Galina.
“All right,” I said, “I’ve no money anyway.”
She immediately dialled somewhere and pleaded with someone for a long time. Finally the matter was settled. Somewhere someone wrote down my name.
“I’ll take you there.”
It had been a while since I’d been the object of such intense female concern. It would prove to be even more insistent in the future, escalating into pressure.
At first I attributed it to my tarnished individuality. Later I discovered just how acute the shortage of males in these parts was. A bow-legged local tractor driver with the tresses of a train-station floozie was always surrounded by pushy pink-cheeked admirers.
“I’m dying for a beer!” he’d whine.
And the girls ran for beer…
Galina locked the door of the main office. We proceeded through the woods towards the settlement.
“Do you love Pushkin?” she asked me unexpectedly.
Something in me winced, but I replied:
“I love. The Bronze Horseman[15], his prose…”
“And what about the poems?”
“His later poems I love very much.”
“And what about the earlier ones?”
“The earlier ones too,” I surrendered.
“Everything here lives and breathes Pushkin,” continued Galina. “Literally every twig, every blade of grass. You can’t help but expect him to come out from around the corner… The top hat, the cloak, that familiar profile.”
Meanwhile, it was Lenya Guryanov, a former college snitch, who appeared from around the corner.
“Boris, you giant dildo,” he bellowed, “is it really you?!”
I replied with surprising amiability. Yet another lowlife had caught me unawares[16]. I’m always too slow to gather my thoughts.
“I knew you’d come,” Guryanov went on.
Later I was told this story. There was a big booze-up at the beginning of the season. Someone’s wedding or birthday. One of the guests was a local KGB[17] officer. My name came up in conversation. One of our mutual friends said:
“He’s in Tallinn.”
Someone countered:
“No, he’s been in Leningrad at least a year.”
“I heard he was in Riga, staying at Krasilnikov’s.”
More and more versions followed. The KGB agent stayed focused on the braised duck. Then he lifted his head and stated brusquely:
“There’s intel that he’s getting ready for Pushkin Hills…”
“I’m late,” said Guryanov, as if I was keeping him.
He turned to Galina:
“You’re looking good. Don’t tell me, did you get new teeth?”
His pockets bulged heavily.
“You little prick!” blurted Galina. And the next minute:
“It’s a good thing Pushkin isn’t here to see this.”
“Yes,” I said, “it’s not a bad thing.”
The first floor of the Friendship Hotel was home to three establishments: a general store, a hairdresser’s and the restaurant The Seashore. I should, I thought, invite Galina to dinner for all her help. But my funds were appallingly low. One grand gesture could end in catastrophe.
I kept quiet.
We walked up to the barrier, behind which sat the administrator. Galina introduced me. The woman extended a chunky key with the number 231.
“And tomorrow you can find a room,” said Galina. “Perhaps in the settlement» Or in Voronich, but it’s expensive» Or you can look in one of the nearby villages: Savkino, Gaiki»”
“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been a great help.”
“So, I’ll be going then.”
The words ended with a barely audible question mark: “So, I’ll be going then?”
“Shall I walk you home?”
“I live in the housing development,” the young woman responded mysteriously.
And then – distinctly and clearly, very distinctly and very clearly:
“There’s no need to walk me^ And don’t get any ideas, I’m not that type…”
She gave the administrator a proud nod and strutted away.
I climbed to the second floor and opened the door. The bed was neatly made. The loudspeaker sputtered intermittently. The hangers swung on the crossbar of an open built-in closet.
In this room, in this narrow dinghy, I was setting sail for the distant shores of my independent bachelor life.
I showered, washing away the ticklish residue of Galina’s attentions, the sticky coating of a crammed bus, the lamina of many days of drinking.
My mood improved noticeably. A cold shower worked like a loud scream.
I dried myself, put on a pair of tracksuit bottoms[18] and lit a cigarette.
Footsteps shuffled down the hall. Somewhere music was playing. Trucks and countless mopeds caused a ruckus outside the window.
I lay on top of the duvet and opened a little grey volume by Victor Likhonosov[19]. I decided it was time to find out exactly what this village prose was, to arm myself with a sort of guide…
While reading, I fell asleep. When I woke up it was two in the morning. The shadowy light of summer dawn filled the room. You could already count the leaves of the rubber plant[20] on the window sill.
I decided to think things through calmly, to try and get rid of the feeling of catastrophe and deadlock.
Life spread out before me as
The Bronze Horseman: Pushkin’s 1833 narrative poem which takes its title from a statue of Peter the Great in St Petersburg.
to catch unawares – застигать врасплох
KGB – КГБ, Комитет государственной безопасности СССР, действовавший с 1954 по 1991 год
tracksuit bottoms – гимнастические брюки
Likhonosov: Viktor Likhonosov (b.1936) was closely associated with the “Village Prose” literary movement of the Sixties that focused on rural life in the Soviet Union and often presented a nostalgic or idealized view of Russia.
rubber plant – фикус
