Chapaev (1) and Void, by Viktor Pelevin.
The Tverskoy Boulevard was almost the same as two years ago, when I saw it last - again, the place was all February, snow-drifts, and a haze that managed to penetrate even daylight. The same motionless hags sat on the same benches; above the black net of tree branches, there was the same grey sky and it still resembled a decrepit old mattress sagging low under the weight of sleeping God.
But some things were different. This winter there was a snow storm blowing through the alleys more fit for the steppe than a city; should I have seen a couple of wolves, it wouldn't have surprised me in the least. The bronze Pushkin appeared sadder than usually - probably because they outfitted him in a red apron with "Long Live the 1st Anniversary of the Revolution" written on it. But I had no volition to make fun of the fact that an anniversary was offered to long live, and "revolution" was misspelled - lately I've had plenty of opportunities to make out the demonic visage that hid behind all this clipped nonsense on red.
It was already getting dark. The Strastnoy monastery was barely visible through the snow. Two trucks were parked on the square in front of it, both with high (kuzov) draped in red cloth; people crowded around them and I could hear the speaker's voice - couldn't make out a lot, but the tone and the machine-gun "r-rr" in the words "proletariat" and "terror" made the message clear. Two drunken soldiers walked past me, rifles with bayonets behind their shoulders. They were hurrying towards the square, but one of them glared at me audaciously, slowed down and opened his mouth, as if he was about to say something; fortunately - for him *and* for me - the second one pulled his sleeve, and they went off.
I turned around, and walked briskly down the boulevard, pondering why it is my appearance makes all these bastards (svoloch) so suspicious. Of course I was dressed dreadfully and tastelessly - I wore a dirty English overcoat with a wide (hl'astik), an army cap - obviously, without the (kokarda) -somewhat like the one Alexander II used to wear, and officer boots. But apparently the outfit wasn't the whole deal. There were quite a few people around who looked even more preposterous (nelepo). On Tverskaya Street, for example, I saw an absolutely insane gentleman with golden-framed glasses, who walked towards the black, empty Kremlin holding an icon - but nobody paid him any attention. As for me, I constantly noticed glares/side glances directed at me and each time remembered that I have no money or identification. Yesterday in the station watercloset I almost put a red ribbon on my chest, but took it off as soon as I saw myself in the cracked mirror; the ribbon made me look not only ridiculous, but also twice as suspicious.
However, it's possible that in reality no one peered at me longer than at others, and my shot nerves and expectation of arrest were to blame. Death didn't frighten me. Perhaps, I thought, it had already happened, and this icy boulevard that I'm treading is nothing other than a gateway to the world of shadows. The thought, by the way, had crossed my mind a long time ago that the Russian souls are destined to cross the river Styx when it freezes over, and it's not the (paromzshik) that gets the coin, it's a somebody (nekto) in grey that rents out a pair of skates (clearly, the same being in spirit).
O, the details in which I suddenly imagined that scene! Count Tolstoy in black tricot skated along towards the distant horizon, waving his arms; he moved slowly and solemnly, but still quickly enough so that the 3-headed hound that ran after him with a silent bark couldn't quite catch him. Gloomy rays of an unearthly reddish-yellow sunset completed the picture. I giggled softly, and at that very moment someone's hand clapped me on the shoulder.
I stepped to the side, twirled around catching the handle of the revolver in my pocket, and with utter astonishment saw in front of me Gregory fon Ernen - a man I knew from my childhood years. But the looks of him, my God! He was covered in black leather from head to toe, with a gun holster on his side and an absurdly obstetrical sacque-voyage [travelling bag] in his hands.
- Glad to hear you're still able to laugh, - he said.
- Hello, Grisha, - I replied. - Strange to see you.
- How so?
- I don't know (Tak). Just strange.
- Where from and where to? - he asked cheerfully.
- From Peter (2), - I said. - As for where to, I would love to know myself.
- To my place, then, - said Fon Ernen, - I live nearby, alone in the apartment.
We went down the boulevard glancing at each other, smiling and exchanging meaningless words. Since we've seen each other last, Fon Ernen grew a beard that made his face resemble a budding onion; his cheeks (obvetrilis') and filled up with a healthy blush, and if he's been ice skating for the past several winters, and it's done him no end of good.We went to the same school, but saw each other rarely afterwards. I've seen him in literary cafes a couple of times - he wrote poetry reminiscent either of a given to sodomy Nekrasov or of a converted to Marxism Nadson. I was a bit annoyed at his manner of sniffing cocain in public and constantly hinting at his connections in the social-democratic circles. On the other hand, judging by his current appearance, the latter was true. It was learning to see on a man, who in his days was fond of discussing the mystical significance of the Trinity, the clear signs of belonging to the Devil's own - but, of course, there was nothing unusual or unexpected about that transformation. Many decadents akin to Mayakovsky (3), having smelled the clearly hellish nature of the new power, hurried to offer up their services. I, by the way, think that it was not conscious Satanism that moved them - they were far too infantile for that - but rather, an aesthetic instinct: the red pentagram completes the yellow sweater quite gorgeously.
- How are things at Peter? - asked Fon Ernen.
- Oh like you don't know yourself, - I said.
- True, - boringly (poskuchnev) agreed Fon Ernen. - I do.
We turned from the boulevard, crossed the street (mostovuyu) and stood in front of a seven-story appartement complex right across from the inn "Palace" - two machine guns were propped near the doors, two sailors smoked, and a red band (muleta) tied to a stick thrashed about (trepalas') in the wind. Fon Ernen pulled my sleeve.
- Look over there, - he said.
I turned my head. A long black automobile with an open front seat and a hump of a passenger cabin stood parked on the pavement. There was quite a bit of snow piled on the front seat.
- What? - I asked.
- It's mine, - said Fon Ernen. - From the employers.
- Ah, - I said. - Congratulations.
We entered the building. The lift wasn't working, and we had to come up a dark stairs, still covered with carpet nobody has yet ripped off.
- So what do you do? - I asked.
- Oh, - said Fon Ernen, - one couldn't explain it all at once. Tons of work, too much even. One thing, another, then another - and you're always trying to make it on time. Here first, then there. Somebody has to do it, after all.
- What, the cultural line or something?
He bowed his head to the side in an undefined fashion. I didn't proceed with the questions.
Coming up to the fifth floor, we arrived at a tall doorway with a well-defined rectangular trace from the torn off sign. The door opened, we walked into a dark hallway, and a phone immediatly jangled from the wall. Fon Ernen lifted the cradle.
- Yes, comrade Babayasin! - he yelled into the ebony cup. - Yes, I remember... no, don't send over... Comrade Babayasin, I can't, really I can't, it'll be stupid... Just to imagine - with the sailors and all, this is a disgrace... What? I am obeying the order, but I am making a definite protest... What?
He side glanced at me, and as I didn't want to make him uncomfortable, I walked into the guest room.
The floor there was covered with newspapers, and curiously most of them were long banished from print - so it's likely that there were still some subscriptions in the appartement. Other signs of vie passe (proshloj zhizni :) were still visible - there was a lovely Turkish rug on the wall, and a desk (sekreter) done in enamel rombs - one look at it and I understood right away that this place was home to a well-to-do cadet family. A large mirror was placed against the opposite wall. Next to it hung a modernly styled crucifix, and I pondered for a second the kind of religious feeling that may go with it. A significant portion of the space was taken up by a huge bed under a yellow cover (baldahin). What stood on the round table center stage appeared to me - perhaps, because of the neighboring crucifix - a still life with traces of esoterric Christianity: a litre of vodka, a tin box (ot halvy in shape of a heart, a stairway to nowhere formed by three pieces of black bread, three (granenyh) glasses and a cross-shaped can-opening knife.
There were bags thrown about near the mirror, and I thought of contraband; it smelled sour in the room, like dirty laundry and indigestion (port'ankami i peregarom :), and there was also a lot of empty bottles. I sat at the table.
Soon the door squeaked, and entered Fon Ernen. He took off the leather jacket, leaving on an army shirt, clearly as a statement.
- The devil only knows what they are ordering, - he said, sitting down, - that was from ChK.
- You work for them also?
- Trying to avoid it whenever I can, yeah.
- How did you get mixed up into that company anyhow?
Fon Ernen smiled widely.
- Easy as pie. Five minutes on the phone with Gorkiy.
- And what, they gave you a gun and an auto right away?
- Listen, - he said, - life is a theatre. That fact is well known. But what is mentioned a lot rarer is that this theatre puts on a new show every day. So now, Petey, I put on shows that are something, really something...He lifted his hands about his head and shook them, as if jingling coins in an invisible purse.
- It's not even about the show itself, - he said. - If we go on with this comparison, it used to be that anybody from the audience could throw a rotten egg on stage, but nowdays the ones on stage are shooting at the audience, and even throwing bombs. So consider this: whom is it better to be now? The actor or the spectator?
It was a serious question.
- How should I answer you, - I said thoughtfully. - This theatre of yours really, really begins with a hanger. Ends with it also, I suppose (4). But the future, - I poked my finger upward, - is still with the cinema.
Fon Ernen giggled and nodded (kachnul) his head.
- But still, you think about what I said.
- I promise, - I replied.He poured himself some vodka and drank.
-Ooh, - he said. - About theatre. You know who the commissionary (komissar :) of Theatre is now? Madam Malinovskaya. You know her, right?
- I don't remember. Who the devil is madam Malinovskaya?Fon Ernen sighed. He got up and paced around the room.
- Pete, - he said, taking the seat across from mine and looking into my eyes, - here we are, joking around, as if I don't see that you are not well. What happened to you? We are old friends, of course, but even disregarding this I could help.
I decided to go ahead and tell him.
- I'll be honest. They came to me three days ago in Peter.
- From where?
- From your theatre.
- How so? - he said, raising his eyebrows.
- Just so (A ochen' prosto). Three came from Gorohovaya Street, one of them introduced himself as some kind of literary critic (literaturnyj rabotnik), and the others didn't have to bother.
They talked to me for about forty minutes, that critic fellow mostly, and then they tell me - that's quite a conversation we are having, but we'll have to continue it some place else.
I didn't want to go to that Place Else, since its visitors return intact, as you know, quite rarely...
- But you came back, didn't you? - interrupted Fon Ernen.
- I didn't come back, - I said, - I simply haven't gone there. I ran away from them, Grisha. You know, like a kid from the street sweeper.
- But why did they come to you? - asked Fon Ernen. - You're a detached from politics kind'a guy. Did you do something horribly dispicable?
- Of course I haven't! It's funny to talk about it, really. I published a poem - in some kind of a "wrong" newspaper as they saw it - and I had a rhyme there they didn't like. "" - "" ("Bronevik" - "lish na mig" :)). Can you imagine that?
- Well, what was the poem about?
- Oh, it was absolutely abstract. About the flow of time, that washes over the wall of now, and more and more patterns appear on it, a part of which we call yesterday. The memory convinces us that the day before has really happened, but how do we know all that memory hasn't simply come to be with the first ray of sunlight in the morning?
- I don't quite understand, - said Fon Ernen.
- Me neither, - I said, - that's not the point. What I'm trying to tell you is - there was nothing political about that poem. I thought so, anyway. But to them it appeared otherwise, and they explained it to me. What's so frightening is that after our chat with their consultant I really understood his what he meant, his logic, I understood it so deeply that... It was so frightening that when they pulled me out into the street, I ran - not even so much from them as from that understanding...Fon Ernen winced (pomorzhils'a).
- This whole story is bloody nonsense, - he said. - Of course they're idiots. But so are you. Is that why you came to Moscow?
- Well what was I supposed to do? I was shooting back at them when I ran, you know. I know you understand that I was shooting at a ghost woven by my own fears, but how do you explain this on Gorohovaya Street? I mean, I can even suppose that I could have explained this, but they would have asked right away - and why exactly are you shooting at ghosts now? What, you don't like the ghosts that wander Europe?Fon Ernen glanced at me once and submerged into thought (pogruzils'a v razmyshleniya - i poprobujte men'a razubedit'! :)) . I looked at his palms - he was rubbing them on the tablecloth, in a barely perceptible way, as if he was wiping off sweat - and then he hid them under the table. He looked dispaired, and I felt that our meeting and my story are putting him into an extremely uncomfortable position.
- This is much worse, - he mumbled. - But it's good that you trust me. I think we can settle this. We'll settle it... we will... I'll ring Aleksei Maksimovich... Put your hands behind your head.
(to be continued...)
1. "Chapaev" - Actually, Vasilij Ivanovich Chepaev, a cavalry leader in the Revolution of 1917, and a hailed Communist hero. Subject of many (MANY) jokes and parodies.
2. "From Peter" The accepted, if a bit archaic now, abbreviation for St. Petersburg.
3. Mayakovskiy - Vladimir Mayakovskiy, a Communist poet with distinct, "terse yet expressive" verses.
4. "...begins with a hanger. Ends with it also..." - A Russian proverb states: "Every theatre begins with a hanger" - Pelevin puns it with a form of execution.