I glance around at the other passengers. Babushkas, old men, students, the mother with her child. They all look serious, grim. And so do I, I realise, spotting my reflection in the window. My face looks aged, my eyes sunken. My nose and mouth are connected by two deep shadows. Just then it occurs to me that, despite my new-found tranquillity, I too look sad and self-absorbed. As long as I don’t open my mouth, I think, other passengers will be unable to see that I’m not Russian. Like them, I’m wearing dark clothes. My entire wardrobe is now brown or black, the result of almost three years in Moscow. During this gradual, unconscious transformation of my appearance, my body language and my facial expression must have become more sombre too. With this thought running through my mind, I try to force a smile, a Western smile, from my previous life, a simple social gesture meant to demonstrate friendly feelings towards my fellow passengers in the metro. But my experimental smile, which I direct at the woman and boy across the wagon, must have come out somewhat forced and absurd, even threatening, I realise, because the woman instinctively grabs her child tighter and looks away. I stop smiling. After all, what the fuck should I smile for. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.
I get off at Universitet. It’s been a while since I last visited the campus. The academic year has just started and I can feel the buzz and excitement in the young students rushing around.
‘Ready to work again?’ Lyudmila Aleksandrovna says when she sees me. Nothing has changed in her office — except the kettle, a newer cordless model.
I raise my right hand to my forehead, saluting as a soviet pioneer. ‘Always ready,’ I say. Then I tell her about the books I’ve been reading and she says my Russian has improved. She seems happy to see me. I can’t wait to finally start writing my PhD.
That night, back at home, I feel things falling into place. The beginning of a new life. I’m looking forward to winter, to the first snow of the season, to taking care of Tatyana as she gets bigger.
After dinner and a bit of TV, I sit on the couch, reading The Seagull. Tatyana lies with her head on my lap.
‘I’m so tired these days,’ she says, her eyes closed, her hand on her belly.
Then she falls asleep as I hold Chekhov’s book in one hand and stroke her curls with the other.
61
LENA EMERGED FROM THE metro and marched across the square towards me. She was wearing a grey skirt and a grey jacket that stretched tight across her breasts. She looked elegant, refined, as if she were going to work in an office. Beneath Pushkin’s statue, we kissed on the cheek. She suggested we go for a walk. We crossed through the perekhod, emerged on the other side of Tverskaya and strolled along the Boulevard. It was a fresh autumn morning, the path was carpeted with dry brown leaves.
She asked about my research at the university, about the brothers. I learned she was going to a new yoga centre now. She had finally found an instructor who was strict but inspiring.
We turned right at Malaya Bronnaya, kept on the sunny side of the street. It seemed to me that Lena walked with more confidence than before, with a hint of arrogance in her gait, more aware perhaps of the impact she had on men. I was waiting for the right moment to tell her about Tatyana and the baby.
Weeks after our encounter at the Boarhouse, Lena had finally answered one of my messages and agreed to see me. I felt a strong need to end Lena’s chapter in my life before I could move on to the next. But now that Lena was next to me, I didn’t know where to start. I was enjoying her presence, always so physically intense, and all the memories that it triggered.
We reached Patriarshiye Prudy. The trees in the square were golden brown. We circled the pond, our feet crunching on dead leaves. The sun sparkled on the water. We passed the playground, full of children, then sat down on a bench facing the pond. Beneath the silvery surface, the water was dark and muddy. We stared at it in silence.
I wanted to tell Lena how it felt to know that I was going to become a father. I wanted to tell Lena how I had matured, how the person she used to know no longer existed. I wanted to tell Lena how I had learned to accept my destiny.
‘Lena,’ I said, ‘you are a prostitute.’
She looked at me, her expression calm and peaceful. Then she bit her lower lip. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When I saw you last time,’ I said. ‘At the Boarhouse. With those guys.’
‘I’m not a prostitute.’ Her voice was soft.
A few metres away, a boy and a girl were feeding pieces of bread to a flock of excited ducks.
‘How long have you been doing this?’ I asked.
She shifted on the bench, as if hesitating between answering my question or standing up and walking away. ‘Why do you care?’ she said, staring at the pond. ‘I’m a free person, Martin. I see whoever I want.’
‘Were you sleeping around when we were together?’
‘Is that why you wanted to see me?’ she said. ‘Bozhe moi.’
‘Were you?’ I insisted. ‘Were you seeing other guys back then?’
‘Of course not,’ she said, her tone restrained. ‘Martin, I was in love with you. I’m still in love with you. I don’t think my feelings for you will ever change.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since when do I love you?’
‘Since when do you sleep with men for money?’
Lena was shaking her head, her eyes now fixed on a clump of brown leaves floating next to the shore.
‘Martin, do you know when I fell for you, when I first realised that one day you would hurt me?’
‘When we met in Propaganda and I whispered those lines from Pushkin in your ear?’
‘No, Martin. It wasn’t Pushkin. It was when I saw you the next day, when I caught you playing with plastic bricks in Dyetsky Mir. The night we met I thought you were interesting, but not dangerous. But the next day, when I saw you in the toyshop playing with those bricks, so lost, like a child, I knew instantly that you had me, and that sooner or later you would cause me pain.’
We remained in silence, staring at the pond. I didn’t know what to say.
‘Lena, you are a prostitute.’
‘I am not a prostitute. Sometimes, when I need money, I sleep with men. But it’s not my job.’ She turned to me, shrugged her shoulders.
‘You could work in a restaurant, like you did before.’
‘That’s not real money. You get nothing as a waitress in Moscow. I want to leave Russia, live abroad. I’m thinking about moving to London. How can I save enough if I earn five hundred dollars a month?’
‘But Lena, there are many ways of earning money. You don’t need to do this.’
‘I do it for my own future. What difference does it make to you? You never wanted me. I will always love you, Martin, but you never took me seriously. Besides, this is not for ever. I just want to save enough money to start a new life. I’m not doing any harm to anyone.’
‘You are harming yourself,’ I said.
She looked at me, shaking her head again. ‘But, Martin, you sleep with plenty of women.’
‘It’s not the same,’ I said. ‘I don’t do it for money.’
‘You sleep with girls you’re not in love with. Your sleeping around is no better than my sleeping around. It just happens that I need money and you don’t.’
‘It’s more complicated than that,’ I said.
‘It’s not. It’s simple. You go to a club, pick up a girl and sleep with her. I go to a club, pick up a guy and sleep with him. We are the same, you and me. The only difference is that he might give me some cash, but that’s a very small difference. The rest of the night is the same for you and for me.’