«NINE»
Of Russia's Foremost women writers
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SVETLANA ALEXIYEVICH
LANDSCAPE OF LONELINESS: THREE VOICES
Translated by Joanne Turnbull.
VOICE ONE
When he said: «I love you,» but didn't yet love me, didn't realize how deeply he'd fall in love, I said: «What does that mean? That word?» He hesitated and looked at me with such interest. I guess it was time and he decided he had to say it. Typical story. Classic. But for me love's a strange word… A short word… Too small to contain everything that was going on in me, everything that I felt. Then he left. We'd meet again, of course, the next day, but even before the door closed I began to die, I began to die a physical death, my whole body ached. Love's not a glorious feeling, not at all glorious, or not only glorious… You find yourself in a different dimension… life is shrouded, veiled, you can't see anyone, can't throw yourself into anything, you're in a cocoon, a cocoon of insane suffering which grinds up everything that happened yesterday, the day before yesterday, that may happen tomorrow, everything that happened to him before you, without you. You stop caring about the world; all you do is this work, this work of love. I dreamed about how happy I'd be when it ended. How happy I'd be! At the same time, I was afraid it would end. You can't live at that temperature. Delirious. In a dream. I'd suffered before him, ranted and raved, been jealous, I'd had a lot of men, I'm no prude, but what he gave me, no one had… He was the only one… We were soul mates, each other's whole world. No one gave me that experience of self-sacrifice, I suppose… He didn't even give me a child… Even… A child? No, he didn't… And I'm a good mother… (Searches for words). Love throws you into the very depths of yourself, you dig and you dig, sometimes you like what you find, other times you're frightened. Love blinds you and makes a fool of you, but it also gives you greater knowledge. This woman said hello to him, and right away I knew she was his first love, they chatted about this and that, very social and what you'd expect. But I knew it… Knew she was the one… She didn't look at me, didn't even glance in my direction, there was no curious stare: who are you with, how are things? There wasn't anything except some sweet gestures. But I sensed something. They huddled together, together in the middle of a big crowd, a human torrent, as if there were a bridge between them. Like an animal I sensed something… Maybe because, before, when we happened to drive along that street, past those particular buildings, he always had this look on his face, this way of looking at those shabby, perfectly ordinary entrances… Something like that, that science can neither prove nor refute, that we can't understand, can't understand. (Again searches for words). I don't know… I don't know…
We were on the metro, we worked together, we taught at the same college and went home the same way. We were colleagues. We didn't know yet, I didn't know, but it had already begun… It had already begun… We were on the metro… And suddenly he said gaily:
«Are you seeing anyone?»
«Yes.»
«Like him?»
«Not really.»
«How about you?»
«Yes.»
«Like her?»
«No, not really.»
And that was all. We went into a store together, he pulled an antediluvian string bag — by then they seemed funny — out of his pocket and bought some macaroni, cheap sausage, sugar, and I don't know what else, a classic selection of Soviet products. Lump sugar… Cabbage pies in a greasy paper bag… (Laughs). I was married at the time, my husband was a big boss, we didn't live that way, I lived a completely different life. Once a week my husband brought home a special food package (they were doled out at work) of hard-to-come-by delicacies: smoked sturgeon, salmon, caviar… We had a car… «Help yourself, the pies are still hot,» he ate them on the run. (Laughs again). I was a long time coming to him, it was a difficult journey… A difficult journey… His sheepskin coat had been clumsily patched up in back with the thread showing. «His wife must have died and now he's bringing up their child alone,» I felt sorry for him. He was gloomy. Not good-looking. Always sucking heart pills. I felt sorry for him. «Oh, how Russia ruins you,» a Russian woman I met on a train once confided. She lived in the West, had for a long time. «In Russia, women don't fall in love with beauty, it's not beauty they're looking for and not the body they love, it's the spirit. Suffering. That's ours.» She sounded wistful…
We bumped into each other again on the metro. He was reading the paper. I didn't say anything.
«Do you have a secret?»
«Yes,» the question so surprised me that I answered it seriously.
«Have you told anyone?»
I felt numb: My God, here we go… My God! That's how these things begin… It turned out he was married. Two children. And I was married…
«Tell me about yourself.»
«No, you tell me about yourself. You seem to know everything about me already.»
«No, I can't do that.»
«Why?»
«Because first I'd have to fall out of love with you.»
We were going somewhere in the car, I was driving and after that remark I swerved into the opposite lane. My mind was paralyzed by the thought: he loves me. People kept flashing their lights, I was coming right at them, head-on. Who knows where love comes from? Who sends it?
I was the one who suggested it:
«Let's play?»
«Play what?»
«That I'm driving along, see you hitchhiking, and stop.»
So we started playing. We played and played, played all the way to my apartment, played in the elevator. In the hall. He even made fun of me: «Not much of a library. Schoolteacher level.» But I was playing myself, a pretty woman, the wife of a big boss. A lioness. A flirt. I was playing… And at some point he said:
«Stop!»
«What's wrong?»
«Now I know what you're like with other people.»
He couldn't leave his wife for six months. She wouldn't let him go. She swore at him. Pleaded with him. For six months. But I'd decided I had to leave my husband even if I wound up alone. I sat in the kitchen and sobbed. In the process of leaving I'd discovered that I lived with a very good person. He behaved wonderfully. Just wonderfully. I felt ashamed. For a long time he pretended not to notice anything, he acted as if nothing had happened, but at some point he couldn't stand it anymore and posed the question. I had to tell him. He was sorry he'd asked… He blurted it out but his eyes were pleading: «Don't answer! Don't answer!» I could see in them his horror at what he was about to hear. He began fussing with the kettle: «Let's have some tea.» We sat down and we had a good talk. But I answered all his questions, I confessed. He said: «Even so don't go.» I told him again… «Don't go.» That night I packed my things… (Through tears and laughter). But there too… Now we were together… There too I sobbed every night in the kitchen for two weeks, until one morning I found a note: «If it's so hard, maybe you should go back.» I dried my tears…