Then Pototsky came up with a new gimmick. He would stroll through the monastery on the trail of the next group. Lie in wait by the grave until the end of the tour. Call the group leader to the side and whisper:
“Antra noo! Between us! Pull thirty copecks each and I’ll show you the true grave of Pushkin that the Bolsheviks are hiding from the people!”
He then would lead the group into the woods, pointing to a nondescript mound. Occasionally some stickler would ask:
“But why would they conceal the real grave?”
“Why?” Pototsky would flash a sardonic smile. “You want to know why? Comrades, this compatriot is asking why?”
“I see, I see,” the tourist would mutter.
On the day I arrived, Stasik was worn out after a week-long binge. He wangled a rouble from me and a pair of brown sandals with perforations. Then he shared a dramatic story:
“I nearly made a fortune, man. I came up with this exceptional financial trick. Listen: I meet some sucker. He’s got a car, some cash, some other fuckin’ shit. We take one, note, just one broad and drive out into the great outdoors. There we both check in—”
“I don’t understand.”
“Take turns with her. The next morning I show up at his place, screaming ‘Man, my dick’s dripping.’ He panics, so I say: ‘I can be of fuckin’ service, for twenty-five bills.’ The fool jumps for joy. I fill a syringe with tap water and give us both a shot in the derrière. The chump happily tosses me the bills and we part friends. The broad gets some stockings for seven roubles. That’s eighteen roubs of pure profit. It was brilliant. Operation – Clap Trap. And fuckin’ hell, it fell through…”
“Why?”
“At first everything went smoothly. The chump was wild about me. We picked up some cognac, sandwiches. I enlisted cross-eyed Milka who works at the Cavalier, and we took off for the great fuckin’ outdoors. We booze it up, get down to business and guess what? The next morning, the sap shows up at my place, screaming, ‘Fuck, my pecker’s dripping,’ gets in his fuckin’ car and takes off. I rush to the clinic to find Fima. This and that, I say. And Fima goes: ‘Twenty-five roubles!’… Dear God, who’s got that kind of cash?! I had to run around all over Pskov and the city limits and barely scraped it together… Eleven days I stayed sober and then I fuckin’ broke fast. What about you, how are you on the subject?”
“You mean the great outdoors?”
“I mean a drink.”
I waved my arms in protest. A start is all I need. It’s stopping that I never learnt. A dump truck without brakes.
Stas flipped a rouble coin in his palm and left…
“Your evaluation is tomorrow,” said Galina.
“So soon?”
“I think you’re ready. Why put it off?”
At first I was nervous, noticing Victoria Albertovna among the tourists. Vika was smiling, kindly or perhaps ironically.
Gradually I became bolder. The group was demanding – voluntary-army activists from Torzhok – they kept asking questions.
“This,” I say, “is the famous portrait by Kiprensky… commissioned by Delvig… sublime treatment… hints of romantic embellishment… ‘I see myself as if in a looking glass…’* Bought by Pushkin for the Baron’s widow…”
“When? What year?”
“I think in 1830.”
“For how much?”
“What’s the difference?!” I exploded.
Vika was trying to help me, silently moving her lips.
We entered the study. I pointed out the portrait of Byron, the cane, the bookcase… I moved on to the work… “Intense period… Articles… Draft of the magazine…”, “Godunov”, “Gypsies”… The library… “I shall soon die completely, but if you love my shadow…”* And so on.
Suddenly I hear:
“Are the pistols real?”
“An original duelling set from Le Page.”
The same voice:
“Le Page? I though they were Pushkin’s.”
I explained:
“The pistols are from the same period. Made by the famous gunsmith Le Page. Pushkin knew and appreciated good firearms. He owned the same pistols…”
“What about the calibre?”
“What about the calibre?”
“I am interested in the calibre.”
“The calibre,” I said, “is just right.”
“Very good.” The tourist unexpectedly submitted.
While my group looked at the nanny’s home, Victoria Albertovna whispered:
“Your delivery is very good, very natural… You have your own personal point of view. But never… I am simply horrified… You called Pushkin a crazed ape…”
“That’s not entirely true.”
“I beg you – a little more restraint.”
“I will try.”
“But overall it’s not bad…”
I began giving tours regularly. Sometimes two in one shift. Evidently they liked me. If we had cultural leaders, teachers or the intelligentsia in – they got me. Something in my tours stood out. For example, my “easy-going manner of presentation”, according to the curator at Trigorskoye. This was, of course, largely due to my acting ability. Even though I had memorized the entire text after approximately five days, I had no trouble simulating emotional improvisation. I artfully stammered as if searching for words, deliberately slipped up, waved my arms, embellishing my carefully rehearsed impromptu remarks with aphorisms from Gukovsky and Shchegolev.* The more I got to know Pushkin, the less I felt like talking about him. Especially at this embarrassing level. I performed my role mechanically and was well remunerated for it. (A full tour was about eight roubles.)
I found a dozen rare books about Pushkin in the local library. I also reread everything he wrote. What intrigued me most about Pushkin was his Olympian detachment. His willingness to accept and express any point of view. His invariable striving for the highest, utmost objectivity. Like the moon, illuminating the way for prey and predator both.
Not a monarchist, not a conspirator and not a Christian – he was only a poet, a genius, and he felt compassion for the cycle of life as a whole.
His literature is above morality. It transcends morality and even takes its place. His literature is akin to prayer, to nature… But then I’m not a critic…
My working day began at nine in the morning. We sat at the office, waiting for clients. The conversation was about Pushkin and about tourists. More often about tourists, about their inconceivable ignorance.
“Can you imagine, he asked me, ‘Who is Boris Godunov?’” Personally, I did not feel annoyed in similar situations. Or rather, I did, but I suppressed it. The tourists came here to relax. Their union committee forced these cheap destinations on them. By and large, these people were indifferent towards poetry. To them, Pushkin was a symbol of culture. What was important to them was the sensation that they were there. To tick a mental box. To sign the book of spirituality…
It was my responsibility to bring them this happiness without tiring them out. And to receive seven roubles sixty and a touching mention in the guestbook:
“Pushkin came alive thanks to such-and-such tour guide and his humble insight.”
My days were all the same. The tours were over at two. I ate lunch at The Seashore and went home. Several times Mitrofanov and Pototsky invited me to join them for a drink. I turned them down. This did not take any effort on my part. I can easily refuse the first drink. It’s the stopping that I haven’t learnt. The motor is good but the brakes fail me…
I did not write to my wife and daughter. There was no point. I thought I’d wait and see what happened.
In short, my life stabilized somewhat. I tried to think less about abstract topics. The cause of my unhappiness lay outside my field of vision. It was somewhere behind me. And I was relatively calm if I wasn’t looking back. Best not to look back.
In the meantime, I read Likhonosov.* Of course he is a good writer – talented, colourful, fluid. He recreates direct speech brilliantly. (Tolstoy should get such a compliment!) And yet at the heart of it is a hopeless, depressing and nagging feeling. A tedious and exhausted motif: “Where are you, Russia? Where did everything go? Where are the folk verses, the embroidered towels, the fancy headdresses? Where is the hospitality, bravery and the grand scale? Where are the samovars, icons, ascetics and holy fools? Where are the sturgeon and carp, the honey and caviar? Where are the regular horses, God damn it? Where is the chaste feeling of modesty?”