I remember when Justice of the Peace Chikvaidze asked my wife:
“Do you wish to claim a part of the property?”
“No,” replied Tatyana.
Then added:
“In the absence of such.”
After that we would occasionally meet as old friends, but it seemed phoney and I left for Tallinn.
A year later we met again. Our daughter was sick and Tanya moved in with me. This was no longer about love, this was fate…
We had little money and we fought often. A potful of mutual irritation bubbled quietly over a low flame…
In Tanya’s mind, the image of an unrecognized genius was clearly linked to the idea of asceticism. I, to put it mildly, was too sociable.
I said:
“Pushkin chased after women… Dostoevsky indulged in gambling… Yesenin caroused and started fights in restaurants… Vice was just as common to men of genius as virtue…”
“Then you must be at least half genius,” my wife would agree, “for you have more than enough vices…”
We continued to balance on the edge of a cliff. They say marriages like this are most enduring.
And yet the friendship was over. You can’t say, “Hey, my dear!” to a woman to whom you have whispered God knows what. It doesn’t ring right…
With what did I arrive at my thirtieth birthday, celebrated boisterously at the Dnieper restaurant? I led the life of an independent artist. That is to say I did not hold a regular job and earned money as a journalist and ghostwriter of some generals’ memoirs. I had an apartment with windows looking out onto a garbage dump. A writing table, a couch, a set of dumb-bells and a Tonus radiogram. A typewriter, a guitar, a picture of Hemingway and several pipes, kept in a ceramic mug. A lamp, a wardrobe, two chairs of the brontosaurus period, and a cat named Yefim, whom I respected deeply for his tact. Unlike my close friends and acquaintances, he strived to be a human being…
Tanya lived in the next room. Our daughter would get sick with something, then she’d get better, then sick again.
My friend Bernovich always said:
“By the time he is thirty, an artist must have resolved all his problems. Except for one – how to write.”
I claimed that fundamental problems were irresolvable. For instance, the conflict between fathers and sons. The struggle between love and duty…
We got our terminology mixed up.
In the end Bernovich would invariably say:
“You are not made for marriage…”
And yet we’ve been married ten years. Just short of ten years.
Tatyana rose over my life like the dawn’s morning light. That is, calmly, beautifully, without encouraging excessive emotions. Excessive was only her indifference. Her limitless indifference was comparable to a natural phenomenon…
An artist by the name Lobanov was celebrating his hamster’s birthday. About a dozen people crammed into the garret with a sloping ceiling. Everyone waited for Tselkov, who didn’t show. They sat on the floor even though there were plenty of chairs. By nightfall, table talk had escalated to a dispute with undertones of a fist fight. A man sporting a buzz cut and a sailor’s striped jersey was losing his voice, screaming:
“I’ll say it one more time, colour is ideological in aspect!”
(It was later discovered that he wasn’t an artist at all, but a store clerk from the Apraksin shopping centre.)
This innocent phrase for some reason infuriated one of the guests, a typeface designer. He charged at the store clerk with his fists. But the clerk, like all men with shaved heads, was brawny and acted fast. He immediately removed a false tooth, supported by a pin… swiftly wrapped it in a handkerchief and tucked into his pocket. He then assumed a boxer’s stance.
By now the artist had cooled off.
He was eating stuffed fish, exclaiming between bites:
“Fantastic fish! I’d like to have children with her. Three of them.”
I noticed Tanya right away. Right away I memorized her face, both apprehensive and indifferent. (In all my years, I have never understood how indifference and alarm can coexist in a woman.)
Her lipstick stood out against her pale face. Her smile was childlike and a little anxious.
Later someone sang, trying hard to imitate a recidivist thief. Someone invited a foreign diplomat, who turned out to be a Greek sailor. The poet Karpovsky told extravagant lies. For example he said that he was booted from the International Pen Club for artistic hooliganism.
I took Tatyana’s hand and said:
“Let’s get out of here!”
(The best way to overcome inherent insecurity is to act as confidently as you can.)
Tanya acquiesced without hesitation. And not like a conspirator, more like an obedient child, a young lady who willingly does as she’s told.
I moved towards the door, flung it open and froze. Glistening before me was a sloping wet roof. The antennas soared black against the pale sky.
Apparently the studio had three doors. One led to the elevator, another to the underbelly of the heating system, and the third to the roof.
I didn’t feel like going back. And judging by the rising volume inside, the evening’s celebrations were headed for a brawl.
I hesitated for a moment and stepped onto the rumbling roof. Tanya followed me.
“I’ve been dreaming of romantic surroundings like this for a long time,” I said.
A torn shoe lay under my foot. A sad grey cat was poised on the sharp ridge pole.
I asked:
“Have you ever been on a roof before?”
“No, never,” replied Tanya.
And added:
“But I have always been terribly envious of Gagarin…”
“There,” I said, “is the Kazan Cathedral… Behind it, the Admiralty… And this is the Pushkin Theatre…”
We walked over to the railing. In the distance below, the evening city was abuzz. From above, the street seemed faceless and only the light-filled trams gave it a little life.
“We need to find a way out of here,” I said.
“Do you think the fight is over?”
“I doubt it. How did you wind up here? With this set?”
“Through my ex-husband.”
“What is he, an artist?”
“Not exactly… He turned out to be a lowlife. And you?”
“What about me?”
“How did you wind up here?”
“Lobanov roped me into it. I bought a painting from him, out of snobbery. Something white… with ears… Like a squid… It’s called Vector of Calm… Are there talented painters among this lot?”
“Yes. Tselkov, for example.”
“Which one was he? The one in jeans?”
“Tselkov is the one who didn’t show.”
“I see,” I said.
“One hanged himself not too long ago. His name was Fish. His nickname. He went and hanged himself.”
“Dear God, why? Love affair gone bad?”
“Fish was over thirty. His paintings didn’t sell.”
“They were good paintings?”
“Not really. He works as a proofreader now.”
“Who?” I exclaimed.
“Fish. They managed to save him. A neighbour stopped by for a cigarette.”
“We need to find a way out.”
Treading lightly, I made it to the small window in the attic. I threw it open and extended my hand to the young woman:
“Be careful!”
Tanya easily slipped through the opening. I followed after her. The attic was dark and dusty. We stepped over pipes wrapped in felt blankets and stooped to avoid clothes lines. We found the backstairs and walked down. Then navigated through the connecting courtyards and happened upon a taxi stand.
It was raining and I thought: here it is, our Petersburg literary tradition. This much vaunted “school” is nothing more than endless descriptions of bad weather. The whole “dull lustre of its style” is just asphalt after the rain…
Then I asked:
“How are your mother and father? They must be worried.”
For fifteen years I’ve been asking pretty women this stupid question. Three out of five say: