To Oktyabrina, however, Gelda mentioned the survey not once but a dozen times in my hearing and presumably st ill more often in the seclusion of the bedroom. ‘Brinchka’, 104
as Gelda called her, was exceedingly curious about the team’s statistics and methods of obtaining them: did the school-girls actually uncover their all in the presence of male doctors? Flare their lower limbs? Can any doctor be absolutely certain about a woman’s virginity, knowing that certain of them experience mystical erotic . . . er, episodes, even in youth?
'Yeah, it’s terribly mysterious,’ said Gelda through the teeth clenching her papirosa. 'A stiff prick finds its mark, even during a blackout. Is there radar in the tip, or an uncanny sense of smell?’
We were having a snack in the kitchen; Oktyabrina blanched and spilled her coffee. When she had recovered, her expression was like a young boy’s when given a taste of beer: while shuddering, he pretends to smack his lips.
‘ How absolutely to the point, Geldechka — if you’ll pardon the pun. Anyway, what’s so important about who’s a virgin?’
Despite this, and her shock at Gelda’s graphic bluntness, Oktyabrina’s interest in the survey persisted. She steered the conversation frequently to the subjects of 'chastity’, 'deprivation of chastity’ and 'the inauguration of carnal gratification’. Gelda was impatient with this level of analysis. To her, sex was interesting as an expression of human nature, about which she was caustic. 'Let’s face it,’ she’d say. 'Human beings use others and discard them when they’re through, like squeezed lemons. We’re animals - why expect anything else?’
‘Darling Geldechka, at a certain point, cynicism about human nature becomes utterly tragic. Your faith can be restored by using a bit of foresight. For example, Vve always found that the hairiest lovers are also the most . . . well, ruthless. So you must be exceedingly cautious about future moustaches.
But Gelda had tired of this theme. She returned the conversation to her passion of that hour, a bizarre pre-revolutionary writer named Vasily Rozanov. Rozanov was unknown to all but a handful of Russians: a mystical, anti-Semitic
Jew, obsessed by sex, death and the Orthodox Church. Gelda’s extemporaneous discourse, intertwined biographical detail, literary appreciation and historical perspective - a dazzlingly instructive performance.
Without a break, she turned to an examination of Vsevolod Meyerhold, the brilliant avant-garde director who was shot in 1939. Afterwards she tossed her papirosa stubs into an untouched cup of coffee and went to the bathroom, leaving the door open while she coughed and urinated. Before she’d come out, she was declaiming again, but Oktyabrina led her to the bedroom and closed the door.
On Sunday evening, I took leave of the girls through the bedroom door, eager for the respite of a walk alone. My head was buzzing with information and emotion. A weekend of Gelda was like a non-stop wade through both Crime and Punishment and War and Peace. I hoped to see more of her - but in hourly doses.
When I returned to the apartment around midnight, she was gone, together with Oktyabrina. The bedroom was a mess: ripped pillowcases and a shattered glass, which had apparently been hurled against a wall. On my desk was a note from Oktyabrina, obviously written in great haste: ‘Dearest Zhoe will explain absolutely everything later love me.’
Monday was the anniversary of Lenin’s birthday. The campaign to ‘befittingly greet the sacred day’ - by overfulfilling production norms - lacerated the country like the fanfare of a million film-set trumpets. Oktyabrina did not visit the apartment that morning, but telephoned with a scrap of stale news. Her voice was overly off-hand.
‘Where are you?’ I asked. ‘At the bookshop?’
‘WhereP Oh, you mean that noisome bookshop. No, I’m not there - why should I be?’
‘Gelda’s not working again? Why don’t you bring her around for coffee - tomorrow, I mean, or the day after.’
‘Zhoe dearest, what’s this sudden fascination for shop-106
girls? Gelda’s not exactly my sister, you know/
‘What was the brawl in the bedroom yesterday?’
‘As a matter of fact, she’s not only not my sister, but that’s probably her underlying trouble: naturally her family s madness makes her frantically envious of my own parental bliss. . . . Anyway, Zhoe darling, I’ve some important people to meet now. I’ll probably see you tomorrow/
This confirmed my supposition that the bedroom mess had been caused by tension between the girls. Other clues followed quickly: Oktyabrina declined to talk about Gelda, and took pains to avoid not only the bookstore for several days, but Petrovka itself.
‘I’ll tell you what caused the ordeal,’ she said when we first returned to Petrovka. ‘Only you must pledge two things on your honor. Do you promise?’
‘Will it hurt?’
‘Do you promise? Believe me, Zhoe dearest, it’s for your own peace and sanity/
‘I promise, my love/
‘Then you must never condemn Gelda for what I’m about to tell you - it’s not her personal fault. That’s one vow. The other is that you must never try to see her again. You see, Zhoseph, Gelda is eine katatonische Schizophrene. You can look up the rest in Konrad Lorenz/
‘She’s a what?’
‘Neither you nor I can help in the slightest,’ Oktyabrina declared. ‘Or anyone - Gelda suffers from incurable fits*
‘I suppose she has every reason.’
‘It’s not my duty to rock other people’s children/ Oktyabrina adjusted her bonnet in the reflection of a window and changed to her strolling-on-the-town expression. As far as she was concerned, she said firmly, the subject of Gelda was now - and for evermore - closed. But a few days later, she found a fishstore with a supply of cod liver and arranged for twenty-five tins to be delivered to the bookshop.
‘Gelda is society’s debt,’ she explained. ‘I’m sorry that I
can risk no more than this gesture. It’s simply too perilous: that glass just missed my face, you know.’
‘I was afraid of something like that. Still, there’s something splendid in that girl. The best hope is her awareness of her own affliction/
‘Zhoe darling, maybe you and I need less outside . . . er, divertissement. I used to think we were both a little daft, but compared to other people, we re pure, old-fashioned euphony together/
‘Oktyabrina darling, let’s make another pact. We’ll try to steer clear of strays and passers-by. Now slip your ann in mine....’
Two days after this, we received separate notes from Gelda. Oktyabrina thought it best not to show me hers. Mine was inside a crumbling old book by Rozanov. It was full of explanation and apology about the inevitable bad end to her, Gelda’s, friendships - which she very much wanted to prevent with both of us. She felt rotten about losing us, but at least we had each other. Marriage, she wrote, was a piteous hoax, but she was sure we’d try it one day - more she would not reveal of Oktyabrina’s confidences - and bon voyage to us both.