She scooped up the leaves as if the job would test a laborers strength. An elderly couple approached unsteadily from behind me. Oktyabrina heard their sobs, straightened up to look, and saw me.
A look of amazement and delight raced across her face, but was suppressed so quickly that I might have imagined it.
‘Oh it’s you, Zhoseph,’ she said blandly. ‘How are you keeping? You’re looking somewhat peaked.’
‘Hello, Oktyabrina. I’m just fine, how are you?’
‘Frantically busy, actually. But otherwise extremely . . . fulfilled . I suppose you feel madly daring without a scarf on a day like this.’
'Not really, I just forgot. I wish I had someone to sew me a reminder somewhere - I mean the Auntie Oktyushka
method/
She strenuously rolled up her raincoat sleeves, betraying no reaction to the hint about how I’d found her.
'I suppose you might be feeling a twinge of guilt/ I said, hopefully sounding playful. ‘You were going to call me the instant you got back from Sochi/
‘Busy busy busy/ she repeated, ignoring my chiding. ‘Be a nice male and make this pile of leaves somehow go over there’
Silence descended. A crow cawed furiously. The old couple disappearing down the lane looked like a nineteenth-century painting.
‘How long have you been back in town?’ I asked, trying a more direct approach.
She did not hear, or pretended not to. ‘What an extraordinary noise this wind is making/ she said, squinting into the distance. ‘It reminds me of ... of when the splendid autumn zephyr whistles down the hills above my beloved Omsk/
‘So you’ve been home?’ I asked, feeling relieved. Her having returned to Omsk after Sochi or Yalta might explain not only her apparel, but also the long absence.
‘You might say home - yes, spiritually home.’ She sighed. ‘Have you read The Kreutzer Sonata recently?’ she asked. ‘A frightening, but in a way a profoundly revealing study. You must read more, Zhoseph/
‘Indeed I must. For goodness sake, Oktyabrina, let’s stop clowning and talk.’
‘The Kreutzer Sonata is a late work of Tolstoy, you know
- I mean Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy. There is also Alexei Nikolaevich, of course. And Alexei Konstantinovich Tolstoy
- a rather more obscure writer, but quite important to students of that period/
It was my turn not to answer; I wasn’t sure how. I waited in vain for the punch line: Oktyabrina had nothing to add to her unaccountable interest in literature and the Tolstoys. Her new role was inscrutable.
'How did you like the Black Sea?’ I asked, taking another tack.
'The sea is pleasant enough , 5 she replied thoughtfully. 'Actually, it's rather blue. Serene and welcoming like . . . well, water s the symbol of womanhood, you know. But the ghastly public! Males are at their most absolutely abominable on the beach. Half of you go just to stare at us. To oogle like animals, leer, make remarks. ... Now Zhoseph, do let me complete my work. Frankly, Tve never seen so many leaves in one place. Where there's a grove of oaks, there's also a clump of birches - it's an extremely old, extremely true Russian saying.’
The conversation died again. Oktyabrina bent to her sweeping, arms flailing and brow puckered in concentration. Everything was so disappointing - so unreal - that I hoped I was imagining it, and that we could somehow begin the reunion again as it should be. What had happened to her?
To gain time, I moved to the neighboring grave, which was adorned with the portrait of a general and an epitaph about the Motherland. Oktyabrina quickly straightened up. 'May I trouble you for the time? I'm always light years off without the sun.'
'It's almost one-thirty. Time for a National Cafe lunch.'
'Twenty more minutes and then I must dash" she declared. 'I do wish that little man would hurry and repair my watch. It's difficult enough for a woman alone to keep herself.
A sharp gust of wind blew a cluster of new leaves from the adjoining grave against Evgeny Ignatievich's cross. Oktyabrina sighed wearily and turned to pick them up by hand. Then she stepped back to give the grave a final proprietorial examination, like a man who has just washed his car and can’t understand how he tolerated the dirt before.
'How did he die?' I asked.
She sighed again, this time with Weltschmerz. 'How did he die? Old age. Just old age, weary old limbs. And a certain dislocation of the soul.'
‘I brought him back a walking stick from Rome - which I
never delivered, of course. I’m sorry about that now/
'Please don't try to be sentimental, Zhoseph.'
'Plus some pretty things for his most promising pupil.
Please throw them away. My destiny is to become a real woman, not a doll. Males crave jewellery, costumes, flesh — anything at all to distract from the love and nobility of the real person inside/
Whats all this about? I can't help noticing a slight shift in your ... credo.'
The wind blew up again; Oktyabrina turned into it with a defiant expression. 'Yes, it's wet and raw,' she said. ‘And may continue to be for many more weeks. But people who are at ease with themselves hardly notice the weather. People who know what they are and aren't seeking heroes or magical changes.'
She rolled down her sleeves and prepared to leave. ‘Zhoseph, I'm not trying to be mysterious and don't want to offend you. The sensible solution for us is for each to hold to the satisfaction of one's own depths and one's work /
'You’ve found a new teacher already?' I asked, having waited in vain for an elaboration of work.
I ve dropped ballet once and for all, if that’s what you're trying to ascertain. It's a joy to be liberated from that humiliating pretence. Anyway, classical ballet happens to be dying. Not least because it’s every woman is a shallow caricature.'
'Then what about Evgeny Ignatievich You seem to be '
'Yes, Evgeny Ignatievich had certain virtues,' she interrupted, wiping his cross clean with a handful of soggy newspaper. 'But an old oak is as young as its newest root. His roots were deep in the acid soil of sexual injustice. It wasn't his fault, of course. He was a casualty of his time and upbringing. But the truth is, he practiced his deceptions on women. Because women are exploitable, women have hearts. And he had the endemic masculine cruelty to bleed them. In this sense, his passing was . . . well, inevitable .' "
This allocution was punctuated with short pauses, as if
Oktyabrina had long pondered the key phrases but was surprised to hear them spoken. Together with the world-weary costume, they were undoubtedly part of her new identity. The natural thing would have been to take her by the shoulders and shake the makebelieve out of her. But a straight line was often the longest distance to her secrets. Besides, there was now a hint in her expression that she was really very happy to see an old friend, and that if I remained patient, she’d explain everything at the proper time.
‘For someone who feels like that about Evgeny Ignatievich,’ I said gently, ‘you seem to be paying considerable attention to his grave.’
She thought for a moment. ‘That’s unquestionably true,’ she answered. T’d almost forgotten your perceptiveness about certain things.’
T’d almost forgotten your eyes.’
‘Oh God, dontl . . . The hard fact is that I’m not fully liberated from the male myth. Indeed, if you didn’t know the odds I’m fighting against, you might assume I’ve hardly begun. On the other hand, allowance must be made for my exposure to romantic pressures at an impressionable age ’
Something of the old Oktyabrina returned as she began analyzing herself in solemn detail. The tending of the grave, she confided, was indeed a sentimental indulgence to her past. On the other hand, it was a kind of symbolic last contact with her old way of life and its mushy illusions. That was why Gelda approved of it - well, not exactly approved, but made allowances for it. Women’s natural altruism must be patiently cultivated , like an orchid in. . . .