sweaters. Bohemians mauled by Soviet reality. I like being with them, even though I’m a bit of a stranger; I don’t have their artistic insouciance and disdain for the stability of a bourgeois prosperity.
A lovely young Italian is a frequent visitor at this house. She has a marvelous job and wealthy businessmen boyfriends, but she runs off from all that to be with the Moscow bohemians. Her local boyfriends readily give themselves and their love and don’t mind receiving Western presents and invitations to restaurants or even Paris in return. A slight contradiction from disdain for material values but, on the other hand, a forgivable weakness.
The food always varies, too—depending on what people bring. Lying next to dubious-looking Moscow sausage may be an exquisite French cheese, and a bottle of scotch next to a cheap wine from the neighborhood store. The conversation varies, too. No one tries to show off his or her erudition, though education is taken for granted.
Today was like every other day. We looked at paintings and slides and talked about them a bit. These discussions are like a small theatrical show—conditional and ironic. It’s not an official arts council where the bureaucrats decide who can be an artist and who can’t.
Then we “stretched” a bit. This is an expression that has become popular lately. It means having fun and relaxing. If you have a lot of fun, you have “stretched to your full height.” Today wasn’t to full height; it was moderate. By the way, people don’t drink a lot here. They know how to have fun without that.
OCTOBER 17. I spent the evening at Mama’s. Our old friends were there. It was all like before, but without the single and most important element. I just can’t get used to the fact that Papa will never come into the room and make his usual jokes.
I lived my whole life with him, and he remains a mystery. I always thought that just a little bit more and he would reveal himself, I’d know everything about him. When I stood by his coffin in church, I looked at his face and tried to find an answer. He looked peaceful. There was even a shadow of his light, slightly ironic smile. The priest said to me, “Don’t cry. Look at him; he left us in peace.”
But he did not live with peace in his heart. And what person of his generation could live at peace with himself? Maybe Andrei Sakharov, with whom Papa had studied at the university. But only a few individuals could stand up to that monster system that broke the wisest, most honest and talented people. Papa was helpless in the face of intrigue, lies, and hypocrisy. He would retreat. And his family paid for it. He’d bring home the stress of the day’s foolishness and humiliations. It was all so simple: He was a scientist, and all he needed and wanted was to do his work until he was exhausted and sleepless. He didn’t fear that. He could work twenty hours a day until he collapsed with fatigue. By the way, he never had a study at home. We were always crowded first in one room and then in two. It was only after I married and left home that he had a room to himself where he could work and sleep.
At home I remember him mostly lying on the couch reading. That was his usual state. His knowledge was astonishing and unexpected. He could name all the German and American generals of World War II, lead us across the main bridges of
Venice (without ever having been there), and name all the states of the United States. He knew all the draft versions of War and Peace and could find any spot in his beloved book in a flash. My German friends, after having spent their first evening with my father at our home, couldn’t believe that he lived in a tiny apartment and didn’t head a big department at a leading university. In three hours in perfect German he told them more about Europe than they, having spent their lives there, knew.
I got a significant part of my education at home, at the family table. Often over lunch or dinner in the kitchen, we discussed history and literature for hours, debating and sometimes even arguing. Mama was a good cook, but the best treat when we had guests was table conversation. After eating, we drank tea endlessly, sometimes until two in the morning, without running out of things to talk about. You could say anything at all, except stupid things. Father grew annoyed if Mama or I made a stupid comment (he didn’t pick on the guests). He taught me to think and to phrase my thoughts precisely. As I write this diary, I think that he’d let me have it over a lot that’s in here.
OCTOBER 19. Today is one of those horrible days when you don’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone.
Many years ago, when I worked with Americans, a charming old man asked, “Tell me, is it true that you have no toilet paper and that your women eat their children?” I said that the first was absolutely true, and the second clearly exaggerated. A sweet woman asked me, “Do Soviet women menstruate?” Of
course, the questions weren’t the brightest, but it’s our own fault. We created an image of ourselves as savages. In the seventies such fine specimens of Homo sovieticus went abroad that people could easily suppose that we were from another planet.
Yes, we menstruate, and we have PMS, too. You can’t explain that condition to men. Everything is a dirty gray with black veins. You grab hold of every gloomy thought and develop it. Today I’m feeling global depression over my lost life. I’ll be forty in a few years, and what have I achieved? I’m divorced, I have no children, I’m alone, and no one needs me. I’ve studied all my life, and I know so little. I don’t feel like going to work. I’m sick of it here. The weather’s bad; I can’t even go for a walk. I shut the curtains, got back in bed, and enjoyed my misery.
Then the phone rang; it was a girl friend. She has her own problems. She’s pregnant. She doesn’t want to have this second child. She can’t handle it. Her husband has a small salary, and her job is important for the family. The first child is a burden on her own mother. She doesn’t want to have the baby, but she’s afraid to go to the hospital. She’s looking for a doctor recommended by friends because it’s scary to have an abortion in the general crowd. Besides, this isn’t her first time, and she always has complications. I forgot my mood; after all, PMS is better than an unwanted pregnancy.
I hung up and called a former boyfriend, a doctor. I think I’m lucky. He has a gynecologist friend, and he’ll call him and set things up. It’s an excuse for us to meet. He’ll bring his friend, wine, and snacks, and we’ll go see my miserable friend. Her husband is on a business trip. She hasn’t told him anything. He wants a child.
In Moscow many medical and work issues are discussed at
the table. I once saw the following. I went to see doctor friends who were having a party. Two mafiosi types were at their table, drinking heavily. One of them had an implanted ampoule that makes you unable to tolerate alcohol. It’s the way we treat alcoholism. He was sick of it and wanted to start drinking again but was afraid of the reaction. He brought a bottle of cognac and his best friend to drink under a doctor’s supervision. The evening went well. He drank a lot and with pleasure without any obvious effect on his health. Apparently his organism had adjusted to the ampoule.
Well, back to my miserable day. I think my mood has improved. The best medicine is someone else’s trouble. That’s the lousy way we are, much as I hate to admit it. My friend’s problems brought me out of my depression. I took a shower, dressed, and went to see friends.
OCTOBER 21 . My doctor friend didn’t call yesterday or the day before, the usual Moscow story. My friend Katya dropped by. We were both in a lousy mood, and we were sitting in the kitchen having tea and feeling sorry for ourselves. We wanted to go out and have fun, but where? My lost friend finally called and said he was on his way with the gynecologist. Not a great amusement, but better than being alone and cranky. Plus my pregnant friend was waiting.