“Purple,” I replied without hesitation.
“Then let’s go.”
I didn’t know why, but I followed. It didn’t seem dangerous. There were lots of people around, and the sign on the door said dianettcs center. I was going to be tested and told about my problems. I had to answer 180 seemingly simple questions, and do it quickly, without thinking.
I filled out the test card without difficulty, and then a pleasant young woman discussed the results with me. I was a
find for them, more problems than they knew how to handle. All my fears, confusions, and vacillations were laid bare. It was like a session of psychoanalysis. I told attentive Uta all my suffering with great pleasure. There was hope: I could take a special course, which cost around two hundred marks, and everything would fall into place. I didn’t know about the course, and I didn’t have a lot of money, but just having this conversation was a great relief to me. For a small sum I purchased a book about Dianetics, which the blurb says has saved many people. I asked Uta what principle of selection was used for test subjects. “If a person answers without hesitation, quickly and clearly, the way you did, it means he is open and a bit unhappy,” she said. “Those are the ones we talk to and try to help.”
Besides, you want my money , I thought, but that didn’t reduce my gratitude for her sincere and generous attention. But it was still fantastic how well they found me—a suffering Russian soul in prosperous, tranquil, and well-balanced Munich.
I went to a cafe and with gusto ate a plate of fried calamari.
AUGUST 22. Hello, Erica! At last I am closer to you—in Munich now. What a long trip, though. I read your first book, Fear of Flying, ten years ago, and it was love from page one. And with love came envy, for your frankness of description. From you I learned courage and the ability to accept defeat, especially in my personal life, and to understand my weaknesses. When people hurt my pride, I thought of you, and it helped. And then came the desire to write about myself. No, no, I don’t
want to be the Soviet Erica Jong. Em different, and my life was different.
I’m sitting in Wolfgang’s kitchen and drinking Russian vodka he got as a present from Moscow. J-P won’t be coming to Munich. He’ll probably never come to me, ever.
Well, then, I’ll light the fire, and drink.
Buying a dog might be good.
Russian poetry has many consoling words for love. I’ll survive.
Now, at last, I can get to know Munich properly. I spend my days wandering the city, going to museums, sitting in beer halls and cafes.
The day of my departure draws near. Erica Jong had Fear of Flying. I have Fear of Leaving. Poor Wolfgang is going crazy. I change my mind ten times a day—leaving, staying. Reason sends me home: I have to go to work, what would I live on here, my mother is waiting for me, and so on and so forth. My weak flesh resists: I don’t want to go back to my problems; I don’t want to leave this comfortable life for empty stores, crowds, and the gray, dreary autumn. I realize that life is not black and white, but my subconscious reaction is stronger than I am. Au revoir, Munich, au revoir, and not farewell. Thank you for everything you taught me.
Divorce
And the first betrayal, there's fog at dawn. And the second betrayal, he staggered drunk.
And the third betrayal, it’s blacker than night, Blacker than night, scarier than war.
—Bulat Okudjava
SEPTEMBER 7. Today is my ex-husband’s birthday. I called him at work in the morning, and the whole conversation lasted three minutes. Are we such strangers that we have nothing to talk about? Of course, he always was taciturn. I liked that at first. I thought it was a typically male trait. Then it became a burden—loneliness together.
As I later learned, our marriage was an attempt for both of us to find ourselves. He had everything: a good family; career; popularity with women. By Soviet standards, I was considered successful, too. But neither of us believed happiness was possible in this country. We wanted something more, but I tried to fight for it while he found his joy in small pleasures—television, books, a good meal. Most of all, he wanted to be left alone.
At first love (or being in love?) blinded us to everything. One night of our first month I was in bed under a heavy blanket. It was a cold winter night. He put on warm clothes and went
out on the balcony. “I’m so happy that I want to die, to jump from the balcony. It won’t ever be like this again,” he said. “And what if I were to die?” I replied.
“I couldn’t live without you,” I heard him say out on the balcony.
What was it—love, passion?
SEPTEMBER 10. His passion wasn’t only for me, it turned out. I have always hated our revolutionary holidays. Everyone partied while I stayed home and felt depressed. A protest of sorts. And it was on the day the Winter Palace had been taken that my husband had his own sexual revolution: He didn’t come home that night. When was it, three, four years ago? I thought he had been murdered, mugged, kidnapped. I walked up and down the street all night. I remember the red flags fluttering against one another. A Communist hell! Policemen came up to me. They thought I was stealing car parts. But after our chat they cheered up; they wished all their thieves were like me. We agreed that a nocturnal stroll was the best thing for insomnia.
He came back, guilty and hung over, around eleven the next day. He had been at a party, had too much to drink, fallen asleep, and awakened in the morning. I didn’t ask, “In whose bed?” He looked so innocent and sincere.
Then it started. Every six to eight weeks he disappeared overnight, begging me not to tell anyone. His repentance was so sincere that he believed his own lies. During the sleepless nights I hated him; I waited all the time for him to come home.
I couldn’t stand him anymore, but I couldn’t live without him. He’d come back happy and relaxed, loving and ready to turn himself in. For the following week I had total power over him. A few weeks later he’d become repulsive, and without realizing it, I’d start waiting for the next sleepless night.
Now I know that it was a childish but very dangerous game for grown-ups. It led to indifference. I began not to care whether he came home or not.
SEPTEMBER 11. Sunday, 11:00 A.M., I just woke up, alone. Why are Saturday and Sunday the most horrible days? In the West people all wish one another a good weekend, but we don’t have weekends; there’s no place to go. The best thing is to run off into the woods; that’s what the smart people do. But I want something special, a small holiday. Should I visit friends or go to the movies or to the theater? I spend several hours in indecision. If I have to cross town by bus and metro, I’ll get hungry, and there’s no place to eat; I’ll get tired and come home angry. Friends talk only about politics, problems, and how lousy things are. By three in the afternoon I see that it’s too late, and I almost feel relieved. There’s no more issue of choice. I’ll stay home, get into bed, and read. I call my friends, just in case. Maybe something’s happening. No, they’re depressed, too, domestic stuff. One invites me to dinner, but it’s getting dark, and it’s cold out. Everything seems to be in favor of staying home. It’s good that I’m alone. There’s no one to annoy me.
It was worse with my husband. He turned on the TV the minute he woke up. He didn’t care what was on—a kiddie show,
a feature on the valorous Soviet army, or gardening advice—so long as there was noise. He said it was good for his nervous system. He lay about in bed while I made breakfast. I’d get furious, a small morning exercise in hatred, and the day was ruined. Huffy looks over breakfast. Then he’d go back to the room to watch the set while I did the dishes. Dreary, dreary, dreary. And I’d spend the whole day doing chores while he’d read on the couch. I couldn’t wait for Mondays!
He didn’t have any friends, and we didn’t visit mine very often. I never knew how he’d behave. He could be cheerful and talkative, or he could be gloomy and not say a word all evening.