Our divorce was congenial. My husband took only the things from my apartment that were his. And he was not in a hurry to take them. The boxes in the corner were getting on my nerves. I wanted to get rid of the reminders quickly.
The first few months were hard. I lived alone in the apartment. There was no phone (my turn hadn’t come up yet), and I wasn’t ready for a new relationship. I felt sorry for myself, and I was enjoying my suffering. But I knew that I was still lovable and that men would travel to see me and bring me flowers and gifts.
OCTOBER 12. I often wonder why I got married. If I had it to do over again, what would I have done?
The same. It was a mistake that had to be made, like a
childhood disease, like measles or mumps or chicken pox. If you don’t have it in time, a late case will be more severe. You have to build immunity.
Men seem to think that a marriage proposal is what women dream of most. Maybe, but not after an unhappy marriage.
I truly don’t want to get married (for now?). I used to think that marriage was love and the expectation of evenings, wonderful nights, joyous holidays, and common interests. Now I know that it means heavy shopping bags, laundry, dishes, alienation, a weary face, and infrequent happy moments. The main thing is not to expect help from men and to do everything yourself—repairs around the house, the plumbing, earning money. I sometimes think that it would be good to have brothels for female clients. Then you’re totally independent. I’m disgusted with myself even as I write this. I sound like an embittered Soviet feminist. What happened to the sweet romantic girl?
I probably took too long recovering from my “illness.” I’m afraid to admit to myself that I’m a normal woman. I want a good husband, children, love, and that most hard-to-understand and elusive thing called happiness.
Come, Guests, to My Party ,
OCTOBER 14. The phones never stop ringing in Moscow apartments. Everyone has his or her own “reception hours.” Mine are from eleven in the morning until two in the morning. Even three, for European friends. We talk about everything from detergents at the neighborhood store to the fate of world civilization. You can talk twenty-four hours a day for two rubles and fifty kopecks a month. Of course, you pay more if you call another city.
The phone is right by my bed. I like to start the day with a phone call. I have friends with whom I talk weekly but haven’t seen in years. There’s something pathological about it since they’re less than an hour away.
My grandparents in Kaluga had company almost every evening. They were poor, so they didn’t serve anything special, but they always had tasty, strong tea. There was something of nobility and aristocracy about those visits. It would be dark and nasty outside, and a knock at the front door would bring in ladies wrapped in shawls, their escorts in galoshes over their shoes. The room was warm, and the lamp over the table in the big shade with fringe bathed the room in a soft yellow light. The guests headed straight for the stove to warm their hands. Then
they sat down to play cards—a game called King. They never played for money since everyone had trouble making ends meet.
Then Grandmother went to the kitchen to make tea. Crackers, jam, and inexpensive candies were taken down from the enormous buffet. The hosts had their favorite cups, and the guests got the best china. Wine was not served.
I liked getting the sweets from the buffet. It was big, old, and mysterious. I thought it lived its own life; each shelf had its own smell. The doors creaked, and the bottom door kept fa llin g off. To tell the truth, I used to hang on it and ride it back and forth. I was never punished for it, and Grandfather fixed it silently time after time.
The table conversation was always pleasant and soothing. The grown-ups didn’t talk about politics; they were afraid, and there was really nothing to say in those years. They discussed city life and their friends. When there were other children visiting, Grandfather would play our favorite song on the piano. We held hands, moved in a circle, and sang:
The cooks are making soup, soup, soup.
A big spider in the kettle sits, sits, sits.
I don’t know where that song came from.
We children used to take old clothes out of the trunk and play dress-up. We always had a big tree for New Year’s. It took up half the room. We spent hours playing guessing games in front of it. One person picked a letter, and the rest tried to name a toy that began with it.
The town was a quiet one, and our guests didn’t worry
about going home late, so they stayed. We would be put to bed, but we would hear voices from the living room.
We almost never went out. Everyone liked coming to our house. Papa told me that when he and his brother were little, it was even better. The family had the whole house. It was only later that as people used to say in the early days of Soviet rule, our family was compacted—that is, half the rooms were taken away for another family. Many guests came, and they played the piano and danced. Grandfather liked beautiful women (I guess that’s why he married my grandma but didn’t limit himself to her), and formerly chic ladies frequented our house. Once Papa ran into a room and found Grandfather kissing one. In the olden days famous musicians often came to the city, and they often visited our house and filled the rooms with music.
Funny incidents abounded. My grandparents had a pet white rat. Once, when the guests were leaving, one woman put on her fur coat and felt something in the sleeve. She screamed hysterically. The poor little animal, more frightened than the lady, ran across her back from one sleeve to the other, jumped out, and escaped. The lady was in a state for a long time. Then everyone laughed.
Usually the guests smoked a lot, filling the rooms with heavy clouds. The ladies kept up with the men. The little panes in the windows that could be opened in winter never were for some reason. No one thought that smoking was harmful then. Grandmother was very ill with emphysema later in life.
The realities of life in Kaluga are mixed up for me with the stories my grandparents and my father told me. Sometimes it all seems so far away that I can’t believe I was ever there. I’d give
so much to go back at least for a day. I often cry at night remembering those years.
OCTOBER 15 . It’s 2:00 A.M., and I’m not at all sleepy. Earlier I went out for five minutes and came back only now. And that’s nothing. I have a Georgian friend who went out for a loaf of bread in Tbilisi and called his parents a few hours later from another part of the country—Leningrad. He had run into a friend who was going there, and they decided to fly together. Once a Moscow friend made a date with me, said he’d take a rest for a few hours, then would call me to pick me up. He vanished for three days: went to Tallinn to party with some friends. I sat by the phone worrying about all kinds of horrors— heart attack, mugging, kidnapping. He was a pig and should have called. But it’s typical Moscow behavior; why bother with explanations?
Today a typically Moscow thing happened to me. I ran into friends of a friend who lives nearby. I had forgotten that they were having an opening at home—new paintings. That’s part of Moscow’s creative life—having exhibits at home or readings of new works. Luckily that’s changing, and talented people are coming out from the underground (a phenomenon of the Brezhnev era). I went with them. Total freedom exists there: Wear what you want, bring whom you want (except sellouts), and do what you want. All different types of people were there—from Kazakhs to Americans. You couldn’t tell who was who by just looking. Now-famous artists, with names in the West and bank accounts in Switzerland, are still wearing worn trousers and