At the word “slogan,” Lyonechka became politically aroused with dangerous speed, and, noticing the negative symptoms (sweat, trembling, electrical lightning storms of protest in his eyes), we all retreated quietly to the porch.
Early autumn had already crawled into the town of R. and showed itself here and there—sometimes in brown bushes, sometimes in bald patches on the foliage of subdued trees. The air smelled of chickens, the john, and wet grass, the moon rose so coppery and enormous that it was as if the end of the world had already come; Spiridonov smoked and the music of other worlds issued from his mouth, mingled with the smoke; unshaven and lame, elderly and not too swift, he had been chosen by someone to give witness to another life—distant, impossible, unattainable—the kind in which there was no place for any of us. The town of R. was our place, it was as familiar as the back of our hands, known by heart, inside out, whether you went to the right or the left or down into the basement or up to the rooftop and, held up by your slipping feet on the rusty tin and clasping the warm, potato-smelling pipe, cried out to the whole world: to the thinning forests, to the dark blue fog in the cold cleared fields, to the drunken tractor drivers crawling into the tractor furrows and to the wolves gnawing at the drivers’ trousers and neck, and to the tiny country store where there’s nothing but packets of gelatin and rubber boots, to the sleeping beetles and cranes overhead, to the black, lonely old ladies who’ve forgotten how they trembled before their wedding and wailed at coffin’s side; go on, cry out—everything’s known ahead of time, everything’s been trampled, verified, searched, settled, shaken out, there’s no exit, the exits have been sealed, every house, window, attic, and cellar has been explored through and through, examined thoroughly. They’ve touched every barrel, tugged on the latches, driven in or pulled out bent nails, rummaged in the basement corners that are either slippery from mold or dried up, they’ve picked at the window frames, peeled off the brown paint, hung and torn down locks, moved piles of loose, discarded paper; there’s not a single empty, somehow accidentally forgotten room, corner, or hallway; there’s not a chair that hasn’t been sat on; not a single stuffy-smelling copper door handle that hasn’t been handled, a catch or bolt that hasn’t been drawn; there’s no exit, but there’s no guard either—leaving just isn’t in the cards.
But the people who sing noisily in the fire and smoke in the invalid’s illegal mouth—aren’t they also searching for a way out of their own universe, diving, jumping, dancing, glancing from under their hands toward the ocean horizon, seeing off and meeting the ships: Hello, sailors, what have you brought us— rugs? plague? earrings? herring? Tell us quickly, is there another life, and which way should we run to seize its gilded edges?
Svetlana sighed heavily. She suffered because all over the world there were men, unattainable and magnificent, in the mines and in airplanes, in restaurants and on prison bunks, on night watch and under festive white sails, men whom she’d never meet: small ones and big ones, with mustaches and automobiles, ties and bald spots, long underwear and gold signet rings, with pockets full of money and a passionate desire to spend this money on Svetlana—who’s right here on the evening porch, all curls and powder, ready to fall deeply in love with each and every one who asks.
Blending with the darkness, Judy sat silently, like everyone else. She hadn’t said anything in a long time, but only now, when Spiridonov played a solo on his horn, could one suddenly hear how deep, powerless, and black her silence was; it was like the lonely obedient silence of a beast—that fantastic beast she wanted to nurse without knowing or seeing who beckoned with a hoof or claw; wrapping herself in scarves and shawls, she boldly set off into the distance, beyond the seas and mountains in search of that beast, in search of a warm, quiet, useful friend with soft wool, with silly dark eyes, with sparse hair on its face and a secret emptiness blowing from the pitted, rosy cartilage of its ear canals, with milk in its satiny stomach or a column of transparent seed in the curly caches of its loins; a beast with long, spiral horns and a tail resembling a geisha’s hair in the morning, with a silver chain on its neck and a daisy in its carefree mouth, an affectionate, loyal, make-believe beast, imagined in dreams.
I wanted to hug her, to stroke her fuzzy head, and say: Now now, what do you want from us, foolish woman, how can we help you if we ourselves don’t know whom to call, where to run, what to look for, and from whom to hide? We’re all running in different directions: I am, and you are, and so is Antonina Sergeevna, who sweats from her immense government responsibilities, and so is Uncle Zhenya, who’s already far away, southern, almost otherworldly, comfortably wriggling his toes in his brand-new inexpensive sandals, ready to set out on the walk from which he won’t return; and so is the maiden-knight Olga Khristoforovna, who wanted to do what was best, but was cut down by colleagues who wanted to do even better—the moon rises and torments Olga Khristoforovna with forgotten dreams, forgotten fields torn up by the cavalry’s hooves, the hiss of transparent sabers, the smoke of soundless gunshot, the smell of porridge from the collective pots, the smell of sheepskin, blood, youth, and unreceived kisses. Look around, listen carefully, or even open a book. Everyone’s running, running away from himself or in search of himself: Odysseus runs endlessly, spinning and marking time in the small bowl of the Mediterranean Sea; the three sisters are running to Moscow, motionlessly and eternally, like in a nightmare, moving their six legs, running in place; Doctor Doolittle who, rather like you, got lost in dreams of sick, overseas animals, is also running—“and Doctor Doolittle ran all that day, and only one word would he say: Limpopo, Limpopo, Limpopo!” Moscow, Limpopo, the town of R., or the island of Ithaca—isn’t it all the same?
But I didn’t say any of this, because at that moment the gate jingled and from the dew-befogged hawthorn bushes emerged Vasily Paramonovich, the devotee of the airways, white in his embroidered shirt, arm in arm with Perkhushkov, the regional ideological dragon.
“Who’s there?” Vasily Paramonovich hooted, cheerful and alert, from the twilight. “I’ve come to work things out, I’ve got new plans with me, and then I hear: someone’s misbehaving with music. And is this none other than Antonina Sergeevna’s brother come to pay a visit? Welcome home!”
“What’s that?” said Perkhushkov, roused, sensing Judy’s darkness in the dark. “Don’t tell me the foreign comrades have already arrived? The reservations aren’t till the twentieth.”
And he returned us to the house, where the sight and effect of tomatoes and cognac revived dim historical memories of the Battle of Borodino. “We’re expecting the air squadron by morning,” said Vasily Paramonovich. “Oh, what a celebration it’ll be!”
“But where will they land?” said Antonina Sergeevna, surprised.
“Oh, they won’t land anywhere: they don’t have a permit,” replied Vasily Paramonovich, casting a sidelong glance at Perkhushkov. Perkhushkov nodded. “They’re going to circle and make figures. Tomorrow they’ll rehearse, and then when our sister-regional comrades get here, they’ll give them a real show.”
“Couldn’t we throw red carnations from the fighter planes? Paper ones?” asked Antonina Sergeevna.
“We used up our quota of paper way back in June! Now, then, Antonina, just what we need, more paper.”