appeared on screen.
But I have always hated him. Long before Khrushchev’s reforms. Long before I learnt how to read. Political credit for this belongs to my mother. My mother, an Armenian from Tbilisi, criticized Stalin unrelentingly, albeit in a rather idiosyncratic manner. She repeated with conviction:
“A Georgian cannot be a decent man!”
I walked back, trying not to spill the milk. Tanya was up. Shewashed her face and made the bed. Mikhail Ivanych was fixing his power saw and grunting. There was a smell of smoke, grass and sun-baked clover in the air.
I poured the milk, sliced the bread, and got out some green onions and hard-boiled eggs. Tanya was examining my ruined hat.
“I can put a leather patch on it if you like?”
“What for? It’s warm already.”
“I’ll send you a new one.”
“I have a better idea, maybe some cyanide.”
“No, I’m serious, what should I send you?”
“How should I know what they’ve got in America these days? Let’s not talk about it.”
We reached the tourist centre a little before nine. The driver had already turned the bus around. The tourists were stacking their bags and suitcases in the luggage compartment. Some had taken their seats by the windows. I walked up to the driver I knew:
“Got any free seats?”
“For you, not a problem.”
“I want to send my wife to Leningrad.”
“I sympathize. I’d like to send mine to Kamchatka. Or to the moon, instead of Gagarin.”
The driver was wearing an attractive imported shirt. As a rule, drivers of tour buses were fairly cultured. Most of them could easily have replaced the guides. Only they’d be taking a significant pay cut…
From the corner of my eye, I saw that Tanya was talking toMarianna Petrovna. For some reason I always feel alarmed when two women are left alone. Especially when one of them is my wife.
“OK, then it’s settled,” I said to the driver. “Drop her off on Obvodny Canal.”
“It’s too shallow,” the driver laughed.
I should just get on the bus, I thought, and leave as well. One of the guides can bring my things. Only what will we live on? And how?
Galina dashed past us, nodding in the direction of my wife:
“My goodness, how plain!”
I didn’t say anything. But in my mind I set her peroxide-bleached locks on fire.
The sports instructor, Seryozha Yefimov, approached.
“My excuses,” he said. “This is for you.” And he put a jar of blackberries in Tanya’s hands.
We had to say goodbye.
“Call me,” Tanya said.
I nodded.
“Is there a phone you can use?”
“Of course. Give Masha a kiss. How long will all this take?”
“It’s hard to tell. A month, maybe two… Think about it.”
“I’ll call.”
The driver climbed behind the wheel. The imported motor roared with confidence. I blurted out something unintelligible.
“And I…” said Tanya.
The bus started and quickly turned the corner. A minute later, its crimson side flashed through the trees near Lugovka.
I popped into the office. My group from Kiev was arriving at noon. I had to go back home.
On the table, I saw Tanya’s hairpins, two dirty cups from the milk, leftover bread and eggshells. There was a barely perceptible scent of smoke and cosmetics.
When she left, Tanya said, “And I…” The rest was drowned out by the drone of the motor…
I looked in on Mikhail Ivanych. He wasn’t there. A shotgun glimmered above his dirty bed. A Tula-made, heavy double-barrelled gun with a reddish stock. I took down the gun and thought – isn’t it time for me to shoot myself?
June turned out dry and clear, with grass rustling underfoot. Multicoloured towels hung off the tourist-centre balconies. The sturdy snap of tennis balls resounded. Bicycles with shiny rims glowed ruby along the wide porch railing. The sounds of an old tango carried through from the speaker above the attic window. The melody seemed traced over a dashed line…
The snap of the balls, the smell of scorched earth and the
But I have always hated him. Long before Khrushchev’s reforms. Long before I learnt how to read. Political credit for this belongs to my mother. My mother, an Armenian from Tbilisi, criticized Stalin unrelentingly, albeit in a rather idiosyncratic manner. She repeated with conviction:
“A Georgian cannot be a decent man!”
I walked back, trying not to spill the milk. Tanya was up. Shewashed her face and made the bed. Mikhail Ivanych was fixing his power saw and grunting. There was a smell of smoke, grass and sun-baked clover in the air.
I poured the milk, sliced the bread, and got out some green onions and hard-boiled eggs. Tanya was examining my ruined hat.
“I can put a leather patch on it if you like?”
“What for? It’s warm already.”
“I’ll send you a new one.”
“I have a better idea, maybe some cyanide.”
“No, I’m serious, what should I send you?”
“How should I know what they’ve got in America these days? Let’s not talk about it.”
We reached the tourist centre a little before nine. The driver had already turned the bus around. The tourists were stacking their bags and suitcases in the luggage compartment. Some had taken their seats by the windows. I walked up to the driver I knew:
“Got any free seats?”
“For you, not a problem.”
“I want to send my wife to Leningrad.”
“I sympathize. I’d like to send mine to Kamchatka. Or to the moon, instead of Gagarin.”
The driver was wearing an attractive imported shirt. As a rule, drivers of tour buses were fairly cultured. Most of them could easily have replaced the guides. Only they’d be taking a significant pay cut…
From the corner of my eye, I saw that Tanya was talking toMarianna Petrovna. For some reason I always feel alarmed when two women are left alone. Especially when one of them is my wife.
“OK, then it’s settled,” I said to the driver. “Drop her off on Obvodny Canal.”
“It’s too shallow,” the driver laughed.
I should just get on the bus, I thought, and leave as well. One of the guides can bring my things. Only what will we live on? And how?
Galina dashed past us, nodding in the direction of my wife:
“My goodness, how plain!”
I didn’t say anything. But in my mind I set her peroxide-bleached locks on fire.
The sports instructor, Seryozha Yefimov, approached.
“My excuses,” he said. “This is for you.” And he put a jar of blackberries in Tanya’s hands.
We had to say goodbye.
“Call me,” Tanya said.
I nodded.
“Is there a phone you can use?”
“Of course. Give Masha a kiss. How long will all this take?”
“It’s hard to tell. A month, maybe two… Think about it.”
“I’ll call.”
The driver climbed behind the wheel. The imported motor roared with confidence. I blurted out something unintelligible.
“And I…” said Tanya.
The bus started and quickly turned the corner. A minute later, its crimson side flashed through the trees near Lugovka.
I popped into the office. My group from Kiev was arriving at noon. I had to go back home.
On the table, I saw Tanya’s hairpins, two dirty cups from the milk, leftover bread and eggshells. There was a barely perceptible scent of smoke and cosmetics.
When she left, Tanya said, “And I…” The rest was drowned out by the drone of the motor…
I looked in on Mikhail Ivanych. He wasn’t there. A shotgun glimmered above his dirty bed. A Tula-made, heavy double-barrelled gun with a reddish stock. I took down the gun and thought – isn’t it time for me to shoot myself?
June turned out dry and clear, with grass rustling underfoot. Multicoloured towels hung off the tourist-centre balconies. The sturdy snap of tennis balls resounded. Bicycles with shiny rims glowed ruby along the wide porch railing. The sounds of an old tango carried through from the speaker above the attic window. The melody seemed traced over a dashed line…
The snap of the balls, the smell of scorched earth and the
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