Juliet Butler - The Less You Know the Sounder You Sleep

‘Finally…’

We go out on to the balcony. The snow is knee-deep but I lie down anyway, and I haven’t even got a coat on. No one can see us from the courtyard, and if someone comes into the room they won’t see us through the window either. I don’t care about the snow. When I’m drunk I don’t feel the cold. Masha pushes my elbow to get me to start, and I tip it up and start drinking it in one, stopping for the occasional breath. So I’m lying there in the snow, glugging it back, with Masha still shoving my elbow, and suddenly I think, Wait – how did this happen? How did I end up here, aged twenty, lying on the floor of a barred balcony, downing a whole bottle of wine like a common alcoholic? I need rescuing… I need… Slava… But before I can get too sad or ashamed or lonely… that wonderful wave of drunken forgetfulness seeps into my blood, washing right over me and sweeping me away with it to a world of numbness and nothingness.

12 December 1970, internat.

Hello girls, thank you for your letter and a big thank you for the records. I liked them very much.

Sorry about the delay in replying but I couldn’t find a stamp. I had to ask someone to get one for me but they were a long time in fulfilling the order as there’s such a shortage. My health is OK. I’m not doing too well with my studies. Never mind. I’ve grown used to my new class.

Dasha, no, my transistor hasn’t broken but I don’t listen to it because I can’t get batteries. Does your transistor work?

Dasha, thanks for your card of the 7 November. I expected a letter but there you go. Alla sends her love and Nadezhda Lazareva, remember, who works in the kitchens? How’s Aunty Nadya? Send her my love.

Dasha, have you read any poetry books?

Dasha, could you come down to see me in the village next summer? I would come up to Moscow if I could, but it won’t be possible because my mother will be working and my brother will be preparing for his entrance exam to university. So you must come here to me. You can stay as long as you like. Mum says I need company.

Will you?

‘Well, everything’s going according to plan, yes, yes.’ Aunty Nadya’s in our room and I’m holding his last letter as if it’s a straw and I’m a drowning man. ‘Yes, yes, Slava’s mother has written back to me and she says that Slava’s very much looking forward to it and so is she. Yes. And I’ve just been given your leave of absence form, from Barkov…’

‘Yeah, I bet he couldn’t write that fast enough… he hates us,’ says Masha cheerfully. ‘Thinks we’re some sort of cancer in the body of his precious Home. Well, we’re getting away from this hell-hole, we are – Masha’s off to dance around the village pond.’

‘Well, yes, I had no problem at all in getting it. And I told Slava’s mother that you have no special needs and that you’re very clean and well behaved. I didn’t think I needed to inform the Ministry of Social Protection as this isn’t considered, you know, permanent… as yet… just a holiday… and you will have your invalid pension to buy food and such like.’

‘We don’t eat much,’ I say. ‘And we’ll eat anything.’

‘Well, just remember to brush your teeth. And you’ve written back to Slava?’

‘Yes, I sent him a birthday card,’ I say. ‘It was his birthday on January twenty-seventh.’

‘That’s right. His mother said he was having a party in the village for the children from school.’

‘I told him we can come to him first thing in summer, in May. I told him we’re arranging it all.’

‘Good, good, well, I’ll be off.’ She stops at the door. ‘I must say, I’m so very pleased to see the difference in you both. I’m glad you finally came to an agreement. See how happy it’s made you? See what good things can come in life if you both just agree. And never give up hope…’

The next day we go down to reception. The crows outside are going kaaa kaaa mournfully and it’s raining, so the snow’s melting into a slush. February. I remember our poem. Take up your pen and weep . He asked if I was still reading poetry in his letter. Well, we’ll read it together now. In ninety-nine days from now. I wonder if he still has that book of poetry by Pasternak. Write of February through your tears, while the burning black slush of spring thunders at your feet … And he wrote ‘Love Slava’ in his letter. For the first time ever, he wrote Love.

‘Letter for you two,’ says the new guard.

We jump at it excitedly. Masha snatches it, of course, but I can see it’s not from him. I can tell from the writing it’s not him. It might even be from his mother. Masha opens it and stands, leaning on her crutch while I fidget, wanting to see it too.

‘Who’s it from? Who’s it from, Mash?’

‘Valentina Alexandrovna. Shut up.’ She starts reading and then all of a sudden I feel her heartbeat punch through to mine like a cannon ball, and I rock back. She draws in a quick breath but reads on and then she hands it to me.

2 February 1971, Novocherkassk

Hello girls. Greetings from Valentina Alexandrovna!

How are you? How is your health? We are busy at school here but we often think of you up in Moscow.

Girls, I wanted to write to tell you that Slava had a birthday party at his home. He invited all his friends from school to his village and we took the school bus out there. It was a lovely affair and everyone had such a nice time.

Dasha, Slava said that he wished that you could have been there and that he was looking forward to seeing you in summer.

I’m very sorry to say that he died the next day.

I thought I should write and tell you, or you might not have known. And you might have been waiting for his letters. And planning your trip.

I think I should say, and I hope I don’t upset you, that Slava was the nicest possible pupil. He never complained.

Anyway, I’m sorry to bear such bad news, girls, but I had to write.

‘Morning, my Dashinka…’ Slava leans over me and kisses my cheek as we lie in bed. ‘Time to get up and make breakfast for the kids. I’m starving.’ He pushes my long hair out of my eyes, and kisses me again. His lips are warm and soft, and he smells of sleep. I yawn and stretch. ‘We’ll go into the woods and pick mushrooms,’ he says. ‘It’s a lovely sunny day. The meadows are full of flowers.’

‘Mama, mama!’ Lyuba bursts open the door in her flannel nightie with her curly hair all knotted, and jumps into bed between us to snuggle up. She kisses me too, and pushes her little head into my neck while Slava tuts and tries to smooth out the knots.

‘Is Marat up yet?’ he asks.

‘Course not, he’d sleep ’til the cows came home…’ she says.

‘That’s what being a teenager does for you… good thing it’s a Sunday,’ I say, hugging her. ‘What shall we have for breakfast then? Ground rice with butter?’

‘And honey! I’m going to get some more from the hives today. I didn’t get stung, not once, last time.’

‘Fuck me! That’s enough for today,’ says Masha, and flops down on our bed. We do our exercises for fifteen minutes every morning, and while I exercise, I go on with my life with Slava and our two children Lyuba (age six) and Marat (age fourteen). I go on with it through the day too, whenever there’s time to dream, which is a lot of the time. It’s like Yemil Moseyevich said, that time we visited him: your body can be imprisoned, but not your mind.