Andreï Makine - Brief Loves That Live Forever

The Moscow train was announced beneath a sky already cleared of rain. We heard the station doors banging, countless footsteps rushing out onto the platforms, splashing in the pools of water. The sounds compressed within the stifling space of the station hall exploded into the open air: quarreling, children crying, rallying calls to family members, dogs barking …

Without giving ourselves away, we allowed the two elderly travelers to move off. We quickly lost sight of them in the crowd, but when we reached the coach Leonora was due to get into we realized it was also theirs. They approached as we were saying good-bye. Now we noticed how different they were from the rest. An ordinary couple of their age would have rushed toward the steps up to the coach with an air of panic, pushing us aside, perhaps, anxious that the train was about to depart, concerned to secure their seats … The old man and his companion at once appreciated that before them stood two young lovers on the brink of parting. They stopped and even drew back a little, remarking quietly that the storm was moving southward …

Instead of any conventional outpourings, my friend bowed her head slightly and my lips brushed her brow. This unintentionally chaste kiss seemed to us the most beautiful of all those we had exchanged that summer … Leonora climbed in swiftly. From afar we heard the whistle of the engine. The old man helped his wife to scramble up the high, steep steps and unhurriedly mounted them in his turn, content, it appeared, to feel the train already moving under his feet. I kept my eyes fixed on his tall, straight old soldier’s figure and his wife’s face, her eyes open wide, gazing at the line of mountains outlined by the moon’s dull gold …

Walking away, I extracted a tiny ball of damp paper from my pocket; it was the scrap on which Leonora had written her address. I reflected that my own must have become just as illegible in her jeans pocket. The loss did not distress me. A much more intense bond united us, a memory that made it unimportant whether we saw one another again. I did not know how to express this conviction, I simply saw the glow of it, calm, constant, detached, unconnected with the flight of the years. And it has not faded since.

Ten years later the dream Patrick Dewaere had given rise to among the vacationers on the Black Sea that summer was realized. The Berlin Wall fell and hotels sprang up on the soil of the former Soviet empire like mushrooms after rain: lovers could stay at them freely, provided they were not poor.

Another sign of the times was the waxworks museum that opened in Moscow, along the lines of Madame Tussauds’s famous crowd of phantoms. A friend dragged me there one day, wanting to show me a character he considered to be “staggering.” The epithet was well chosen, for this was an old man sitting in a rocking chair. An ingenious device, a system of ropes and pulleys, was installed beside the wall. Visitors could pull a handle and the old man wrapped in a tartan blanket would begin to move, rocking to and fro more and more wildly but kept in place by chocks. The sculptor had contrived to endow this old face with a mixture of foolish satisfaction and unease. People were laughing, making rude comments …

With a strange twinge of bitterness, I recognized the character. It was Brezhnev. Not the face-lifted apparatchik of the official portraits but a human ruin, wrapped in a blanket, lurking in his quarters at the Kremlin, nervously waiting for the end.

My friend was exultant.

“Would you believe it? What a symbol! Imagine this little number ten years ago. What am I saying? … Even five years ago! They’d have put us all behind bars just for doing a drawing of this old wreck! And to think that a dummy like this could have blighted our best years, the whole of our youth, in fact! Wait, I’m going to pull this. Look at him rocking. Isn’t that a riot! Go on. You take a turn. It’d be good to tip him right over …”

He indicated the handle. I hesitated, then refused, on the pretext that I wanted to move on to other figures from history. We walked on through the galleries, encountering the glassy stares of dictators, stars, the founders of empires …

Then the memory returned to me of that old couple under a stormy sky in a little beach resort on the Black Sea. The White Army veteran and his wife. Who might hold the old man in his rocking chair in more contempt than these two survivors of the Russia of long ago? Who more than they had a right to redress on the part of History? And yet I was absolutely certain that they would never have grasped the avenging handle. For there was no hatred in their hearts. Just the glow from those moments of past time the man talked about so as to restore his companion’s composure during that stormy night. “Do you remember the day,” he had said, as they sheltered under that den made out of billboards, “when I found you again in the Crimea? It was winter. An ice-cold day, brilliant sunshine. And we were starving … Then you picked two bunches of grapes in an abandoned vineyard, the last of them, ones that had escaped both birds and men. They were shriveled raisins but divinely sweet. Like nuggets of light. We ate them and walked on again …”

On those occasions, all too rare, alas, when I come across two ancient beings as unmistakably filled with tenderness, I always picture their lives as a long journey on a brilliantly limpid, sunny day, each with a golden bunch of grapes in their hands.

Trapeze artists must feel as supple as this, bounding from one flight to the next. Their movements slot into one another, airily natural, sculpting space with the broad swing of their bodies.

This morning we fly across the town like that.

Waking late, a panic-stricken glance at the watch, actions driven by a backward countdown from a bus timetable. The thrill of seeing how, as hardened night owls, after three hours’ sleep we contrive to make up for lost time. Acrobats and jugglers simultaneously, squeezing into the narrow space of the shower, before our laughing looks meet in the mirror above the washbasin, frenzied toothbrushes, the smell of coffee wafted over by a draft, a hunk of bread, a slice of cheese swallowed without sitting down, a sudden whirlwind of clothes and then a woman’s body, erect, as if after a gymnast’s leap, mounting onto high heels and straightening up, five inches taller.

We run along the drowsy streets, cutting diagonally over crossroads. No cars in this little town, a Sunday morning, the pigeons move aside lazily as we pass. As we reach the bus station, a shelter with dusty glass windows, we can see a coach embarking on its turning circle, about to depart. Board her now, my hearties! The driver brakes, indulgent as people are for a couple of lovers. We kiss and my girlfriend climbs in quickly. The passengers bite back their routine grumbling and smile at this young woman swaying on her heels, as she makes her way along the bus in a tornado of perfume. The dull gray of one of the windows right at the back is lit up by an animated look and the flick of a mane of fair hair tossed over her shoulder. And already the red spot of the bus is receding, vanishing into the gray air of this spring morning.

Her departure leaves me with a solitude it is easy to bear (we shall meet again this evening) but also this vague sense of loss: a body that gave itself to me last night will shortly be plunged into the crowds of a big city, the noisy bustle of the Nevsky Prospekt, inviting male curiosity.

Even more than the bittersweet interrupted continuity of our brief separation, however, what intoxicates me is the floating lightness of it, the weightlessness of a misty May morning, the softly tinted transparency of the first, still pale, foliage. I feel as if I could fly over it. Yes, like a trapeze artist.