Tatyana Tolstaya - White Walls - Collected Stories

I tell you, doctors are saints, I always say that. And then…? And then, when they are sure an animal is infected, they put it to sleep, of course. What else could they do? It would infect the others, wouldn’t it?

Then the war began and Pavel Antonovich was reassigned. Yes, it meant even more work. The war, the war… Why am I telling you about it, you went through all that yourself?

It was during the war that they met, his mother-in-law and Pavel Antonovich. They married and saw each other sporadically. He liked that she was so young and lively… He wanted to dress her nicely, that’s why he sent the fur… And he was pleased with it too: why don’t you wear the fur, Mashenka—

He worried about it, got mothballs for the summer. And then a blow like that…

A gentle, marvelous, understanding woman, that Maria Maximovna. Just one quirk—can’t forget that fur coat. She’s a woman, those things are important to them. We all have our own memories. She tells him about her fur coat, Sergei tells her about the fur hat. She sympathized. Lenochka smiled at both, soaring in her vague thoughts. Lenochka is steady and passionless, a sister instead of a wife. Mother and sister—what more could a lost boy want?

Sergei put up shelves in his cubbyhole and placed favorite books on them. If only he could put a cot in there, too. But he went to sleep in the bedroom with Lenochka. At night he lay sleepless, looking at her quiet face with pink shadows near the eyes, and wondered: who is she? What does she think about, what does she dream? If you ask, she shrugs and says nothing. Never raises her voice, if he tracks snow into the house she doesn’t notice, if he smokes in the bedroom she doesn’t care—

She reads whatever comes her way. If it’s Camus, fine; if it’s Sergeyev-Tsensky, that’s fine, too. She gave off a chill. The daughter of mustachioed, bespectacled Pavel Antonovich… Strange.

Pavel Antonovich… He hangs on the wall in the living room, in a frame, and night shadows cross his face. An oak grew and collapsed. Collapsed a long time ago, Lenochka doesn’t even remember him. But he’s still here—wandering up and down the hallway, making the floorboards creak, touching the doorknob. He runs his finger along the wallpaper, the maple leaves, along the bookshelves—he left his daughter a good inheritance. Listens for the squeak of a rat. Domestic, attic, field, ship, migrant… You animal, you, tell me your name: are you the death of me? will you eat me? I’m not your death, I won’t eat you: I’m just a bunny, a gray bunny…. Rabbits also carry plague. A particularly dangerous infection… The prognosis is extremely poor—In case of suspected infection with the plague send an urgent report—The patients and everyone who has been in contact with them will be quarantined. Was he afraid? Such an important man. Terrible in his wrath and honest in his work. But why that fur coat?

And what if Pavel Antonovich were Sergei’s father? What if he had had another wife before Maria Maximovna? Surface out of nonexistence, take on a sturdy chain of ancestors—Pavel Antonovich, Anton Felixovich, Felix Kazimirovich… Why not? It’s a realistic possibility….

He took the fur coat from the hook, turned it inside out— fur inside, lilies of the valley outside—and the tissue paper rustled. Twine! Bitte. He rested his knee on the package, pulled right, knotted the twine with his clean medical fingers. One more knot. Tugged—it’ll hold. He took it, he stooped to that. Tor the tangled tracks, the explosion, his son’s singed head, the mother who went up in flames, the hat that knocked out the child’s memory. The face with the closed eyes floated up again, shaking its head: don’t, don’t take it. Father, don’t take it! Three years later, it was stolen at the market. How he shouted! Panya, the maid, was in on it, naturally. Think about it—to disappear like that, in the twinkling of an eye… Naturally, it was a gang.

Maria Maximovna would have let it go, but Pavel Antonovich, with his character, simply could not bear it. Panya had to be arrested. Yes, yes! To whom did you pass the fur coat? Who are your co-conspirators? When did you enter into a criminal conspiracy? How much were you supposed to get for fingering the job? Panya was a stupid woman, uneducated, and she babbled some nonsense, gave conflicting testimony; it was disgusting to hear. In short—they convicted her. But the coat was never found. Gone. Warm, curly, with the silky, slippery lining.

“I’m hearing this for the fifth time,” Sergei said, angrily pulling the blanket over himself.

“So what? Mother is still upset.”

“Yes, but how long can she keep it up? You’d think she’s a suffering Akaky Akakiyevich without his overcoat!”

“I don’t understand you. What is it, are your sympathies with the thieves?”

“What does that have to do with it—And besides, didn’t he steal it?”

“Papa? Papa was the most honest of men.”

An uneducated woman, that Panya. She split, vanished, disappeared. A village woman, her husband died at the front. The pink comb. No, Klava had the comb. No face, no voice—just a total blank. He was Panya’s son. Perhaps; perhaps. His father died, and she fled with him through swamps, sinking; pushed her way through forests, tripping; begged for hot water at railroad stations, wailing. The train, the explosion. The tracks turned into corkscrews, the hat across his face, the black hat to knock out his memory. You lie there, peering into the dark— deeper, deeper, to the limit—no, there’s a wall there. Panya lost him at the station. She was taken away unconscious. She woke up—where’s Seryozha? Or Petya, Vitya, Yegorushka? Someone must have seen them putting out a burning boy. She goes, seeking him from town to town. Opens all the doors, knocks at all the windows: have you seen him? A dark kerchief and sunken eyes… Takes a job working for Pavel Antonovich. Are you the death of me, will you eat me? No, I’m a bunny, a gray bunny. “Panya, come with me, you’ll hold my fur coat.” Wait, don’t go! “Mistress, I’ve lost my son, what do I care for your coat?” Let her stay home. And another twenty-five years in that room. Then Sergei marries Lenochka, comes to the house, Panya takes a good look and recognizes him…. She couldn’t have stolen it, she had shut her eyes and shook her head: don’t take it. In case of suspected incident send an urgent report. Domestic, attic, migrant, field… Silk lining. Seryozha, drive a nail there.

All right, what if she did steal it! Impoverished, starving like those thieving boys, her house burned down, her son lost, her husband dead in the swamps. What if she had been tempted by the purple lilies of the valley? I won’t hammer a nail into her. I am her son. Panya is my mother, that’s decided, everyone must know. Why did he take the coat from the hook? That coat belonged to Panya’s husband, he should have reached it, crawled there, extended his scorched hand toward it—no, he wouldn’t have taken it, he wouldn’t have stooped to that. But you, high and mighty gentleman, you stooped. And I am martied to your daughter. Pavel Antonovich is my father. Otherwise why does he torment me with the lost fur coat, rustling his medals, sighing behind the wall? Tell me your name. Holding hands tightly, the chain of ancestors walks into the depths, sinking into the dark jelly of time. Stand with us, nameless one, join us. Find your link in the chain. Pavel Antonovich, Anton Felixovich, Felix Kazimirovich. You are our descendant, you lay on our bed, loved Lenochka without blinking an eye, you ate our sweet rolls—every single currant in them we had to tear away from domestic, attic, and field rats; for you we coughed up horrible phlegm and let our nodes swell, for you we infected camels that spat in our face—you can’t get away from us. We built this for you, you nameless and clean boy, this house, this hearth, kitchen, hallway, bedroom, cubby, we lit the lamps and set up the books. We punished those who lifted their hands to steal our property. Ali Babà, hey! What do you say? Pull the line away. From which end of the day?