Tatyana Tolstaya - White Walls - Collected Stories

No, there was nothing sad to be seen, the only sad thing was that Makov wasn’t here: he wasn’t playing volleyball under the slow oaks, wasn’t drinking tea under the wild cherry tree, he wasn’t shooing away unseasonably late mosquitoes. Denisov, having firmly resolved to suffer in the name of the deceased, overcame the awkwardness, presented the flowers, straightened his mourning tie, sat down at the table, and explained himself. He was the envoy of the forgotten. Such was his mission. He wanted to know everything about their son. Perhaps he would write his biography. A museum, but if that wasn’t feasible, then he could at least arrange a corner of a museum. Display cases. His childhood things. His hobbies. Maybe he collected butterflies, beetles? Tea? Yes, yes, with sugar, thank you, two spoonfuls. He’d have to get in touch with glaciologists. It’s possible that Makov’s climb was in some way important for science. Immortalization of his memory. Annual Makovian readings. Let us dare to dream: Makov Peak—why not? The Makov Foundation with voluntary donations. The possibilities!…

The sisters sighed, the stepfather smoked and raised his gray eyebrows in boredom, the mother, aunt, and infant started crying, but it was a sun shower—all tears dried out here amid the raspberries, oaks, and wild cherry. The slow wind, flying in from distant flowering glades, whispered in his ear: Drop it.

Everything’s fine. Everything’s peaceful. Drop it…. The mother squeezed her nose with a handkerchief to stop the tears. Yes, it’s sad, sad…. But it’s all over, thank God, over, forgotten, water under the bridge, it’s all covered with yellow water lilies. You know how it is, life goes on. There’s Zhannochka’s firstborn.

He’s our little Vasya. Vasya, come on now, where’s Grandma’s nose? That’s ri-iiight. Goo goo goo, ga ga ga. Vera, he’s wet.

This is our garden. Flower beds, do you see? Well, what else….

There’s our hammock. Comfortable, isn’t it? And this is our Irochka, she’s getting married. There’s a lot to do, you know. You have to get the youngsters settled, you have to take care of everything for them.

Irochka was extremely pretty—young, tanned. The mosquitoes were feasting on her bare back. Denisov couldn’t take his eyes off Irochka. A breeze swayed the black berries on the wild cherry.

“Come, let’s look at the garden. My tomatoes have really taken off.” Makov’s mother led Denisov deep into the garden and whispered: “The girls really loved Sasha. Especially Irochka. Well, what can you do. You have a heart, I can tell, you want to help. We have a request to make of you…. She’s getting married, we’re trying to get ahold of furniture for them…. And you know, she wants a Sylvia china cabinet.

We’ve tried everything. After all, they’re young, you know…. They want to live it up a bit. If Sasha were alive, he would have turned Moscow inside out…. In Sasha’s memory… for Irochka… a Sylvia, eh? What do you say, young man?”

A Sylvia for the deceased!—cried invisible forces. Eternal memory!

“A Sylvia cabinet, Sylvia… Sasha would be so pleased…. How happy he would have been…. Come on, have some more tea.”

And they drank tea with raspberries, and the oaks hurried nowhere, and Makov lay on high in the diamond splendor, baring his unaging teeth to the sky.

Duty is duty. All right then, let it be a cabinet. Why not? From Makov a cabinet will remain. From Aunt Rita—a glass perfume flacon. I traded the flacon. Nothing remained. Sepulchral darkness. The scorched steppe. An icy crust. The mushroom damp of a cellar. The ferrous smell of blood. One-sixth of the earth, torn out with flesh. No! I don’t want to know anything. I couldn’t help. I was little! I am only helping Makov, for all of them, for all, all! And when the polite, heavyset orderlies took away the sobbing captain and he grabbed onto the lintels, the mailboxes, the elevator shaft, spread his legs wide, bent his knees, and shrieked, and then they carried hundreds of little paper boats out of the apartment and gave them to the Pioneer scouts for recycling, as all the neighbors and I stood by and watched—I couldn’t help then either, I am only helping Makov!

I don’t want to know anything! The cabinet, only the cabinet. The cabinet, a sideboard, a wall unit with bronze inlay—a golden hair’s width, no thicker—with shiny corners, delicate fretwork, and the slight gleam of diamond-shaped panes. Gentle dimples of carving—so soft and light, as though a wild hare had run past—a marvelous, marvelous piece of home.

As though a wild hare had run down the hallway. Lora’s papa. Ping!—he broke something. A flacon? No, a glass. They drink tea with raspberries from glasses. Makov looks at the sky. Get hold of a cabinet in my name. All right. I’ll try. I’m prepared to suffer. I’ll suffer—and Makov will release me. And so will the captain. And Aunt Rita. And her comrades will lower their unbearable eyes.

Lora breathes evenly in her sleep, her hair smells of roses, the zoologist stirs in the hall, the doors are locked—where will you run away to?—let him run around—he’ll wear himself out, get tired, he’ll sleep better. “I knew, but I forgot, I knew, but I forgot,” he mutters, and his eyes are closed and his legs lithe. Back and forth, back and forth, across the moonlit squares, past the bookshelves, from the front door to the kitchen door. Back and forth, perhaps he’s put on Lora’s hat or sandals, perhaps he’s wound a gauze scarf round his neck or adorned his head with a colander, he likes nocturnal knick-knacks; back and forth, from door to door, with soft skips, lifting his knees high, his hands outstretched as though he were trying to catch something, but hadn’t caught it yet—a festive hunt, an innocuous blindman’s buff, no harm done. “I knew, but I forgot!”

In the morning the red dawn arrived, the mountain with the black bug of Makov on its peak dissolved, the weary lunatic fell sweetly asleep, degenerate city birds struck up a song, and two sky-blue tears rolled from Denisov’s eyes into Denisov’s ears.

In search of Sylvia, Denisov knocked on all sorts of doors, but everywhere he ran up against rejection. Are you crazy? Imports have been cut back. And Sylvia all the more so. Hah!… Even a general couldn’t get one! Maybe a marshal, but it depends what kind, what kind of troops. No, Comrade Petryukov won’t help you. Neither will Kozlov. And don’t bother approaching Lyulko —there’s no point. Now, Comrade Bakhtiyarov… Comrade Bakhtiyarov could do it, help that is, but he’s a capricious, eccentric fellow, he’s got a sort of florid, unpredictable personality, and the devil knows how you can pressure Bakhtiyarov. But you’ve definitely got to catch him out of his office, in the Woodland Fairy Tale restaurant, for instance, when the comrade is eating and relaxing. You could try going to the baths, the baths would be best of all, and it’s an old trick—wait for the moment when the beauty drops her swan feathers to bathe in the spring, so to speak—then you’ve caught the little bird, you close in and stash the feathers somewhere, and you can ask whatever your heart desires. But Bakhtiyarov is no beauty, as you’ll see for yourself, and his feathers and pants and suitcase with underwear and all kinds of tasty goodies are so well guarded, and getting into the bathhouse is so difficult—like Babà Yaga’s house, it can turn its face to the forest and rear to people quick as a wink—that you shouldn’t even think of getting in there without a magic password. So why don’t you try to find him out of town, in the Fairy Tale? Well, what can you do, give it a try. He goes there to relax.

And the Fairy Tale came to pass.

Whew, how warm it was in there, how fancy, and how glorious it smelled. If only Lora were here, and I had a bit more money, yes, over there in that corner under the yellow lampshade, where the napkins are folded like fans and the armchairs are soft. Peace for a tormented, half-mad soul!