Eugene Vodolazkin - The Aviator

MONDAY [NASTYA]

The day started with disappointment. Our intended tenants called to turn down the apartment. When I asked why, they answered that it was something personal. I informed Platonov of what happened and he took it calmly. I’m sorry, though. I spent a lot of time and energy on the search, found a married couple without children, and now this. I’ll have to start all over again. There’s no such thing as luck, it occurred to me. And then I recalled a little story from Platosha’s youth, about an Australian resident who goes to the bottom of the sea in search of human happiness. That’s who we need.

Interestingly, this evening we were at a reception at the Australian consulate. This was basically the first time I’d been to a foreign reception; it was hilarious. The consul appeared in the beginning and welcomed everybody on behalf of the citizens of Australia. Among other things, a non-Australian spoke: he started explaining why Serbia needed to be bombed; nobody was expecting to hear about that. The funniest thing is that he was bug-eyed, like the ‘Australian Resident’ toy, and his speech turned out to be a retelling of Platonov’s story.

There was a buffet after that. People kept coming up to my Platonov and expressing gratitude for his courage. He would set aside yet another tartlet and politely thank them. He said he’d simply had no choice. I admired my gallant companion. We never did figure out why they’d invited him to the consulate. Maybe they were gathering courageous people there that day.

TUESDAY [GEIGER]

Innokenty has changed. The fear of what didn’t exist in his time is no longer conspicuous. The current time really is his now, too. He’s settled in pretty well.

He’s hanging in there calmly, if not exactly confidently. And it seems like he’s growing accustomed to his role as a celebrity.

People invite him everywhere, they’re glad to see him everywhere. I heard him on the telephone answering, ‘Thank you…’ and ‘I’ll have to take a peek at my calendar…’

Innokenty truly does already have a calendar. It’s Nastya.

Of course she likes this life more than anyone. Nastya’s in seventh heaven and doesn’t hide her feelings. It’s rather amusing. At times she takes on a weary look when recollecting her pregnancy. Even then, though, she sparkles with happiness.

And I’m glad of it. You’d have to look really hard for a source of positivity like that. It’s very important for my patient.

THURSDAY [INNOKENTY]

Of all my Solovetsky years, Anzer was probably the only human time. I cannot call that time ‘happy,’ only because each day of my physical recovery drew me closer to the day of my departure. To the day, I whispered to myself, of my death, because neither I nor the other Lazaruses nurtured any sorts of illusions about the results of the freezing. Muromtsev did everything to extend the time we spent at Anzer but what did the gift of a few weeks mean by comparison with a life taken away?

We felt like animals being fed for slaughter who – unlike ordinary animals – know that. In fact there was something animal-like in our life: there was some sort of stupefaction that did not allow one to fall into despair. It was as if they were holding your head under water and then suddenly let go, allowing you to inhale, so you gasp for air with your mouth, not thinking much about what awaits you afterwards. You are simply glad that you can breathe.

Muromtsev petitioned for the Lazaruses to have complete freedom of movement. They were granted passes allowing unlimited movement around the island. After breakfast (which was, by the way, very filling), I would head out for a walk. I wore a short sheepskin coat and a hat of wolf’s fur with soft officer boots on my feet. Along the way I would run into half-undressed prisoners with wheelbarrows: they were exactly the same as I had been, not long ago at all. Their eyes silently followed me: it was strictly forbidden to talk with Lazaruses. I would go down to the water and stroll along the shore.

Although snow had already accumulated in the middle of the island, especially in the wooded parts, it barely lingered on the open shore. Only in certain places, catching on the bushes, did it unobtrusively make its presence known and even in those spots it blended with the sand, becoming unnoticeable. There were astonishing sandy beaches on Anzer. Stepping along the sand, I felt its softness even through the boots and imagined I was in the south: summer, the damp brim of a bucket hat, and grains of sand between sweaty toes.

The water was not summery, so I tried not to look at it. The sea had no azure skies above, so there was nowhere for it to take on the corresponding color. But the sand had a completely summery look. True, it was cold, but, well, I wasn’t touching it anyway.

I am now reading about outer space. It’s interesting that the first to make it there were dogs.

FRIDAY [GEIGER]

Today Innokenty signed a contract to advertise frozen foods. That resulted from the callers reaching Nastya.

Innokenty told me at one point that they’d called him. He hung up. I probably would have hung up, too.

But Nastya didn’t hang up. She spoke with them in a businesslike way, learned the size of the fee, and was impressed.

She’s right about something. The money that the authorities allocated to support Innokenty comes up categorically short. And it doesn’t arrive regularly, either. I’ve had to hold paid consultations at the clinic and that’s not fully legal. But the proceeds went toward our patient.

It’s interesting that it was Nastya who told me about the signed contract. With a certain pride. Innokenty hasn’t commented on it at all. Is he feeling awkward about it?

If the connections with frozen foods continue, I’ll be able to turn down the consultations.

FRIDAY [INNOKENTY]

Nastya has changed somehow. If compared with who she was before Anastasia’s death, she’s slightly different. I discover a new Nastya each day, and that’s a great pleasure.

To what degree does she resemble Anastasia?

SATURDAY [NASTYA]

There’s a big press conference planned for next week at a news agency. At first I thought it was the agency’s initiative, but they let slip that the event is paid for by a vegetable company. By an improbable (oy!) coincidence, it’s the company Platosha advertises. How curious: the vegetable merchants don’t just advertise their own cabbage but also the person who advertises the cabbage. They’ve thought everything through.

Incidentally, my Platonov signed a contract for a series of advertising spots. Right after signing, they brought him to a studio to film the first spot. He refused weakly, said he wasn’t dressed for filming and all that, but they said the opposite was the case: he’d need to undress. I whispered to him that there was no reason to be especially nervous: he had clean underwear. That was no reassurance, though.

We came to the studio. There’s a container made of some sort of special material standing there: it’s silvery with a hundred polished rivets. There’s cotton wool soaked with glue along the edges of the container, as if it’s icy, and there’s gas coming out of it, imitating liquid nitrogen’s coldness. The gas spreads along the floor around the container in fluffy layers. They undress Platosha to his underwear and plant him in the barrel. Actually, he’s barely visible in that container – just his head and shoulders. Off-camera, they ask Platosha:

‘What helped you endure here for so many decades?’

He takes a package of frozen vegetables and raises it over his head:

‘This did!’

The whole studio rolls with laughter.

And I suddenly feel sorry for him.

SUNDAY [GEIGER]