Eugene Vodolazkin - The Aviator

Innokenty and Nastya described filming the advertising spot.

On the one hand, it’s comical. On the other, though, it degrades the tragic element of Innokenty’s life. In his own eyes, first and foremost.

It imagines that he spent all those decades lying in a barrel. He didn’t give a damn, just sustained himself on frozen vegetables. [5] Awful (Germ.).

What tackiness that is, anyway. Schrecklich.

MONDAY [INNOKENTY]

A couple of days ago, I was filmed for an advertising spot: Nastya made an agreement with an agency for a whole series of them. It’s unbelievable stupidity and it’s embarrassing to even talk about, but they pay an insane fee. I never would have thought it would bring in so much money.

I’m reading now about what happened in the country after my arrest. The authors keep expressing the thought that the entire country became a prison camp. Of course, even back then I heard bits of news from the newly arrested and knew some things thanks to Muromtsev, whose connections to the country’s capitals had not been cut off. But still, I had not imagined the true scope of the Terror.

Muromtsev. He was a sincere person, carefree, too, in a way. I think the fact that he was already residing on Solovki is what saved him from worse troubles. He was located in the center of the vortex, where, as we know, it is calmest of all. If he had not already been imprisoned, Muromtsev would have been shot thirty times for what he told me during our walks. As for me, I no longer hid my judgments from anyone – not just Muromtsev – when I was preparing to be immersed into liquid nitrogen. My words most likely made it to the camp’s authorities, but were regarded with total calm. Knowing that all my judgments would be frozen along with me. And would never thaw.

It surprised me greatly that other Lazaruses were cautious, as was the way at the camp. Maybe they truly believed that they would be thawed someday and were afraid of possible accusations in the future? Their fear acted upon me, oppressively. Could it really be, I wondered, that even the distant future would not lead us out of this Bolshevik hell?

Muromtsev sometimes invited me to his apartment (he had a separate apartment!) and treated me to coffee with cognac. When his lips touched the coffee cup, his mustache sank unexpectedly low, its spiky ends sticking out. It was obvious that the academician’s mustache was treated to special care. A small beard embellished his face, too, and his delicate round glasses shone splendidly, but the very finest thing about Muromtsev was his mustache. That mustache, along with the coffee and cognac, instilled hope. So long as people who looked like that existed, normal life did not seem irretrievable.

During one of our conversations, Muromtsev said to me:

‘The real terror will begin soon.’

‘What?’ I inquired. ‘So this is unreal?’

‘There’s no reason to be ironic. Two things are needed for real terror: society’s readiness and someone who will take charge. Society’s readiness is already there. There’s just one small thing missing.’

‘And so who will take charge?’

Muromtsev was silent.

‘The strongest one. He once telephoned me, as you know. Well, then: his strength can be felt even over the telephone. It’s animal-like somehow, not human.’

I believed Muromtsev: he worked with rats.

TUESDAY [NASTYA]

Zheltkov called this morning – I answered. Rather, his aide called and when I responded that Platonov wasn’t at home, Zheltkov himself intervened in the conversation, and said that’s even better.

‘You and I are going to hatch a little plot: we’re plotting a tea party so your husband doesn’t know. We’ll invite him when it’s a done deal, so to speak.’

‘Are you in Petersburg?’ I asked.

‘What about you?’

Loud laughter in the phone. I laughed, too, but mostly to be polite. We said goodbye until evening. Zheltkov’s a great guy. Humorous, easy to talk with. True, according to Zheltkov, Innokenty Petrovich had apparently been dreaming about a tea party like this for ages, practically requested it, and now it is finally happening. But that’s just how he is: it doesn’t ruin anything, it even enhances Zheltkov in some sense, as if, you know, we’re all human beings here, we can make something up if need be. When somebody’s totally lacking weaknesses, somehow that’s not human…

Platosha and I bought some pies and various kinds of Middle Eastern sweets at the bakery. The doorbell rang at six that evening. We opened the door. Two guards (with wires in their ears) came in first, followed by uniformed people from the ‘Nord’ bakery, and only then Mister Zheltkov. About a dozen photographers and TV correspondents were behind Zheltkov. Two more guards completed the delegation. Feeling lost, we backed into the large room and the guests (this was reminiscent of a military offensive) advanced toward us.

We drank tea for about ten minutes, just long enough to fulfill the requirement of setting up the shot and carrying out the filming. Put bluntly, I wouldn’t say any soul-searching conversation came out of it. And how could it have been soul-searching when only Platonov, Zheltkov, and I were sitting at the table, despite inviting everybody to sit with us? The rest of the delegation stood by the wall, clicking camera shutters and chatting on their walkie-talkies. We took a sip each and the whole group of them departed, noisy and stamping. We were left with a large teapot inscribed ‘From the Government of the Russian Federation’ plus three cakes from Nord, and we’ve only managed to open one of them.

I wonder if that’s how he always drinks tea?

TUESDAY [GEIGER]

Nastya called. She told me how Zheltkov came by unexpectedly this evening.

I already knew. I saw it on TV: they showed everything. Innokenty Platonov and Zheltkov, patron of the thawed.

The issue wasn’t really about Zheltkov. Nastya called because of the pies and cakes: they’re delicious but there’s nobody to eat them. She invited me to stop by tomorrow for tea.

Of course I’ll stop by.

WEDNESDAY [GEIGER]

We drank tea. I’m not Zheltkov, I can’t be so quick. I stayed very late, until 1.30, and took a taxi home.

I wasn’t expecting Innokenty to start discussing dictatorship and the Terror. About what a misfortune it was for the people. (Nastya silently drew my attention to the pies.)

And then he spoke his mind, saying dictatorship is, in the final reckoning, society’s decision, that Stalin was expressing a societal will.

‘There’s no societal will to die,’ I objected.

‘There is. It’s called collective suicide. Why do pods of whales beach themselves, have you thought about that?’

I had not thought about that.

‘Are you saying,’ I said, ‘that Stalin was only an instrument of that suicide?’

‘Well, yes. Like rope or a razor.’

‘A view like that frees the villain from responsibility: you can’t hold the rope accountable.’

Innokenty shook his head.

‘No, the responsibility remains with the villain. You simply need to understand that the villainy could not help but be accomplished. People were waiting for it.’

Waiting for it?

FRIDAY [NASTYA]

This morning I woke up before Mister Platonov. I sat cross-legged on the bed, examining my sleeping husband. There was no serenity on his face – there was suffering. His lips trembled sometimes, his eyelids, too. From what, one might ask? After all the blows of fate and losses, there’s such a happy ending. He found it all: widespread attention (come on, this is even full-fledged fame!) and money; he even found his lost Anastasia in my person.

I really wanted to wake him up but didn’t dare. I would have had to explain that, well, when he was sleeping… An explanation like that might traumatize him. Geiger’s already warning me all the time that I need to be careful with him. And so I didn’t wake him up, I just kept watching him. Hand on the blanket, threads of veins running just under the skin: there’s something childlike in how they show through. Just think: the hand of a hundred-year-old person! The hand that touches me.