Eugene Vodolazkin - The Aviator

Oh, and Zheltkov called to congratulate Platosha on ‘Man of the Year.’ I was gesturing to Platosha: invite the guy to tea, he loves it. He didn’t invite him.

[INNOKENTY]

Zheltkov called twice this week, once when Nastya was here, once when she wasn’t. I didn’t tell her anything about the time she wasn’t here. He said then that he had an interesting political project for me. That I, as a person who’s been around for ages (is he implying the liquid nitrogen means I’m from the Ice Age?) could be useful… I didn’t let him finish. Above all, I said, I am a nonpolitical person.

‘But you,’ he objected, ‘you didn’t even listen to the gist of my project!’

‘And it’s a good thing I didn’t. What if it’s a state secret and I have to live with it after turning it down?’

‘Well, not that much of a secret,’ growled Zheltkov. ‘Fine, we’ll make do without any projects. It would be better to have tea, right?’

He burst into the same laughter as during the tea party.

Why does Nastya think that laugh is sincere?

[NASTYA]

Today Platosha went to see Geiger at the clinic for yet another blood test, and I went to St Prince Vladimir’s Cathedral. I walked through the park that they say used to be the church cemetery. There were maple and poplar leaves on the paths here and there, but not yet a complete covering. I suddenly realized it’s already the beginning of autumn. Slight fading but not yet an avalanche.

We’d gone to the cathedral together before this but here I was walking by myself; something sank inside me. Will the day really arrive that I’ll come here alone? If those had been only thoughts, I could have somehow driven them away, but then it proved to be autumn, too: a sort of overall departure. As I was walking by the church gates, past the panhandlers, they didn’t even pester me, they just followed me with their eyes; that’s the sort of look I turn out to have.

The evening service was underway – I don’t know what it’s properly called. The church was in half-darkness, illuminated only by candles. After entering, I headed for the left side altar where there’s an icon of St Panteleimon, the great martyr and healer. A prayer to him hung by the icon and I read it. Then I pressed my forehead to the icon’s glass, standing there a very long time. I told Panteleimon about Platosha. About how much he suffered and agonized during his life but the most important thing is that we’re now expecting a child. Alongside me, people were kissing the icon and the glass under my forehead was no longer cool, but I kept telling and telling. Soundlessly moving my lips. The warmth of the glass I had heated transformed into Panteleimon’s warmth for me. Quiet prayers wafted to me and calmed me.

Then I stood by the Savior, by the icon ‘Joy of All Who Sorrow.’ Never before have I had a conversation like this, but now it happened. This was a genuine conversation, though only I spoke. The answer to me was hope, which came to replace despair. A special joy of the sorrowful.

I came home after Platosha. When he asked where I’d been, I told him, though I hadn’t initially planned to. I was afraid the story about the church would reveal to him how serious his condition seems to me. I was afraid that might finish him off completely. But I couldn’t have even guessed that such joy would come to me that I’d be able to share it with him.

He told me:

‘You’re glowing all over. I’m afraid your glow will turn into its opposite if things don’t go well for me.’

To be honest, I hadn’t expected that.

‘Are you proposing that I plead for you and not believe it can come true? Do you remember – it’s somewhere in Chekhov – about the priest who goes to plead for rain and brings an umbrella with him?’

‘You don’t need the umbrella. Just plead.’

He kissed me on the forehead. He’s not right. Not right!

[INNOKENTY]

An ambulance came for Nastya. She had been complaining for several days about a heaviness in her belly but had not allowed me to telephone for a doctor and today it all got worse, so we had to telephone. It’s good we begged with the doctors to take her to the Nevsky Maternity Hospital, where she has been receiving care since the beginning of her pregnancy. I don’t understand why I, a fool, had not insisted on the hospital earlier… Of course I do understand. She was scared to leave me on my own. And I am scared to be left. But what can be expected now? Just the thought of that makes me feel ill. I really should have insisted. Taken her by the hand and brought her to the hospital.

I felt absolutely nauseous when we got to the maternity hospital. I did ask to go to her room and sit alongside her, but no way! Why did you arrive so late, sweetheart, it’s almost night! As if we’d chosen when to arrive… They would not let me past the admissions area. And they took Nastya to a room on a stretcher. What a distressing spectacle when someone close to you is taken away on a stretcher. Ugh.

I sat for about another hour on a couch in the admissions area. People came to look at me: I think the entire hospital staff checked in at my couch. To look: they looked but they did nothing to unite me and Nastya. Not. A. Thing. In the end, they asked me to leave the couch, too: they said they were supposed to close the hospital for the night. I left without uttering a word. Of course I could have told them how bad I felt but I could not find the exact word.

I ended up on Nevsky Prospect a few minutes later. I started going into the metro – I even bought a token – but didn’t ride.

‘Are you going in?’ asked the attendant. ‘We’re closing, by the way.’

Then close. I changed my mind about taking the metro when I pictured being at home without Nastya. After leaving the metro, I headed toward Moscow Station; I decided to sit there a while. People, lots of people, though I had been dreaming of a bright place without people. I didn’t feel like talking with them or even just seeing them. I didn’t feel like knowing they exist. Because after parting with Nastya, it would be better on the whole if they weren’t there. My loneliness was only more pointed because of their presence. I sat in the station for about an hour and a half.

I went out to Znamenskaya Square – I remember when it was still called that, still with the church and the brilliant monument. I imagined the emperor returning to his place, with a stonelike tread. There were cars with flashing lights in front of him – they stopped traffic for his majesty, they had not been expecting him. His horse stepped slowly: the clatter of hoofs, sparks on the asphalt. I returned, so why can’t the emperor return? Both of us are history.

I plodded off toward the Nevsky Monastery. I was tired, my legs were giving way. A kitchen table someone had carried outside stood in front of one building. I sat on it. My feet drummed lightly on it, making a muffled drumming noise. I had never sat like that before on Nevsky. On a kitchen table. I rested a little and walked on.

To my surprise, the entrance to the monastery was open. People were standing by the gate, waiting for something. A minute later, a vehicle with ‘MuniWater’ written on it; showed up and drove through the gate at low speed. I walked after the car, in no hurry. Nobody stopped me; I obviously resembled a MuniWater employee in some way. Maybe with my pensiveness. People who handle water are often pensive.

I hesitated and then decided to go to Nikolsky Cemetery. It turned out the vehicle was headed there, too. It was still driving just as slowly, as if feeling its way, and its headlights grabbed trees and monuments from the darkness. They became improbably three-dimensional, moving in the electric beams, changing places, losing their own shadows and acquiring others’.