Eugene Vodolazkin - The Aviator

After learning they had frozen me, he advanced a fourth version. It consisted of them intending to drag the virus of revisionism – which had eaten away at me – into the communist future by freezing me. No spirit could be sensed now in what Seva uttered: there was only a tormented body. It wanted nothing beyond the cessation of torture. It did not even want life: the self-incrimination reflected in the transcripts boded nothing but the firing squad for Seva.

In revealing ever more new details about himself and me, my unfortunate relative even demanded that I be thawed and interrogated with prejudice. Several pages pasted into the dossier recorded that an attempt of the sort was undertaken. It ended lamentably for the interrogators. After clarifying whose instruction had ordered the freezing experiments, the attempt to defrost me was deemed revisionist and I remained in place. Unlike, by the way, the interrogators, who were handed over to a court.

[ ]

Platosha and I decided to legalize our relationship before God and people. First, before people: marrying requires a stamp in the passport. There’s actually a long wait at the registry office but Geiger helped with that. One of the heads of the passport service turned out to be his former patient.

‘Was he frozen, too, before he worked at the passport service?’ I asked Geiger.

‘The opposite,’ said Geiger. ‘He froze after he got there. But sometimes he thaws out: they’ll register you without a wait.’

So even Geiger has a sense of humor. My relationship with him is better than ever.

After that I went to St Prince Vladimir Cathedral and made arrangements for our wedding. They asked: with or without a choir? With a choir, of course. How could it be without a choir? I told Platosha about all that in the evening, including Geiger’s help speeding up the process. And he said:

‘If Geiger’s in such a hurry, that means things aren’t good for me. He’s the best informed of all of us.’

I started saying Geiger’s not at all in a hurry, but then the telephone started ringing. They were asking Platosha about yet another interview. He refused and hung up. He already either couldn’t recall our previous conversation or just didn’t want to continue it. Never mind, as they say. Sometimes it’s rough being with him.

[INNOKENTY]

I am ashamed of myself. I’m feeling afraid and thus tormenting those around me and, really, there are only two of them. Why am I doing that? It doesn’t even make things any easier for me. I’m afraid that some sort of latent irritation has appeared in me because I will depart and they will remain. If that is truly how things are, then my behavior is doubly shameful. I need to watch myself carefully.

I told Geiger the other day that I don’t intend to write any longer. But now I understand: I do intend to. Because of my daughter. If she is not fated to see me alive, I will appear before her in written form, as they say, and my pages will accompany her throughout her life. There is no point in writing about the major events: she’ll find out about those anyway. The descriptions should touch on what occupies no place in history but remains in the heart forever.

An abandoned narrow-gauge railway substation, for example. Everyone forgot the substation and everyone forgot the narrow-gauge railway. I don’t remember where it was or where the railway led, if it even did. It stretched, rusty, through grasses; it was already nearly invisible. Some other children and I were playing under the platform and the sun made its way through cracks in the boards. Grasses stirred, grasshoppers chirped, there was a hot spell. And a cool breeze was blowing there, under the rough flooring. The platform was high so we were all able to stand at full height underneath. We were sitting in pairs, though, leaning against one another’s backs. Sitting was good, soft: grass grew under the platform, too, though it wasn’t thick, and some mosses were also growing. One boy had nobody to lean against. And so, he said:

‘There will be a thunderstorm. It will be the end of us.’

We could see nothing to portend a thunderstorm, but that’s only how it seemed: an absolutely leaden cloud was approaching from behind the grove we weren’t looking at. Unlike the boy who had warned us, we were self-absorbed and had not noticed anything. Later in life, I have observed that solitary people sense more subtly and notice nearing changes before others. And so that cloud rode into the sunny splendor, with a full complement of rain, lightning, thunder, and even hail. Hail the size of pigeon eggs, as is commonly said. Maybe a pigeon egg. I have never seen their eggs but the hailstones truly were large. The way they drummed on the boards made me think the boards would not hold out long.

I’ll add that lightning flashed and thunder boomed. It didn’t even boom, it cracked, infernally loudly. As if the sky were breaking into two uneven parts (the sun was still shining, far away). I, of course, had lived through thunderstorms more than once even before this, but in all those previous storms, seconds passed between lightning and a clap of thunder. My mother and I sometimes counted them. This time, though, the claps of thunder rang out together with the lightning, and that was scary. We were sitting as before, pressing our backs against one another, but now it was fear rather than a friendly feeling that bonded us. Water poured through the cracks in the boards, flowing behind our shirt collars and streaming, cold, along the body. And the boy who remained unpaired shouted in the intervals between lightning:

‘Heavenly electricity!’

I became desperately sorry for him and that sorrow overpowered fear. I moved away from the back I had managed to cling to and gave up my place to the shouter. He did not so much as stir, though. He was enjoying the horror of his solitariness. And the fullness of knowledge.

[ ]

I looked at the menologium in search of a name for our daughter. According to the doctors’ calculations, she should be born around April 13. St Anna is celebrated on that day. I told Platosha that and he was glad. He said that name reminds him of mine and my grandmother’s. I’m glad, too: Anna’s a beautiful name and not everybody can be Anastasia in any case. I decided to look to see who else is celebrated on that day. It turns out there’s Prelate Innokenty, educator of Siberia and America. Amazing.

We’re continuing to prepare for the wedding, mentally, at least, because we don’t want any celebrations at all. Geiger is our only guest. Platosha asked him to keep notes about the wedding. Geiger wavered slightly but didn’t dare refuse: Platosha did write for him for more than half a year.

Oh, this is important: we did register (what a Soviet term!). We came to the Petrograd District registry office and registered, wearing sweaters and jeans. Some old bag came out, lips pursed, to welcome us but Platosha stopped her. He calmly said that was unnecessary. She understood and wasn’t even offended. She limited her performance to ‘Sign the registry here.’ We signed.

We had a beer in the nearest pub: I had non-alcoholic, Platosha had German unfiltered. Over all, Platosha’s mood has lightened a bit in recent days. No, that’s not the word: it’s changed. He isn’t gladder now, but he’s calmer, and that’s an improvement of sorts.

[ ]

I forgot to say: the thunderstorm was short and the sun soon peeked out. The streams through the cracks became ever thinner. I glanced stealthily at the boy who had shouted about heavenly electricity. He was sitting, hands folded, with the sorrowful look of a prophet. Something in him was otherworldly. I wonder who he was and what became of him.

We watched the sparkling of the flowing water for a while longer. Now there weren’t even thin streams. Water initially covered the cracks as if it were a film but that thin film tore suddenly, turning into uniformly large drops. We went out into the open expanse and saw a rainbow. Our rusted narrow-gauge railway was departing underneath it, as if riding under a bridge.