Olga Grushin - The Dream Life of Sukhanov

“Yes, not too bad,” Vasily said. “You should have seen the man’s digs!”

It took Sukhanov a long minute to recall the comment he had made just before boarding his present train of thought. Mechanically, he said, “Ah yes, the party. What man? Weren’t you at Olga’s dacha? And by the way, I meant to ask you—”

Olga was a charming girl involved with Vasily in a romance that had lasted for several lukewarm years now, and it occurred to Sukhanov that the subject might serve as a suitable introduction to a momentous discourse on youth, happiness, and other matters distilled by his lifelong wisdom.

“Of course I wasn’t at Olga‘s,” said Vasily in a surprised voice. “Didn’t you know where I went? Remember that little get-together planned by the Minister of Culture?”

“The Minister of Culture?” Sukhanov repeated blankly.

“Yes, he invited both of us to come to his dacha tonight, remember?” said Vasily offhandedly

A dog began to bark hoarsely a few streets away. Sukhanov looked at his son in deepening silence. The boy’s eyes had narrowed, and he did not seem half as tipsy as before.

“Oh, that’s right, you forgot to tell me about it!” he said with a cold smile. “Slipped your mind, did it? But I happened to see the Minister’s wife at that matinee at the Bolshoi, and she mentioned it to me. As a matter of fact, she wanted to make sure we’d be there. I told her you were rather busy nowadays, but as for me, I’d be delighted.”

“Vasily,” said Sukhanov slowly. “You must understand, it wasn’t an intentional… I didn’t… I just wasn’t sure we were invited, you see. I wish you had told me, I myself would have liked to… Ah, forget it. That was lucky, you running into the woman.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it luck,” said Vasily “I overheard she was going to be at the theater. Why else, do you think, would I agree to suffer through three hours of boredom? I mean, no offense, but Grandma isn’t exactly a bundle of laughs, and I find Coppelia greatly overrated.”

“Oh,” said Sukhanov. “Oh, I see. Well, I’m glad it worked out. Many interesting people at the party, I suppose… By the way, did you meet their daughter? I hear she is pretty.”

“No, not particularly, unless, of course, your preferences run to tiny eyes and a general absence of neck. Which, personally, I’m willing to live with if they belong to a minister’s offspring. We hit it off rather well, I believe. I’m taking her out to dinner. Another sip?”

“No, thank you,” said Sukhanov cheerlessly. For some reason, he failed to feel happy for his son. Instead, he found himself strangely rattled by the conversation, so different from the one he had pictured. “And what about Olga?”

“Oh well, I figure we both need a change of scenery,” said Vasily with a shrug.

It was drawing closer to midnight; the lights were starting to go out in the houses around them, and the bench had turned cold. A leaf fell into Sukhanov’s lap; he picked it up and twirled it in his fingers. The dog, now barking only a street away, was joined by another, and their howling made him edgy and sad at the same time, as if he had lost something vital.

“Were you ever even in love with her?” he asked quietly.

Vasily looked vastly amused.

“I don’t believe it,” he drawled. “You, of all people, are going to lecture me about love?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” said Anatoly Pavlovich, straightening with slow dignity. “Your mother and I married for love!”

“But it sure was nice that she wasn’t the daughter of a bus driver, right?” Vasily replied, smiling. “I mean, how fortunate that her famous father was just the person to help you start your wonderful little career in art criticism. Talk of lucky coincidences!”

And that was when Sukhanov looked at his son—and saw a grown man whom he did not recognize. The man had light blue eyes and dark blond hair. The man was wearing a perfectly tailored blazer and drinking expensive wine. The man looked altogether like someone he had once known, but the man was an impostor. Had to be.

Sukhanov began to stand up.

“Let’s go home, I’m getting cold,” he said expressionlessly. “And by the way, Fyodor is staying with us for one more night. I expect you to be polite.”

“Do you know what your trouble is?” said the man on the bench, not attempting to move. “You do everything halfway. So you married up, so you sold out, wrote ideological nonsense you didn’t believe in, fine and good—but what did you get for it? A comfortable apartment in the Zamoskvorechie, a nice dacha, and a cushy little job at some magazine! Honestly, Father, was that the extent of your ambition, was it even worth all the sacrifice, to become an important man in such a small world? Do you realize how high you could have risen with Grandpa’s connections if only you had wanted to? But then again, maybe you couldn’t have, maybe you simply didn’t have it in you, maybe—”

Anatoly Pavlovich turned and walked away with heavy steps, feeling his age in his shoulders and knees. In another moment, the empty bottle clanged dully as it rolled under the bench, and Vasily followed him, still talking—talking about his own plans, his influential grandfather, some place in the Crimea, the Minister, the Minister’s overweight daughter… Sukhanov was no longer listening. When the elevator arrived, boxlike and lurching, and the smiling concierge swung open its iron gate, he waited for his son to pass inside the dismally mirrored coffin and then announced he was going to take the stairs instead.

“Good for one’s health,” he explained to the concierge.

“So I’ve heard,” replied the concierge enthusiastically. “They say every step up adds a second to a man’s life!”

For a moment Sukhanov wondered whether he wanted these extra seconds, these tiny units of life, pulsing with animation, stored in his body for future usage. Then he nodded and began to climb. On the third landing, he heard a plate smashing onto the floor in the apartment belonging to the mysterious woman with Nefertiti’s profile. As he continued to ascend, he thought that an altogether unusual amount of porcelain was being broken nowadays in building number seven, Belinsky Street, in the city of Moscow.

It happened the way he had always imagined—an explosion of ruthless knocks on the front door ripping through the stillness of sleep. The first volley merged with his dream, which immediately turned noisy and violent, with him dashing through grimy, bullet-riddled corridors, pursued by a mob of men with hairy arms and faces like slabs of beef; but when another salvo of raps slit his nightmare wide open, Sukhanov sat up and listened, his skin tightening with a sense of unreality. All was quiet about him, yet the silence rang with that menacing hollowness that follows upon a loud, sharp sound.

He rose and, struggling with his robe (which, clownishly, ridiculously, frighteningly, had grown a third sleeve and kept escaping him), traversed the predawn darkness as if in slow motion; the thuds of his slippers fell upon the floor like his own uneven heartbeats. In the entrance hall, he tripped against the ghosts of two umbrellas forgotten by the wall and, swearing, was just about to flip the light switch when the shadows exploded with knocking once again, unbearably close now. No longer able to pretend it had been a dream, he stood staring, staring at the front door, without moving, almost without breathing, feeling suddenly afraid and alone—as afraid and alone as he had felt forty-eight years ago, on the night when those polished black shoes had invaded their Arbat existence for the third, and final, time.