Olga Grushin - The Dream Life of Sukhanov

“And you, you haven’t changed at all,” he said.

In a strange way, he meant it, and not as a compliment. Of course, Lev Belkin displayed plenty of wear and tear for his fifty-three, or was it fifty-two, years—he seemed unkempt and unsettled, with all the telling signs of age and hard luck about him, and was dressed like an old circus clown; the dreadful velveteen blazer had brown leather patches at the elbows, and an absurd maroon bow tie sat askew at his throat. But Sukhanov knew wretchedness and disorder to be essentially the qualities of youth, which was why most worthwhile people eventually outlived them. Belkin had clearly chosen not to do so. To Sukhanov’s eyes he looked just like the young man he had once known, only used, downtrodden, gone to seed….

“I haven’t changed, and yet you didn’t recognize me,” Belkin said.

“Well, you know what they say—if someone who knows you well doesn’t recognize you, you’ll end up rich,” Sukhanov joked humorlessly:

“I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that,” the other man replied with a short laugh. “Not all of us are destined for riches.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sukhanov said sharply. But immediately it occurred to him that, perhaps, Belkin had meant no offense and there had been no need to react with such hostility, no need at all. Belkin did not answer, and for an uneasy minute they watched the rain slash through Manezhnaya Square; and all the while Sukhanov searched for some friendly, casual words—yet none came to mind. It had simply been too long, and anything that could be said should have been said many years ago.

Presently a rectangle of brightness cut a patch out of the portico floor, and Sukhanov caught a glimpse of the real doorman in the vestibule, bending politely at the open door. The foyer yawned with an inviting warmth, and a well-known actor emerged, in the process of unfolding an enormous pink umbrella over his nineteen-year-old wife. The couple chirped “Good night” to Anatoly Pavlovich, stared at Belkin with unbridled curiosity, and ran to a Volga that had just pulled up. The girl was giggling, and Sukhanov distinctly heard her say babochka —“bow tie” or “butterfly”—but the night swallowed the rest of the sentence and he tried to convince himself she was discussing lepidoptery rather than Belkin’s unfortunate neck decoration. Still, that was unpleasant, very unpleasant—the tittering, the gaping, and God only knew what they had thought…. He considered Belkin darkly, and a sense of oppression descended on him.

“So, Lev,” he said, “how did I miss seeing you in there?”

“Oh,” said Belkin, “I wasn’t at the opening, I don’t have an invitation. I was just—”

The door was being pushed open again, and in the widening gap Sukhanov saw the massive crimson bosom of the theater critic’s wife, followed by her grasshopper of a husband. Suddenly frantic, he began to maneuver Belkin away from the entrance, down the steps, muttering as he did so, “People starting to leave… no reason to be in their way… might as well move…” Cold rain slapped his face as he rounded the corner; Belkin trotted after him obediently. Almost, almost, just a bit more—and finally, thank God, they were out of sight, pressed into the wall under the scanty protection of a narrow cornice. Mercifully, no one had seen—except for that long-haired what‘s-his-name with his pink umbrella and his adolescent bride, but no matter, he was not important enough. Trying to suppress a shudder of relief, Sukhanov wiped the water from his glasses.

“I mean to go when it’s open to the public, of course,” Belkin was saying, noticing nothing. “By the way, how was it?”

“Great. Very interesting works. A perfect space for displaying them too.”

“Perfect, eh?” Belkin repeated, and squinted at him good naturedly. “You used to say the Manège was better as a riding academy, that its architecture was suited for horses, not paintings—”

And then, without any warning, an incredible smile flashed across Belkin’s face. It was his unforgettable trick of old, that smile, the sort that very few people ever possessed; it transformed his ordinarily woebegone features instantly, brilliantly, imbuing them with rare humanity, with a kind of intense, radiant meaning. Smiling, he lightly touched a button on Sukhanov’s jacket.

“You also said that in a way it was appropriate, because most of the artists who exhibited here were fit to be displayed only in a stable. Do you remember, Tolya?”

It was astonishing, simply astonishing, that after all this time the man could still smile like that—and it was suddenly disconcerting to see how little his eyes had changed, how, in spite of the lines at the corners, the pouches underneath, the eyelids that had grown heavy, they could still dance in his face, they could still play with the same dark, fiery, infectious life.

“I don’t remember,” Sukhanov replied stiffly. “I don’t know… Perhaps I said something like that once. In any event, they’ve redone the place since—” He faltered and ended hurriedly, “It’s completely different now.”

Belkin looked Sukhanov full in the face, then twisted his lips, nodded, and released the button. The fire in his eyes dwindled away, and the tired creases around his mouth became more pronounced.

“Funny,” he said flatly, “it looks exactly the same to me. I visit almost every exhibition, you know. Staying abreast of the new developments and all that. Not that there are any, but one keeps hoping.”

“Yes,” said Sukhanov, not knowing what else to say, and righted his glasses.

The whole thing was awkward—awkward and unnecessary There was so little space under the cornice that with every motion their shoulders nudged each other softly, and the dripping, splashing, murky world kept creeping closer, invading their cramped refuge, lapping at the edges of dryness, already seeping into Sukhanov’s beautifully polished shoes. He ached to be away, to be home, where it was light, warm, and comfortable, to be drinking his nightly tea…. The encounter was stretching to nightmarish proportions, and he knew he needed to end it, end it now, this very instant—but strangely, he could do nothing, as if he were trapped in a tedious, helpless dream. A short-haired girl darted across their lengthening pause, and he thought he saw the edge of a yellow dress flash beneath the flapping fold of a flimsy coat, but she ran by so quickly he could not be sure. Belkin too watched her melt in the rain.

“So, is Nina here?” he asked when the water had erased the girl’s steps.

“She got tired and went home early,” Sukhanov said, and added, pointing across the street, “She took our car.”

“Ah… A pity. I was hoping to see her. I bet she hasn’t changed one bit.”

“We all change,” said Sukhanov. “None of us is getting any younger.”

God, haven’t I said that already, he thought miserably.

“And how is… er… Alia?” he asked, to prevent another silence.

“Oh, didn’t you know? She left me a long time ago. She’s married to a math teacher now. Has three kids. But she is doing quite well, thanks for asking.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know…. But apart from that… That is, how are you getting along in general?”

“Not too bad, thanks. Painting and all. And you?”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain…” He coughed, shifted his weight to the other foot. Their shoulders grazed again. “Well, it seems that the rain’s almost over.”

It was raining every bit as hard as before.

“Yes, certainly looks that way,” agreed Belkin. “So, where are you off to now? I’m heading for the metro. Shall we walk together? I have an umbrella.”

“I would, but… I need to go the other way,” said Sukhanov with a vague gesture.