Olga Grushin - The Dream Life of Sukhanov

The pool of water at my feet had dried out. The snow was still whirling in the sky. The fly had ceased buzzing, falling back into its winter stupor of sleep. I rose, gathered the pages scattered about the table, and walked into the corridor. Lev ran after me, and when I turned at the front door, I saw that his face was transformed by that special, warm, radiant smile I loved so much. Quickly I looked away, unable to watch the light go out of his eyes. In silence, I groped on the counter for my hat, put on my coat, opened the door, and still keeping my gaze averted, stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind me. And then, though he did and said nothing to stop me, for a whole long minute, my heart beating painfully, I lingered outside on the landing, knowing that in three weeks the article would be published, knowing that Lev would never speak to me again—and still I stood there as if waiting for something, as if hoping that a miracle was somehow possible, that the door would open again at any moment, and that he would smile his wonderful, forgiving smile, and say, “Please, Tolya, come in….”

“Do come in,” Belkin repeated. “Watch your head, the ceiling is a bit low.”

Sukhanov gingerly squeezed inside the gallery’s tiny foyer. The air smelled of glue, dust, and transience; posters advertising past exhibitions were stacked on the floor in one corner.

“Not too impressive, I’m afraid,” said Belkin jovially, “but it’s a beginning. This way.”

They passed into an adjacent room. There were canvases hanging here, most of them smallish urban landscapes done in a bright impressionist manner: a view of a slanting street with green balcony railings and a blossoming lilac bush; a single yellow leaf on a glinting bench and, in the background, passersby with purple and red umbrellas; an evening skater flying over the blue sheen of an icy pond, surrounded by merry orange windows lit in nearby buildings. Sukhanov slowly circled the walls, read a few labels: Autumn on Gogolevsky Boulevard, Pionerskie (Patriarshie) Ponds, Winter Roofs of the Zamoskvorechie …

A voice behind him spoke with a nervous chuckle: “My abstract phase didn’t last, as you see, though I’m still experimenting with styles”—and Sukhanov suddenly became aware of an urgent need to say something, anything at all, about the paintings before him.

“Very lyrical,” he offered hastily, “the skater especially. This night scene too—the Moscow River, isn’t it? Really, congratulations, Leva, this is great. Sorry Nina and I couldn’t make it to the opening, we wanted to, but you know how it is….”

“Of course, of course, don’t mention it,” said Belkin, looking uncomfortable. “Well, this is all there is. Very modest, as you see… A cup of tea, then?”

“A cup of tea would be good,” Sukhanov said.

The narrow, windowless space in the back—hardly more than a closet—was crowded with a desk and two chairs, their surfaces littered with crumbs of long since digested meals, tattered remnants of aged newspapers, and a nondescript overflow of paintings and sculptures from previous shows, a few price tags still dangling from pedestals and frames. While Belkin busied himself with rinsing and filling two yellowed glasses at a sink in the corner and sliding heating coils into the cloudy water, Sukhanov cleared one chair of its accumulations, sat down, and surveyed the mournful debris of bypassed art—a portrait of a man in a sailor suit with a grinning cat perched on his shoulder, a still life with a matchbox and a half-eaten herring, a number of multicolored cubes resembling children’s toy blocks gathered in a flock on the desk… The sight of the cubes stirred some hazy recollection in his mind, and mechanically he picked one up, turned it over in his hand.

The cube was upholstered in black and purple, and the label on its side read: “A soul. Don’t open or it will fly away.”

And then, unexpectedly, there it was, descending on him—the whistle of a remote train, the creaking of logs in the fireplace, the motes of reflected light dancing in a glass of red wine, and Nina’s quiet voice speaking into the shadows. I can’t stop thinking about what might have been hidden inside. Would there be another dark cube that said, “Too late, it’s gone, told you not to open it”? Or was there instead a bright red or blue cube, or one wrapped in golden foil, perhaps, that said, “The daring are rewarded. Take your soul, go out into the world, and do great deeds”?…

For a minute Sukhanov stared at the small, light object on his palm, fighting the desire to crush it. Then, setting the cube down, he slowly moved his eyes around the room until they rested heavily on Belkin.

Belkin must have felt the gaze.

“Patience, only a moment longer,” he said cheerfully, glancing up. “I can’t find the cakes, but the water’s already—”

Noticing the expression on Sukhanov’s face, he stopped uncertainly.

“Nina…” Sukhanov said in a halting voice. “Nina was here, wasn’t she?”

Belkin hesitated briefly, then nodded.

“She was. She came to the opening last Wednesday.”

“I never told her about your opening, Leva,” said Sukhanov stonily.

Belkin placed the glasses of pale tea on the desk, dropped a sugar cube into each, pushed one glass toward Sukhanov, and pulled up a chair.

“I know,” he said. “But you did tell her you ran into me, and she called me the next day—got my new phone number through Viktor Yastrebov. As it turns out, both of us have been visiting him from time to time, bringing him food and such, now that he is old and sick and all alone…. Anyway, we met that same Sunday for a stroll, and I mentioned the exhibition. She said she wanted to come, but she thought you’d be upset if you knew. Look, Tolya, I’m really sorry I didn’t say anything earlier, it’s just that I wasn’t sure…”

His words trailed off. Staring into space, Sukhanov took a sip of his tea. And then, as the hot, sweet, tasteless liquid slid down his throat, he felt a new kind of calm descending on him—a calm not of detachment but rather of understanding, as if in the last few hours some invisible yet great change had been secretly wrought in the very fabric of his being and he could contemplate his life without bitterness. Perhaps it was a calm born of emptiness and despair; it hardly mattered now, he supposed. For a while he sat without moving or speaking, marveling at the swelling of the tranquil wave inside him. Then, looking up, he saw Belkin watching him tensely across the close dimness of the room.

“Leva, it’s all right,” he said. “Really, it is. Though I suppose I would have been angry a few days ago.” He smiled without mirth. “She said she was home with a migraine all day Sunday, and on your opening night she told me she was going to a play with a girlfriend. She never mentioned Viktor either…. But I’m glad that she came to see you. I should have been here too.”

A melting sugar cube tinkled lightly against a glass. Belkin blinked, whether relieved or embarrassed, Sukhanov could not tell.

“Well, you are here now,” he said, “that’s what matters. Anyway, to tell you the truth, this whole exhibition affair isn’t working out quite as I imagined. And the strange thing is, having Nina at the opening made it… well, worse. I mean, here I am, milling about with a few of my friends who have all seen my works before, chatting about their children and vacations, nothing in particular, yet all the while basking in this pleasant glow of being somehow important—the hero of the day, you know? And suddenly the door opens, and she walks in, beautiful as always and so young-looking, in these silver earrings she used to wear in her student days, and she looks at everything so seriously, almost urgently—and after a while, I begin to see this slight hint of disappointment in her face…. Oh, of course she was very kind and polite, and we had tea and talked about art, and all seemed well. But after she left, after everyone left, I looked at my paintings through her eyes, and I saw just a handful of second-rate landscapes stuck in a basement.”