Olga Grushin - The Dream Life of Sukhanov

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” Sukhanov said quickly. “After all, you said yourself, it’s a beginning—”

“Please, what beginning, who am I fooling?” said Belkin, waving his hand. “No, I’m just not capable of anything original. Actually, I’ve known it for a long time, Nina’s visit only made it… final somehow. Funny, the way life turns out. It seems only yesterday that the late fifties were here, and we were constantly on fire with our work, proud of our poverty, brave in our shared struggle against the old, drunk with our newfound gift of expression…. You remember, don’t you, Tolya? Our days flowed into nights, our nights were endless, and every windbag who talked about Russia, God, and art was a brother, every artist a genius, every painting a miracle—and the world did not know us yet, but we were together, we were brilliant, we were destined to light up the skies…. And then you blink, and all at once you yourself are in your fifties, still poor but no longer so sure of all those eternal truths, and alone now, because most of your old friends have crawled into their own nooks and crannies of misery and your wife has left to have children with another man. And on occasion, when you are hungover and the only thing in your kitchen is pickled cabbage, even the colors of the rainbow all begin to seem dirty and drab—and that’s when the world finally chooses to turn in your direction, and you suddenly find that after all these years, all you have to show for yourself are a few hard-earned calluses on your hands and a landscape with lilac bushes. And then all those things that seemed so earth-shattering in the past, all those experiments with religion, eroticism, surrealism, abstraction, all those exuberant departures from the commonplace, appear for what they are in the harsh light of the day-self-indulgent exercises in passing time, pathetic imitations of fashions the West tried and discarded decades ago. And you realize that all our names are fated to become only a condensed and condescending footnote to Russian history, lumped together under the heading ‘Khrushchev’s Thaw,’ and… What? Why are you looking at me like that? Wasn’t always so eloquent, was I? I guess I’ve had a lot of practice talking to myself over the years.”

“It’s not that,” Sukhanov said hesitantly. “It’s just that I didn’t expect you to sound so… Well, it almost seems as if you are regretting your life, the choices you made.”

“Ah, that would be rather ironic, wouldn’t it? After all, I despised you so much for quitting. In the beginning especially, when I kept seeing your dreadful articles in every magazine and hearing from former colleagues about your dizzying climb up the ladder of success—and I had to survive by loading and unloading vegetable trucks. Alla always complained that my clothes stank of rotting potatoes, I remember…. Then Yastrebov took me to a doctor acquaintance of his, and for a bottle of brandy this fellow provided me with a certificate stating that I was mentally ill. After that I lived on state allowance, pretending to be mad. Of course, it was very little money, but things were finally getting better—I had all my time to myself, I could paint all I wanted—and then Alla left me. And it’s strange—I never really thought I loved her that much, but after she was gone it all somehow started to fall apart. Maybe I just grew out of my twenties, I don’t know…. Anyway, that was when I first suspected that what I had taken for talent had been only youth and energy, nothing more. I puzzled over my last conversation with you and your decision, and, well… I began to have doubts. And yes, Tolya, I still do, perhaps more than ever—so much so that at times I almost wish… I mean, look at the two of us! At least you have your family, and I… I…”

Averting their eyes from each other, they drank their weak tea.

“It would be nicer with lemon, I think,” said Belkin, lifting his glass to the light. “I used to have one somewhere, but it’s gone now…. By the way, I went to Malinin’s retrospective the other day. Saw that blue portrait of Nina. Amazing, isn’t it, that even he was capable of capturing beauty on that one occasion. She made a wonderful muse, I suppose.” He smiled, but it seemed to Sukhanov that he detected a quiver of strain in the corners of Belkin’s mouth; then Belkin leaned back, and the shadows around his lips shifted and dissipated.

Sukhanov nodded. “My first truly original work was inspired by her,” he said. “You remember the one with her reflection in the train window? The one lost in the Manège disaster?”

“Well, life plays funny jokes. Maybe it’s now gracing some bureaucrat’s office.”

“Ah, sort of like your Leda gracing mine!”

No longer smiling, Belkin carefully set down his glass. “That was the best thing I did in my life,” he said. “Perhaps the only thing. You really have it in your office?”

“I did for a while…. Well, to be honest, for a day only. Nina put it up, but…”

“I understand,” Belkin said, and looked away.

The light moved again, and for one instant the face Sukhanov discerned through the shadows was that of a young man with dark, mournful, beautiful eyes—the face he had known twenty-five years ago. Feeling suddenly, unaccountably sad, he swirled the lukewarm liquid in his glass, its brim browned with traces of countless lonely teatimes, and thought of that painting, Lev’s gift to him and Nina on their wedding day, a mythical nocturnal landscape with water lilies on the surface of a still lake, and a gleaming swan, and a shepherd, and a young nude sitting on the shore, her back tense, her face averted, her honey-colored body strangely reminiscent of someone he knew….

“You know, Leva,” he said, “there is something I’ve always wanted to ask you. Well, no, not always—it’s really something I’ve wondered about only recently—or maybe… It doesn’t matter.” Lev’s gaze was on him now, still and black and deep, and he could feel his heart fluttering in his throat. He glanced down; his hands, resting on the edge of the desk, trembled slightly. “Were you and Nina lovers when I met her?” he asked.

Lev recoiled as if slapped.

“No, listen,” said Sukhanov softly, “I won’t be jealous or angry, I just need to know. You see, how can I explain this… For many years I thought I understood my life so well—it was all so clear, so even, so well arranged. But recently… recently things have been happening to me, and, well… Please, I just really need to know.”

There was no sound, for one moment, then another, then yet another…. When Lev spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I loved her, Tolya. You knew that, of course. I always loved her. We met when we were in the seventh grade, and I loved her then.”

“And did she… Was she in love with you?”

He turned away. “We were children,” he said. “But yes, we thought we were in love. We started seeing each other when we were eighteen, the summer after the exams, and stayed together all through our student years. It was innocent, of course—walks in the moonlight, kisses in the shadow of blossoming jasmine branches, trembling whispers, clumsy poems—you know how first love is. Then, when I was finally appointed to my teaching position, I asked her to marry me, and that was when the quarrels began. She had all these romantic notions about my becoming the next Chagall or Kandinsky, but she said I didn’t push myself hard enough, she wanted me to be more daring, she would marry me only if I showed her what I was capable of…. She could be very cruel at times—she knew how to make me feel so small. Of course, she only hoped to inspire me, but… Well, she was young then. Finally, at the end of 1956 I think it was, shortly after you’d met her, we quarreled horribly for the last time, and that was that. I saw her again only when all of us went boating the next summer, and you were with her then.”