Эдвард Докс - Pravda ['Self Help' in the UK]

Nonetheless, these two circumstances—teaching and piano—might not have led to their present arrangement in tower block number two had it not been for two further eventualities: the dwindling of Henry’s money and the unforeseen arrival of the woman whom Arkady referred to as “the stupid bitch.” Maria Glover changed both their lives overnight.

They were some six months into the English lessons. Arkady was now playing Henry’s piano several times a week. And yet Henry found out about the meeting between mother and son only some days after the event. The idea occurred to him more or less instantly, though: arrange for the woman to pay for Arkady to go to the conservatory. And get her to keep Arkady alive while he did so. Arkady would have to reapply, of course, and he would probably have to suffer the indignity of several auditions, but… But if he could prove himself at least as worthy of the department’s time as any of the adolescents he would be up against, then the main thing was the money. If need be, the woman, whoever she was, could pay in advance. Surely, Henry reasoned, it was worth a try. The problem was Arkady.

In all his other dealings, as far as Henry could tell, Arkady was as vulpine as everyone else in Russia, but on this one subject he was as silent and scornful as an anchorite. Henry pressed, but the Russian refused absolutely to contemplate a second meeting, refused to consider asking for anything through Zoya, refused even to talk about it. Eventually Henry offered to broker the question himself. Arkady merely shrugged—Henry could try if he wished, but it was nothing to do with him.

Thus meagerly enfranchised, Henry nonetheless set about his task with skill, a renewed sense of purpose, and no little interest, the only further Arkady-related difficulties being the finding of Zoya and the meeting with Maria Glover herself, for which he, Henry, was required to bring photographs of the Russian that he was forced (against his liking) to steal with the complicity of Polina.

In the event, the deal was relatively easy to secure. After a truly ferocious hour in the company of his friend s mother (during which he had to relate everything he knew about Arkady thrice over), Henry found Mrs. Glover suddenly tractable; she had been testing him, of course—interrogating him, or perhaps, as Henry later thought, mining him was a better way of putting it. Regardless, once her mood changed—abruptly, as if by a switch—she was more than ready to guarantee the funds in writing to the conservatory ahead of any audition. If Arkady won a place, she would not give the money to Henry (he did not ask for this, and he explained that Arkady would not accept it either), but she would pay the conservatory directly and in advance each term, the entire three years tuition as well as any dining, books, stationery, or other bills her son might incur. This without further question, Mr. Wheyland. I am not surprised to hear that you have trained as a teacher. And I further hope you will look out for my son for the duration of his studies. I trust you to do so. You will let me know immediately of his acceptance at the conservatory. Now that I have heard what you have to say, I am sure that he will be accepted. And from then on, he must have no other work or distraction until his career is made. You understand this?

She struck Henry in those moments—sitting in the casement window of her apartment, back to the light, face impassive, lips set—as a woman of great will, an exiled queen charging her courtier with the full authority of her divine right; and perhaps already inclined to duty, he felt her wish much as a command.

Of course he tracked down Arkady at his favorite pinball bar with the news that same afternoon, but the Russian never actually thanked him—not then, not ever. All the same, overnight, Henry’ s old place became a twenty-four-hour rehearsal room. Which was all the gratitude he needed.

Though nothing was left of Henry’s former life (buried, loathed, forcibly forgotten) save for the ever-decreasing remains of the money, there was nonetheless something vaguely pastoral about what happened thereafter. For it was Henry who had suggested that they find somewhere cheap together so Arkady could practice whenever he wanted and thus make the very most of the chance he had finally been given. Arkady was going to need a piano, after all. Further, Henry offered to pay for most of their food, the bills, and the rent, so that Arkady could concentrate full-time and give up the nights in the bars.

After a fashion, the arrangement worked. Arkady practiced all day (and disappeared most nights). Henry listened and listened and continued to help the Russian improve his English. And in this lopsided symbiosis, they lived.

Henry met Maria Glover only once more, some six months later, at her flat on Griboedova, as before—though this time ostensibly to check on the efficacy of their arrangements. Perhaps Arkady’s acceptance at the conservatory (communicated via Zoya) had furnished them both with the required validation—Henry to pursue his vocation more explicitly, Maria Glover to feel her obligation obliquely eased. At any rate, Henry found her that day in a lighter, more expansive mood. Perhaps glad of his Englishness too, she offered him tea and told Henry a little about herself, what she called “her second life” in London, her family there, her work on the newspaper of record. And thus charmed, Henry reciprocated by confessing something of his previous life too. That he had trained for the Catholic priesthood before abandoning the calling and becoming a full-time secondary school teacher, a job which, he explained, was these days almost impossible to do without incredible resources of stamina and insensitivity.

She asked him how he came to be in Russia. He explained that he had left his teaching job on his thirty-fourth birthday and that after his mother had died he had used the money from selling her small house in Reading to set off traveling. He described how he had come to Russia (after three years, mostly in India) overland, from the south, and fallen in love with Petersburg on his first visit.

She nodded as if such a conclusion were quite understandable and told him—with great feeling—that she had been born here. She reminisced a little about how the city used to be when it was Leningrad. He asked her how she had left. She told him she defected. She told him she had effectively “started again” in London. She became more and more loquacious. She told him a great deal and much that was personal, though she left out the names; and he began to form the impression that she was in some odd way trying to unburden herself, and that she was answering his polite curiosity with something like relief.

Then, precisely as the second hour ended, she put to him the question that he realized was the real reason behind her asking to see him again: did he, Henry, think it possible that she might hear Arkady play?

Henry was caught out. He was moved by her plea. And yet, knowing Arkady as he did and fearing Arkady’s reaction both toward Maria Glover and toward himself if he were ever to bring the two together again, he considered that he could not risk effecting such a meeting, even covertly. Despite all that she had told him, he felt he had little choice but to answer no.

A brutalized dog whimpered in the shadow of the crumbling courtyard. Six P.M. now in Petersburg; eleven A.M. in New York; and this was just the fourth or fifth call of nine or ten between them. Gabriel sat by the window of Yana’s mother’s apartment, the telephone never in its cradle, the undernourished light lingering, the better to slip away unnoticed when he turned; Isabella heading uptown, battery running down, the New York morning like a set of freshly whitened teeth. She fixated, he terrified—real and unreal, one and the same.