Andrei Makine - A Hero's Daughter

Semyonov switched on the television.

"Oh, look. Misha Gorbachev's on again. I like him a lot, that joker. He's a smooth talker and it's all off the cuff. Now Brezhnev, toward the end, was almost tongue-tied; you couldn't help feeling sorry for the guy. Even though, when all's said and done, he was an absolute son of a bitch. When you think, he made himself a Hero of the Soviet Union three times over! All those medals he stuck on himself. While all I've got is one medal – for the defense of Moscow – plus all that anniversary ironware. And my pension's eighty rubles…!

"So how on earth do you survive?" asked Ivan in amazement.

"I survive because I've got the knack for it. I've a strong enough grip to make me the envy of anyone at all. It just happened to be today that I got myself stuck with those twp idiots. Normally it goes like clockwork. If you're a veteran, especially one on crutches, they give you tickets without your having to stand in line. You've hardly walked away from the box office and people come running after you. 'Sell us your tickets.' They'll take them off you at any price you like. And I owe something else to Gorbachev. He passed the dry law, but how can people do without vodka? After seven in the evening people will part with twenty-five rubles for a ten-ruble bottle without batting an eye. Most of the hotel doormen know me: I do a good trade with them. Take a look at my stock, Vanya."

Semyonov bent over on his chair and dragged a great dusty suitcase out from under the bed. Inside it, tightly packed together, were rows of bottles of all shapes and sizes, with labels of many colors.

"So you see, Vanyush, there's no need to hold back. Don't be shy. I've enough here for a whole regiment!"

But Ivan was no longer drinking. He already felt a pleasant and joyful numbness: already all the objects in this modest room radiated a warm well-being. He became voluble, talked about Stalingrad, the hospital, Tatyana. Semyonov was an excellent listener, did not interrupt him, made comments at the right moment and at the right moment expressed astonishment. In his bitter and turbulent life he had contrived to learn how to listen to people attentively. Everyone can tell stories but listening intelligently and without upstaging the speaker… now that is an art in itself!

Finally and without managing to conceal his delight, Ivan remarked: "And as for me, Sasha, I'm not here in Moscow for the celebrations. I'm here to marry off my daughter. Yes, old friend, just that. 'Come to Moscow, Dad. My fiance's parents want to meet you.' When you have to, you have to. 'And their family,' she says, 'is really top drawer: some in the diplomatic corps, others in ministries.' She's fixed me up very well, you see. I arrived here in an ancient suit I bought long ago in the days of old rubles."

"And your daughter, Vanyush, where does she work?" asked Semyonov, neatly opening a can of sardines.

Unable to conceal his pride but with offhand joviality, Ivan replied: "Well, you know, my daughter's a real highflier, Sasha. You could say she's in the diplomatic world, too. It's such a shame her mother didn't live to see her married. It'd have been a real thrill for her. Where she works is the International Trade Center. You've heard of it?"

"Sure I know it! It's over by the Trekhgorka textile works near the river. Gray skyscrapers, just like America. You'd think you were in New York. So what does she do there?"

"How can I explain? Well, let's say an industrialist or a financier arrives, you see. He comes to sign a contract, to sell us some stuff; well, my daughter meets him, and translates everything our people say to him. In fact, she goes everywhere with him. And do you know how many foreign tongues she knows, Sasha?"

Ivan began to count them off but Semyonov was already listening somewhat absently, simply nodding his head from time to time and murmuring: "Mmm, mmm…"

"Of course, it's a tiring job, that goes without saying," continued Ivan. "Everything's planned to the last minute: conversations, negotiations. And what's more, night duty sometimes. But on the other hand, as I'm always telling her, you're not forever being sprayed with sawdust and there's no stink of gas. And the pay's really good. I never earned that, not even when I was driving trucks long distance."

Semyonov was silent as he absently poked with his fork at a little gleaming fish on his plate. Then he glanced uneasily at Ivan and, as if he were talking to someone else, muttered: "You know, Vanya, it's a filthy business, if the truth be told."

Ivan was dumbfounded.

"Filthy? What do you mean by that?"

"By that I mean, Vanyush, that… but don't be angry… I have to tell you… it's not their tongues those interpreters use for their work there. They use something else. That's why they're well paid."

"Hey, Sasha! You shouldn't have drunk wine after vodka. Mixing the two's confused your brain. You're talking nonsense. It's laughable listening to you."

"Don't listen if you don't want to. But the fact is I'm telling you the truth. And what's more, I'm not drunk at all. Down there, buried in your countryside, you know nothing. But I traipse all over Moscow with my crutches, through all the entrance gates; so they can't fool me. 'Night duty.' Are you kidding? Those businessmen have their way with the interpreters. They're there to service them!"

"That's filthy gossip! So you are saying they're all prostitutes?"

"You can call it what you like. There are prostitutes in business on their own account. The militia hounds them from pillar to post. And then there are the others, the official ones, if you like. They're real interpreters, with diplomas, work permits, salary, the lot. By day they interpret and by night they service the capitalists in return for dollars."

Semyonov was growing heated, he had a tousled and angry air. "He's not drunk," thought Ivan, "and suppose what he says were true…?"

With a forced laugh he said: "But Sasha, why the devil would the State go in for this nasty business?"

They began arguing again. With the feeling that something inside him was dying, Ivan realized that Semyonov was speaking the truth. And in his fear of believing him he jumped up, knocking over his glass, and with a hoarse shout grabbed hold of the man. He let go at once, so pitiful and light did his crippled body feel. Semyonov began yelling: "You idiot, don't you understand? I'm trying to open your eyes. You strut about like a peacock with your shining Star. You don't understand that we've been had. We'll go together tomorrow. I'll shpw you this 'night duty.' I know one of the guys in the cloakroom at the Intourist Hotel. He'll let us in… Yes, I promise you, they'll let us in, you'll see. I'll go without crutches, I'll take a stick. Here, take a look at this artificial leg I have…"

Semyonov scrambled off the chair onto the floor, rummaged under the bed and pulled out a metal leg with a huge black leather shoe. It seemed to Ivan as if he were living through a horrible and absurd dream. Semyonov let himself fall back on the bed and began to fit on his false leg, calling out: "I'm only a half-portion. What goddamned good am I to anyone? They gave me the false leg for free. If you wear it for a day your stomach bleeds all week. But for you, Vanya, I'll put it on. Tomorrow you'll see, I'll show you what your Star's worth…Under a warm quilt with my wife, you said… Ha! Ha! Ha!"

The cloakroom attendant let them settle down in a dark corner, hidden behind the dusty fronds of a palm tree growing in a big wooden plant holder. From there could be seen the elevators, a small part of the restaurant, and, through the dark French doors, the rear courtyard filled with trash cans from the kitchen. Also visible were the two panels of the sliding doors to the inner entrance hall that opened automatically. That evening, possibly because of the wet snow, these doors were not working properly. They kept opening and closing all the time, with a mindless mechanical obedience, even when no one came near them.