Евгений Водолазкин - Solovyov and Larionov

‘Is this her?’

There was a photograph glued to a left-hand corner of the form so Solovyov did not need the biographical data. The photo was not very large, but nothing larger was required for full clarity.

‘No.’

Solovyov did not give up. He appealed to all institutions, even the very unlikeliest. Sometimes they gave him information over the telephone, sometimes they required a visit. They hung up rather frequently, suggesting he not pester them. In those cases, Solovyov beseeched. Insisted. Several times he bought candy for female employees in rectors’ offices. One of them jokingly asked Solovyov how much she might be able to replace Leeza for him. It felt as if the list of educational institutions would never end.

Another two weeks later, a student named Yelizaveta Larionova turned up at the Lesgaft Institute of Physical Education. When Solovyov learned of this by telephone, he caught a taxi and went to the institute. He simply had no time to consider Leeza’s association with sports.

An older, broad-shouldered woman, obviously a former athlete, greeted him in the administrative offices. She sized up Solovyov and asked his height.

‘One meter, seventy-nine,’ said Solovyov.

During his time searching for Leeza, he had grown out of the habit of being surprised.

‘Our Yelizaveta is two meters, four,’ said the woman.

After a silence, she added, ‘So you’re not an athlete?’

Solovyov could tell from her face that she was not making fun of him.

‘I’m a historian,’ he said. ‘Peter the Great was two meters, four. Yelizaveta has a promising future.’

‘She’s a nice girl. She’s on the city basketball team.’

She straightened a lamp on the desk. Her face was serious, as before.

Notification of a registered letter from Moscow arrived at the very end of October. Solovyov discovered it in his mailbox when he returned from the library. He was invited to bring his passport to the post office to receive the letter. As he closed the box, Solovyov thought this kind of solemnity must mean something in and of itself; there would be no point in sending a negative answer by registered mail.

He was at the post office ten minutes before it opened. Addressee Solovyov’s heart was beating as never before. After signing for the letter, he tore open the envelope right there at the window and proceeded to read it. It was signed by the vice rector for general affairs (the surname was feminine) and reported that a Yelizaveta Filippovna Larionova truly was studying at MSU. Following that, however, was the supposition—and here the letter’s tone became less formal—that this was not the same Yelizaveta the Petersburg historian was seeking. This Moscow Yelizaveta was 39 years old and working toward her second degree. At the end of the letter, the vice rector wished Solovyov success in his search and expressed the hope that he would certainly find his Yelizaveta. Judging from the date on the letter, she had expressed that wish exactly a month ago.

Solovyov started to leave but then returned and demanded to see the post office manager. When that person appeared, Solovyov silently showed him the postmark. The manager took his glasses out of his uniform smock and carefully studied the postmark.

‘A month,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it’s longer. Sometimes they don’t arrive at all.’

Solovyov looked over the manager’s head. He felt his hatred boiling. Hatred and despair: the hand on the wall clock was leading them around in a circle.

‘Dostoevsky’s letters from Germany took five days,’ Solovyov informed the man.

‘Dostoevsky was a genius,’ retorted the manager.

A few days later, Solovyov resorted to yet another option.

He published brief appeals to Leeza in Moscow and Petersburg newspapers, with a request to telephone (a number was given). There were quite a few calls in the days following the publication. Four Leezas telephoned, two of them were Larionovas. A Taisia Larionova telephoned, saying she was prepared to answer to Leeza if necessary. A woman who did not give her name telephoned. She offered a discounted portion of Herbalife. The calls ceased roughly a week later.

Solovyov directed all the force of his striving for Leeza and all the resentment that had accumulated during his fruitless searches into his dissertation research about the general. Never before had he worked so much or so passionately. He found document after document but they brought him no closer to Leeza. After catching himself in that thought, Solovyov realized he subconsciously hoped they would help him close in. Why?

One day he ran into Temriukovich in the corridor at the institute.

‘You’re studying General Larionov, if I’m not mistaken?’ said Temriukovich.

‘I am,’ said Solovyov.

He took a few steps toward Temriukovich.

‘I read a folkloric text way back when,’ said Temriukovich, ‘and a strange thought occurred to me: might it be connected with the general?’

Temriukovich fell silent. Solovyov could neither confirm nor even deny the academician’s thought. He could only nod respectfully. Temriukovich approached him, right up close, and Solovyov smelled his rotten breath.

‘How do you regard strange thoughts?’ asked Temriukovich.

‘Well…’ Solovyov backed away slightly. ‘Do you happen to remember where you saw that text?’

‘Where I saw it?’ Temriukovich suddenly burst out laughing. ‘Do I remember? Well, of course I remember: Full Russian Folklore Collection. Entries for 1982. Part two of that year’s volume. Starting on approximately page 95.’

Temriukovich’s face fell. He turned slowly and walked off down the hall.

Solovyov heard him say, ‘Maybe my suggestion will help that young man.’

Despite the academician’s hunch, the young man doubted the utility of the information he had acquired. He remembered it, though, when he happened to be at the public library, so decided to have a look at the Full Russian Folklore Collection . Much to his surprise, he really did discover the text Temriukovich had referred to, in the second of two volumes of entries from 1982. It began, in complete accordance with the citation, on page 95 and ended on page 104. It had been recorded by participants of a folklore expedition, from the words of 89-year-old Timofei Zhzhenka, a resident of the village of Berezovaya Gat in the Chernigov Oblast’s Novgorod-Seversky region.

Timofei Zhzhenka told the folklore expedition’s participants about events of some long-ago war. Commentaries to the text spoke of the impossibility (as commonly happens in folklore) of clarifying what war was actually involved. The publishers were inclined to regard its time of action as the epic period, though they also pointed out, in all honesty, that there was a definite obstacle to that sort of conclusion.

They had in mind the mention of the railroad, something that, as a rule, was not in epic texts. Futhermore, the narrative opened by referencing a railroad station—Gnadenfeld, where the events described unfold—something uncharacteristic of folklore. Just that name made Solovyov grab hold of the embossed cover of Full Russian Folklore Collection with both hands.

Timofei Zhzhenka used ornate dialectical expressions to describe a summer night when two armored trains stopped, almost simultaneously, at the aforementioned station. Two generals emerged from the two armored trains; this looked fully folkloric. Each of them presumed the station was in his troops’ hands and pensively ( they had things to think about , explained Timofei Zhzhenka) took a walk next to his armored train. Suddenly, one general ( the general that was ours , according to Timofei’s scant definition) recognized the other in the light of a station streetlamp. Without emerging from the darkness, he signaled to his valet, who was with him, and they crossed under the carriage to the second armored train.