Евгений Водолазкин - Solovyov and Larionov

Meanwhile, the second general put out his cigarette with the toe of his boot and began going up into his own train carriage. When he was standing on the carriage’s platform, he gave the guards permission to go to bed. They did not need to be told twice; they disappeared into the next carriage. The guarded man went to his quarters. A minute later, there was knocking at the second general’s door.

‘What do you want?’ He opened the door abruptly and was pushed inside.

‘So we meet after all,’ said the one who entered.

He placed the barrel of a Nagan revolver to the forehead of the carriage’s master and commanded the valet take the other’s weapon.

‘I’m not afraid of you,’ uttered the man who had been disarmed.

‘Sit,’ said the one who had entered, nodding at a chair that stood by a small round table. Several sheets of paper lay on it, under a spill-proof inkwell. For some reason, there was no pen. The carriage’s master awkwardly ( uncomfortably , Timofei characterized it) slid down the back of the chair to its seat. Perched on the edge, he laid his hands on the sheets.

‘You won’t dare shoot.’

‘Why?’

‘Because my guards will come running if there’s a shot.’

Beads of sweat covered his forehead.

‘I don’t think so,’ said the one who had entered. He took a watch from his breast pocket and opened it with a barely audible clink. ‘A train with our wounded will pass through this station very soon. It’s a very long train…’

‘I don’t give a shit about you.’

‘Nobody will hear a thing.’

The watch returned to the pocket with a click. A light tremor could already be sensed under their feet.

‘You feel that? That’s our wounded coming. Of course many are deceased, too.’

The sound swelled. The eyes of the one at the table froze on the inkwell. The medical train reached the station and the station was drowning in its rumbling. The inkwell began coming into resonance with the train and set off on an unhurried journey across the table. It began trembling hard. It turned on its axis and advanced inexorably toward the edge. The man at the table grabbed the inkwell and hurled it at the wall with all his strength when it was about to fall off.

‘Damn it, why the hell aren’t you shooting?’

Shards scattered in all directions. The inkwell shattered to the floor in thousands of little glass pieces. It had cracked through the unbearable noise. The last carriage of the medical train rumbled past outside. In the absolute silence that followed, the general answered the question that had been posed, ‘Because death is incapable of teaching anything.’

He let his valet go ahead and followed him. He closed the door behind himself without a sound.

When Solovyov went outside, he felt like he was overflowing with new knowledge. He was afraid of spilling it. He thought he seemed too fragile for this knowledge and could easily smash, like the inkwell.

When recording folklore, a text like this truly could be taken as folkloric: everything depended on the force of expectation. The narration was conducted in a good vernacular language. It took on a rhythm through its multiple repetitions. And what could have been recorded in the village of Berezovaya Gat but folklore, anyway?

That was the reasoning of those who published the text. In a commentary to the publication, they called upon the reader not to worry about certain details from modern history that were undoubtedly present in the story. The researchers determined its plot to be ancient to the highest degree. In elaborating on their point, they indicated that in this case they regarded the narration of the judge Ehud’s murder of Moab king Eglon as a precursor.

Despite the bloodless finish to Zhzhenka’s narration, the commentary’s authors took notice of its high degree of resemblance to the biblical narration in the Book of Judges. As examples, they offered the high status of the characters, intrusion into their apartments, and the complete nonparticipation of their guards. It would have been naïve to suppose, pointed out the commentary’s authors, that such an ancient text would not undergo any changes when reproduced.

A line of reasoning like that was legitimate. It could, seemingly, satisfy the most demanding researchers, not to mention numerous specialists in the field of textual deconstruction. It did not satisfy Solovyov. The historian knew something the folklorists who wrote the commentaries did not know: Timofei Zhzhenka was General Larionov’s valet in 1920.

Solovyov decided to walk home. He was deliberating over whether a folkloric text could be considered a historical document. And, strictly speaking, was that text folkloric?

Posing the question that way automatically ranked folklore in the realm of make-believe. After stopping on Palace Square, Solovyov asked himself to what degree history itself was make-believe. That question seemed completely natural on the main square of an empire.

It was a warm evening for the beginning of November. Warm and damp, in Petersburg’s way. An angel’s lowered head was looking at the gleaming cobblestones. Solovyov looked at the angel. A silvery haze shimmered in the beams of spotlights directed at the column. That Timofei Zhzhenka did not, prudently, give his characters names still did not render his story make-believe. Maybe he was not so simple, this Timofei. Who in Soviet Russia would have published the general’s valet’s memoirs? (Did the valet write his memoirs? Did he write at all?) Timofei Zhzhenka had seemingly found a witty way to tell future generations about what he had seen. Having no doubt that the general’s life would be studied one day. Solovyov smiled at his thoughts as he opened his umbrella. Sapienti sat . [3] Enough for the wise (Lat.). That was about what Timofei might have thought.

The rain intensified as Solovyov approached his building.

It was draining from somewhere above in long, cold streams, drumming on the tin of the ledges and bursting with a roar from rainspouts plastered in adverts. His umbrella saved him only partially. It did not shelter him from the water-saturated wind. The wind swooped down out of nowhere and the gusts stung Solovyov as if he had been hit by a wet rag. The wind twisted the arm holding the umbrella, bending its spokes and exposing the fabric’s inner and defiantly dry side. Solovyov had to close the umbrella when it nearly flew away at the corner of Zhdanovskaya Embankment and Bolshoy Avenue. He felt cold rivulets under his shirt and could hear a repulsive squishing in his shoes, even through the sound of the downpour. The only thing left for him to do was run.

At home, Solovyov undressed and got into the shower. Water manifested itself completely differently now: its flows were hot and friendly here, its embraces ticklish and tender. There was something of Leeza’s touch in that, which made him feel her absence even more acutely. Leeza did not know of the discovery he had made today. And it was so important to him to tell someone about it.

When Solovyov came out of the bathroom, he threw on his robe and dialed Prof. Nikolsky’s number. Nobody came to the phone at the other end of the line. Solovyov dialed the number again and waited a little longer. He almost heard the crackling old apparatus in the professor’s hallway. The professor would hurry for the second call after being too late for the first. That happened with old people. Old people asked that callers wait as long as possible before hanging up. The professor was making his way through a cluttered hallway. Losing his slippers as he went. Holding glasses that were slipping from his nose. (Solovyov felt uncomfortable but did not put the phone down.) The professor’s sleeve caught on a door knob. On a nail sticking out of a bookshelf. His foot grazed a pile of journals on the floor. The pile scattered into a fan that would refresh nobody.