Евгений Водолазкин - Solovyov and Larionov

Like Solovyov, the future general was surprised by the sharp change in the weather at Chongarsky Pass. The published notes also reference flecks of sunlight playing on the waves and viewed through the slow motion of cypresses. Special mention was given to the freshness of a wind, blowing not from dusty roadside groves but from that chilly turquoise expanse where the sky imperceptibly came together with the water. His mother’s light dress, locks of his English governess’s fair hair, and multicolored ribbons braided into the horse’s mane fluttered in the wind.

The general’s associative memory also forces him to speak of a piercing wind on Chongarsky Pass on November 1, 1920, when Crimea’s remaining defenders retreated to the ports, worn out after one-sided battles. According to Dupont’s supposition, a more detailed description of the evacuation was located in the part of the reminiscences that has not reached us. A faint hint cast by the general in passing, which may be seen as an intention to return to a theme he had broached superficially, speaks in favor of that. The general touches on those November events only because when watching from blizzardy Chongar as the White Army retreated (it was whiter than ever at that moment), by Larionov’s own admission he saw nothing but two landaus descending, in a leisurely fashion, toward the sea.

The trolleybus turned along the shore. Now the passengers not only saw the sea but sensed its briny freshness, too. At the request of the police, all cars on the highway stopped twice to let government motorcades through. The preoccupied faces of those government ministers were more likely guessed at than seen in cars rushing past at vast speeds. They were riding to their holidays and thinking about the significant decline of the peninsula’s funding. This manifested itself most of all in the condition of the palaces of the Russian aristocracy. The condition of the roads was no better, though. The summer sun and winter rain, coupled with the process of erosion, had produced a multitude of ruts and cracks in the Crimean roads. If the cracks had been patched up anywhere, it was on the government highway, though even that repair was only partial, or so Solovyov surmised, jolting in his seat every now and then.

The sun was already hiding behind Mount Ai-Petri when they pulled in to Yalta. A cloud had drifted across the mountain’s peak, where it was mingling with rays that shone so unusually straight that they appeared to be beams from a spotlight. Mountains clustered around the station from three sides, leaving open only a boulevard that ran toward the sea. An evening freshness was already beginning to make itself felt in Yalta, along with a restlessness that touched Solovyov’s heart. A sense of light alarm. The ancient feeling of a person about to spend the night in an unfamiliar place.

Solovyov stepped off the trolleybus and found himself surrounded by women. They vied with one another to offer him lodging and there were so many possibilities that the young historian felt lost. He could choose between a bed, a private room, or a cottage. He was invited to stay near the Spartacus movie theater, by the Chekhov museum, and even on Leningrad Street. Solovyov did not know the city. Pressured by the agitated landladies, he agonized over the location of his future lodging. The Petersburg graduate student’s soul leaned toward being Chekhov’s neighbor, but that offer was for an entire cottage that even his whole stipend would not cover. ‘Leningrad Street’ sounded unacceptable given that the city’s original name had been returned. After some wavering, he settled on the Spartacus movie theater: the proposed apartment was right next door, on Palmiro Togliatti Street.

Solovyov remembered how Nadezhda Nikiforovna had solemnly taken Giovagnoli’s novel Spartacus from a shelf that her cameo ring had touched and presented the book to him. In the course of subsequent discussion of the book, it emerged that Nadezhda Nikiforovna—like the adolescent Solovyov—had shed tears over make-believe, too, and turned out to sympathize with the gladiator very much. This had decisively strengthened Solovyov’s decision to enter into marriage with her. As far as Palmiro Togliatti went, Solovyov appreciated his lovely name despite suspecting him of communist ties.

Solovyov and the woman rode to the Spartacus by trolleybus. They crossed the road and ended up on Togliatti Street, which was narrow, quiet, and green. Solovyov liked the courtyard where his lodging was located. Just like the street name, everything about it was Italian: the terraces that had been added on and the intricate stairs that led up to them, the clotheslines hanging between the windows, and the branchy plane tree that was over everything. This, at any rate, was how Solovyov imagined Italy to be.

As he walked up a steep wooden staircase behind his hostess, he examined her unshaven legs. Those legs (like Solovyov’s legs, too) elicited from the steps a knocking, creaking, and squeaking of unbelievable force. The deafening stairs spawned in the young man’s mind the image of a huge out-of-tune instrument. After walking along a terrace covered with flower pots, Solovyov and his guide ended up in a dusky hallway. Once Solovyov’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he discerned several gas burners and thought he had landed in a communal apartment. It truly had once been a communal apartment but it had managed to separate itself from Solovyov’s lodgings through complex architectural solutions. The entry was hidden behind a small ledge in the wall, making it invisible at first glance. The woman took a key from her purse, winked at Solovyov, and opened the door.

The apartment consisted of two connected rooms and a glassed-in veranda. The door to the far room turned out to be locked. Solovyov was told there were things in there that the owners did not intend for lodgers to use. The first room, which led to the veranda, was at his full disposal. The veranda was also the kitchen, with a stove, counter, and cabinet containing dishes. In the far corner of the veranda was a structure reminiscent of a telephone booth covered with plywood.

‘It’s the bathroom,’ said his escort, flushing the water to prove her point.

She wrote down Solovyov’s passport information, took money for two weeks in advance, and disappeared through the door, winking just as enigmatically as she had earlier. When her clomping footsteps had faded, Solovyov flicked the door lock from the inside and began unpacking his things. He took his swimsuit out of his travel bag right away and put it on. Then he pulled out a towel and neatly placed it in a small rucksack. He shoved the key he had received into his shorts pocket and looked around. He was completely prepared for his first encounter with the sea.

As we know, Crimea was transferred from Russia to Ukraine in 1954, under an order from Nikita Khrushchev. It should be noted that this circumstance drew General Larionov’s attention in its day. The unexpected addition to Ukraine made no less of an impression on him than the launch of the trolleybus line. And yet the aged general was not at all inclined to dramatize this circumstance.

‘Russians, do not regret Crimea,’ he announced, sitting on the jetty one May day in 1955.

Public statements were a great rarity for the general and a crowd quickly gathered around him. Flashing his erudition, the general reminded the listeners that Crimea had belonged to the Greeks, Genovese, Tatars, Turks, etcetera, at various times. And though their dominion was fleeting in historical terms, they had all left their own cultural traces here. In touching on Russia’s traces, the general sketched out, in brief energetic strokes, an impressive panorama, from elegant parks and palaces to the lady with the lapdog. His speech concluded with military clarity: ‘As a person who has defended these places, I am telling you: it is impossible to hold your ground here. For anyone. That is characteristic of the peninsula.’