Guillermo Erades - Back to Moscow

‘Not sure about that,’ I say. ‘I’ve met girls who were less trusting than Tatyana.’

‘Perhaps spoilt Muscovites,’ Stepanov says. ‘But real Russian women, from outside Moscow, it’s a different story. They understand that men need to chase women, that it’s in our nature and we can’t do shit about it. They don’t take it personally. They know it has nothing to do with feelings.’

I take a sip of coffee.

‘Of course there are rules to observe,’ Stepanov says, ‘but as long as you don’t bring other women home, and you’re discreet and respectful, you’re allowed to sleep around.’

‘Like in Chekhov’s stories,’ I say.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s not just that people cheat in Chekhov’s stories, adultery is old in literature. It’s the factual way Anton Pavlovich tells us his characters cheat. No moral consequences.’

Stepanov adjusts his sunglasses, which today are large and greenish. ‘That’s my point. In Russia infidelity is something that can be addressed with a bit of discretion and mutual understanding.’

I take a red notebook out of my bag, place it on the table, begin to scribble.

Stepanov leans forward, takes his sunglasses off, places his elbows on both sides of his empty plate. His blue eyes are bloodshot. ‘We, Russians, accept cheating as part of life,’ he says, speaking slowly now, ‘because we accept life as it is. Some things you can’t change, you have to live with them.’

I stop writing, look up. ‘You mean you just accept your sudba?’

‘Exactly. We’re fatalistic.’

I drop the pen and take a sip of my coffee.

‘Russians are fatalistic,’ Stepanov repeats, tilting his head towards my red notebook.

I nod. ‘Right.’

Stepanov’s eyes stay fixed on my notebook, and it hits me that I’m expected to write down his acute insight into the Russian mentality. I lift the pen and write Russians = fatalistic . I circle the word ‘fatalistic’ so that Stepanov sees it.

Stepanov nods with an approving smile. ‘You Westerners are always angry because you want to change everything in life. We Russians are always sad because we know that most things cannot be changed.’

I feel Stepanov has been waiting for the right moment to squeeze this pearl of wisdom into our conversation. I’m about to write it down when I see Colin and Diego approaching our table.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ Diego says. He’s wearing a baseball cap, green, white and red, the word ‘Mexico’ stamped on the front.

‘It’s fine,’ Stepanov says. ‘I was sharing with Martin some of the secrets of the Mysterious Russian Soul.’

‘Nonsense,’ Colin says, taking a seat at the table. ‘The Mysterious Russian Soul is—’ He doesn’t finish his sentence, distracted, glares at a raven that has approached our table begging for food. ‘Nothing but a marketing trick,’ he finally says, scaring the raven away with a wave of his hand. ‘An old slogan to promote a culture of laziness and alcoholism.’

My mind drifts back to the moment when Lyudmila Aleksandrovna gave me her take on the Mysterious Russian Soul. The expression Russian Soul, as known today, had been coined in the 1840s by Belinsky, the influential literary critic. It was Russia’s reaction to German romanticism, an ideal to agglutinate a divided nation, to put Russian idiosyncrasies above those of other European states. Lyudmila Alek sand rovna told me how the expression had been part of the romanticising of Russian peasant life and how, in her view, it had been Fyodor Mikhailovich — good old Dostoyevsky — who had popularised the term later on, making the soul, she said, the depository of human contradictions, of the eternal struggle between God and evil. I had written down her exact words: In Dostoyevsky the soul is the depository of human contradictions, of the eternal struggle between God and evil.

Stepanov reclines in his chair. ‘I was telling Martin how Russians accept life as it is.’

Colin grabs the copy of The Exile . ‘Interesting,’ he says, referring either to The Exile cover — which shows a naked woman holding a hand grenade — or to Stepanov’s remark.

‘Martin is giving up dyevs,’ Stepanov says.

‘Again?’ Colin says. He’s wearing a brownish shirt, the logo of an expensive Italian designer stamped on his chest. ‘Is it because of your Siberian dyev?’

‘Tatyana,’ I say. ‘This time I’m really done. I need to take it easier.’

‘That’s great,’ Diego says, taking off his cap and rearranging his long hair. ‘I knew this was going to work. She’s beautiful.’

‘Bullshit,’ Colin says. ‘You’ve said that before. How many Tatyanas have you been with?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, irritated by the question. ‘Two. Perhaps three.’

‘So,’ Colin says, ‘this is Tatyana Four?’

In my mobile phone, I realise, she remains Tatyana Evans.

‘What’s your point?’ I say.

Colin grabs my shoulder and looks at me with a half-smile. ‘We’ve been over this, there’s no point wasting your time with one single dyev in Moscow.’

‘I can’t keep meeting new dyevs every week,’ I say. ‘I’m sick of all the plotting and scheming, of switching my phone off in the evenings, of having to come up with excuses all the time. I want to enjoy cooking at home, watching films, reading books, going to the theatre.’

‘You can do all that back in Europe,’ Colin says. ‘Why waste your Moscow time with books when you can enjoy real life?’

‘Maybe I’m not that excited about real life,’ I say. ‘Look at us. We get pissed, meet dyevs, then what? What’s the point of all this?’

‘Martin’s been reading Chekhov again,’ Stepanov says.

Stepanov and Colin laugh. The ravens, which have been silently approaching our table, retreat a couple of metres, wings fluttering.

Colin leans over the table. ‘Martin,’ he says, ‘fucking around is a great way to be happy.’ He glances over the terrace, then he drops his hand on my shoulder and looks into my eyes. ‘There is nothing sinful about fucking around.’

‘I just want a simpler life.’ I point at the copy of The Exile . ‘Maybe I’m getting too old for all this.’

Colin moves The Exil e away from me, as if my finger-pointing were desecrating a holy text.

Diego is hiding behind one of Starlite’s laminated menus. ‘Martin is right,’ he says. ‘If he is happy with Tatyana, why should he meet other dyevs?’

‘So what,’ Colin says, ‘now you are giving up sex?’

The white-haired expats are looking at us from the other table.

‘If you stop sleeping around,’ Stepanov says, ‘your life will lose all its excitement.’

‘Excitement,’ I say. ‘Is that what we’re after?’

Stepanov shrugs his shoulders. ‘What’s wrong with excitement?’

‘Isn’t there anything more durable?’ I say. ‘More meaningful?’

‘Man, you need to stop reading Russian books,’ Colin says. ‘Excitement keeps you alive. It’s not the sex, it’s the chase. That’s the fun part of life. Do you know what the main difference between young and old men is?’

I lean back in the chair. ‘Age?’

‘Older men have given up on the chase,’ Colin says. ‘Once you stop looking for sexual partners, that’s death, man. Life becomes this dull, boring experience.’

‘Maybe a dull life is not such a bad thing,’ I say. ‘Maybe a dull life allows you to appreciate the beauty of it all.’

‘You’ll always have time for a quieter life down the road,’ Colin says. ‘When you leave Russia.’

‘Maybe I don’t need to leave Russia. I could stick around here. Make more money, buy a dacha. Grow vegetables, read, write. Live in touch with nature, like Tolstoy. Be happy.’