The Dream Life of Sukhanov (2 page)

Sukhanov briskly shook his head as if to rid himself of a persistent fly. In any case, he would certainly miss her for the next three months, he said to himself, and casting one last glance at the young woman floating in her blue cloud of joy, walked off in search of the original. He saw Nina from afar, standing with her father, smiling lightly at something the Minister had said. For an instant her eyes met his across the room, then slipped away. He headed toward her, but his progress was constantly halted by bothersome acquaintances entangling him in sticky cobwebs of anecdotes, compliments, and invitations. Then all at once there was a movement among the guests, a general reorganization, a snapping to order, a spreading hush; and a moment later the Minister himself appeared on a low podium in the back of the hall, a prudent glass of water in his hand.

Going to be a long one, Sukhanov thought without interest as he applauded.

“Dear comrades, I don’t need to tell you why we have gathered here today,” the Minister began when the place had fallen quiet. “Neither do I need to introduce to you our beloved Pyotr Alekseevich Malinin, one of the greatest artists of our century, two-time laureate of the Lenin Prize, member of the Academy of Arts of the USSR since 1947, the year of its creation, three-time winner of—”

As he spoke, he dipped his gaze repeatedly into a stack of paper. Feigning rapt attention, Sukhanov let himself drift away, basking in a wonderfully warm, mindless feeling of overall well-being. Everything in his life was well arranged, yes, everything was perfect, and most deservedly so—and thus he took it almost as his due when, after the important people had said all the necessary words and while the unimportant people were still holding forth, hopelessly trying to regain the attention of the merrily disintegrating room, the Minister emerged from the swiftly parting crowd and placed his hand on Sukhanov’s shoulder.

“So, Tolya, how are things? Going well, I trust,” he said jovially. “Lucky bastard, married to the most gorgeous woman in Moscow!”

Sukhanov brushed off the sudden distracting thought that the man reminded him of someone, and said something very pleasant and instantly forgettable about the Minister’s wife. The Minister laughed, looked at him slyly, and asked, “You smoke?”

Sukhanov did not smoke.

“Naturally,” he replied without a heartbeat of hesitation.

Leaving a trail of square-jawed youths behind them, the two walked outside, and immediately a cigarette materialized in Sukhanov’s fingers, he knew not how. It was hastily followed by a lit match that originated somewhere in the darkness of the portico and dutifully flew up to his face, illuminating the proffering hand and the infinitely respectful smile of the doorman with the ridiculous mustache. The cringing recognition in the man’s eyes pleased Sukhanov immensely. Cringe, my friend, cringe, he thought as he stood trying not to inhale the smoke, the Minister’s hand still resting on his shoulder. Perhaps next time you will think twice before you bar the entrance to a man on the very best terms with the very best people—a man who is, in fact, the only son-in-law of the hero of the evening—and moreover, a voice inside him added with false modesty, a man who is himself something of a weight in the art world, pun most certainly intended.

For the past twelve years Anatoly Pavlovich Sukhanov had occupied the most influential, most enviable post of editor in chief at the country’s leading art magazine,
Art of the World.

The Minister had a funny manner of puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled his smoke.

“Masha was rather taken with your son,” he said after a short, congenial silence. “A very nice young man. What is he doing, I forget?”

“He is at the Foreign Affairs Institute, graduating next spring,” replied Sukhanov proudly. “Their number-one student. Takes to languages like a duck to water.”

“Ah, is that so?” said the Minister, visibly impressed.

Assuredly, assuredly he resembled someone, especially when he blew out his cheeks in that fashion.... Suddenly worried that he was staring, Sukhanov glanced away, across the street—and it was then that he became aware of something distressing. He averted his eyes for an instant, then looked again. There was no mistake, none whatsoever.

“Listen, Tolya,” the Minister was saying in the meantime, “I’m having a bit of a get-together at my dacha this Tuesday, nothing big, just me, Masha, and a few close friends. My daughter will be stopping by as well—a very pretty girl, by the way. So I thought maybe you and Vasily ... Is something the matter?”

Sukhanov was craning his neck, staring up and down the quiet street.

“I don’t know,” he said in bewilderment. “My car ... it’s not where it’s supposed to be. I told the fellow to wait for us over there.”

“Yes, well, all chauffeurs drink,” the Minister pronounced philosophically. “He’ll turn up before the evening is over, I’m sure. Now, about Tuesday—”

But Sukhanov continued to blink and peer into the dimness.

“There must be some mistake,” he kept muttering. “Volodya’s been with us for a couple of years, and in all this time he’s never ... simply can’t think of a reason ...”

Taking off his glasses, he rubbed the lenses with the underside of his jacket. Uncovered, his eyes looked indecently naked and lost. The Minister frowned slightly and tossed away his cigarette.

“Well, seeing as you are so preoccupied right now,” he said somewhat coldly, “we’ll continue this conversation another time. So long, Tolya.”

For a few minutes Sukhanov waited by the entrance, still staring, as if trying by sheer act of will to conjure the missing car from the dense shadows of the trees underneath which it rightfully should have been, by all the laws of his universe. Things like this never, almost never, happened to him, and when they did, they tended to upset him tremendously. As he stood there, a light drizzle began to fall, and soon the street was glistening unpleasantly. He turned to go inside, and the doorman leapt to throw the door open before him, but this time Sukhanov thought he saw the hint of a mocking smile on the man’s mustachioed lips. Immediately he told himself it was only his imagination, but it nonetheless triggered a surge of sudden fear in him, as if some irreparable damage had been done—as if, in the very moment of his disturbing discovery, the Minister had begun to say something important, something absolutely vital, perhaps, and he, engrossed as he had been in his confusion, had missed it, missed it unforgivably, missed it forever ...

But try as he might, the substance of the Minister’s words escaped him, and the nagging little idea of the man’s resemblance to someone kept getting mixed up with his thoughts and leading him astray, until, gradually, his panic abated. Even if there had been some unwanted rudeness on his part—and he was positive, almost positive there had been none—he would smooth it over later; right now he had a problem to resolve. If that fellow had really left to have a drink, they would fire him on the spot, he decided indignantly, and dodging conversations, set out to find Nina.

She had quit her father’s side when the speeches had started, but Pyotr Alekseevich, to whom Sukhanov now paid hurried respects, said he had seen her only recently talking to Ksenya. Growing restless, Sukhanov dove into the crowd once again. A few paces away, a young girl with a boy’s haircut blocked his way.

“Good evening, Anatoly Pavlovich,” she said solemnly. Her voice was high and thin, almost childlike. “My name is Lina Gordon, I’m a journalist. I’m writing an article on the Malinin retrospective. Could you answer a couple of questions for me, please? As the editor of Art
of
the World, I’m sure you’ll provide invaluable insight to my readers.”

He looked at her incredulously. Her skinny neck stuck out of an absurdly cheap yellow dress, and her lips were pale and chapped. She was clutching an open pad.

“What ... er ... what newspaper did you say you were with?” he asked with an involuntary smile.

“I’m working for a Moscow State University magazine,” she replied evenly, uncapping her pen. “So, do you like Malinin’s paintings, Anatoly Pavlovich? Do you think they are good art?”

As he continued to study her, his amusement increased. Her raspberry-colored nail polish was peeling. She probably bit her nails, she was just the type.

“Ah, a university magazine,” he said. “Naturally, you must mean a student publication. If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you? Eighteen? Seventeen?”

The transparent tips of her awkwardly protruding, boyish ears brightened.

“My age is completely irrelevant here,” she said. “I have an assignment from the magazine. Now, please, what do you think of Malinin’s work?”

She was so earnest, so flushed with her own importance that he took pity on her.

“Oh, all right,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I have only a minute, but in a nutshell, these canvases show the best of the Russian land, with all its grandeur, lyricism, and courage. Pyotr Alekseevich has an incredible gift for representing the true Russian people at their best moments, in such an open, thoughtful, direct way, which demonstrates most purely—”

She watched him with a brown-eyed, steady gaze; he found it mildly disconcerting that she took no notes. When he stopped talking, she shook her head.

“No, I don’t believe you really think that,” she said. “His paintings are so fake that everyone must see it, they are just afraid to say it. That trite portrait over there, for instance—obviously, there is not a grain of truth in it. Don’t you agree?”

Taken aback by the certainty in her voice, he looked in the direction in which she was pointing. Then his eyes grew cold. The joke had all at once ceased to entertain him, and he remembered again his tippling chauffeur, the vague but unfortunate incident with the Minister, the tedious necessity to address the situation as soon as possible ...

“I think the real question to ask, young lady, is how you came to be here,” he said brusquely. “Only accredited journalists are permitted at this opening. A school assignment doesn’t give you the right to accost people.”

His tone clearly startled her. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth turned mean, making her look every bit the scrawny little adolescent that she was. She hesitated before answering, then said reluctantly, “Your daughter gave me an invitation. I’m in her class.”

“Ah, my daughter! Of course, I should have known. I gave her an extra one and told her to bring along someone nice from her department.” He regarded her angular face with distaste. “Well, charming to meet you, Lida.”

“Lina,” the girl corrected sullenly. Her pad, he noticed, was now closed.

“A piece of friendly advice,” he said dryly. “Those artistic ideas of yours, I wouldn’t advertise them so openly if I were you—you never know who might hear you. Oh, before we part, you haven’t by any chance seen Ksenya?”

She jerked her chin toward the exit. He turned to go.

“I don’t care who hears me,” she threw at his back. “The times are changing.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder, and his heart wavered. There she stood, so young, so defiant, so sad-looking in her ugly yellow dress two sizes too big, so infuriating in her self-righteousness, so pathetic in her desire to have the last word.

“The times are always changing, my dear Lida,” he said, not unkindly. “But it would serve you well to remember that certain things always stay the same.”

She might have said something in response, but he could no longer hear. Purposefully he strode across the room, to where he now saw Ksenya, dressed inappropriately in a pair of slacks, slouching by herself against the wall with that typical look of a casual observer on her face. His mood was turning more sour by the minute.

“I see you found a perfect use for your spare invitation,” he said, sounding somewhat out of breath, as he stopped before her. “I’ve met your friend, and she is adorable. Has the highest opinion of your grandfather’s work too.”

Ksenya shrugged. “You don’t have to like my friends,” she said indifferently. “Most of them don’t like you either.”

Her heavy-lidded gray eyes seemed full of sleep. For some reason her answer made him feel neither angry nor offended but uncomfortable, as if he had missed the familiar door and walked into a strange room full of edgy objects and disturbing shadows.

“We can talk about your friends’ feelings later,” he said in what he hoped was a sufficiently stern voice. “Right now I’m looking for your mother. Have you seen her?”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone,” he repeated. “Gone where?”

“She got one of her headaches and went home, about half an hour ago. She said it was nearly over anyway. Oh, I almost forgot, she took the car. She asked me to tell you.”

He looked at his daughter without understanding.

“Why didn’t she tell me herself?” he managed finally.

Ksenya shrugged again. “I guess she saw you talking to Mr. Big Shot and didn’t want to disturb you. So, you boys had a good chat?”

Sukhanov had a sudden desire to clutch his head. Instead he nodded dully and stood thinking for a moment. The Minister and his wife had already departed.

Feeling a tiny throb in his left temple, the advent of a headache of his own, he slowly walked outside, leaving all the noise, light, and warmth behind him.

TWO

I
t was raining in earnest now. Streetlamps swam through the liquid mist, their pale reflections drowning in an inverted world of running asphalt. The empty space before the Manège quivered in the wet darkness, and the gray monstrosity of the Hotel Moskva had melted away into a barely visible shimmer of lights. For a minute Sukhanov lingered in the shelter of the pseudo-Doric columns. He felt relieved that the mustachioed doorman was no longer there, having been replaced, he noticed, by another one, and a strange one at that—an older, slovenly man wearing a burgundy velveteen blazer. The new doorman was looking at him from the shadows. Probably amused to see me standing here, in my most formal attire, and without a chauffeur, Sukhanov thought with displeasure, and turning away, peered dejectedly through the wall of water.

Finding a taxi at this hour and in this weather would be almost impossible, and with a sigh he resigned himself to the inevitable; the metro station was, after all, very close, just beyond his field of vision. He had not the slightest idea how much it cost. Pulling out his wallet, he ruffled through a stack of bills, gloomily groped for some coins, and fishing out a couple, dropped them into his coat pocket. The night breathed damply, heavily in his face, and the doorman, he saw, was still staring in his direction. Irritated, he squared his shoulders and descended into the rain.

“Anatoly, is that you?” asked a halting voice behind his back.

He froze. The voice—the voice was unmistakably familiar. Water ran down his collar, sending one particularly persistent little rivulet all the way down his spine. Slowly he turned and walked up the steps.

The doorman in the velveteen blazer moved into a shaft of light.

“Lev,” said Sukhanov expressionlessly.

For the briefest of moments they regarded each other. Then, simultaneously, it must have occurred to both of them that, after so many years, something had to be done—an embrace, a kiss, some gesture of human warmth.... Stepping forward at the same time, they collided clumsily and, embarrassed, abbreviated their hug and shook hands instead, groping at each other’s cuffs. Another drop of water, originating somewhere at Sukhanov’s wrist, snaked icily down his arm.

“You’ve changed a lot,” the fake doorman said. “Gained weight, become all solid. This tuxedo ... And the glasses too ... You never used to wear glasses.”

“Yes, well, my eyes,” Sukhanov said vaguely, and added after a pause, “None of us is getting any younger.”

“No, it’s not just the age, it‘s—”

The thought remained incomplete. A car splashed by, stirring red zigzags in its wake; they followed it with their eyes. When it passed, Marx Avenue reverted to shiny blackness. Sukhanov felt his initial shock subsiding into dull discomfort.

“And you, you haven’t changed at all,” he said.

In a strange way, he meant it, and not as a compliment. Of course, Lev Belkin displayed plenty of wear and tear for his fifty-three, or was it fifty-two, years—he seemed unkempt and unsettled, with all the telling signs of age and hard luck about him, and was dressed like an old circus clown; the dreadful velveteen blazer had brown leather patches at the elbows, and an absurd maroon bow tie sat askew at his throat. But Sukhanov knew wretchedness and disorder to be essentially the qualities of youth, which was why most worthwhile people eventually outlived them. Belkin had clearly chosen not to do so. To Sukhanov’s eyes he looked just like the young man he had once known, only used, downtrodden, gone to seed....

“I haven’t changed, and yet you didn’t recognize me,” Belkin said.

“Well, you know what they say—if someone who knows you well doesn’t recognize you, you’ll end up rich,” Sukhanov joked humorlessly:

“I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that,” the other man replied with a short laugh. “Not all of us are destined for riches.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sukhanov said sharply. But immediately it occurred to him that, perhaps, Belkin had meant no offense and there had been no need to react with such hostility, no need at all. Belkin did not answer, and for an uneasy minute they watched the rain slash through Manezhnaya Square; and all the while Sukhanov searched for some friendly, casual words—yet none came to mind. It had simply been too long, and anything that could be said should have been said many years ago.

Presently a rectangle of brightness cut a patch out of the portico floor, and Sukhanov caught a glimpse of the real doorman in the vestibule, bending politely at the open door. The foyer yawned with an inviting warmth, and a well-known actor emerged, in the process of unfolding an enormous pink umbrella over his nineteen-year-old wife. The couple chirped “Good night” to Anatoly Pavlovich, stared at Belkin with unbridled curiosity, and ran to a Volga that had just pulled up. The girl was giggling, and Sukhanov distinctly heard her say
babochka
—“bow tie” or “butterfly”—but the night swallowed the rest of the sentence and he tried to convince himself she was discussing lepidoptery rather than Belkin’s unfortunate neck decoration. Still, that was unpleasant, very unpleasant—the tittering, the gaping, and God only knew what they had thought.... He considered Belkin darkly, and a sense of oppression descended on him.

“So, Lev,” he said, “how did I miss seeing you in there?”

“Oh,” said Belkin, “I wasn’t at the opening, I don’t have an invitation. I was just—”

The door was being pushed open again, and in the widening gap Sukhanov saw the massive crimson bosom of the theater critic’s wife, followed by her grasshopper of a husband. Suddenly frantic, he began to maneuver Belkin away from the entrance, down the steps, muttering as he did so, “People starting to leave ... no reason to be in their way ... might as well move ...” Cold rain slapped his face as he rounded the corner; Belkin trotted after him obediently. Almost, almost, just a bit more—and finally, thank God, they were out of sight, pressed into the wall under the scanty protection of a narrow cornice. Mercifully, no one had seen—except for that long-haired what‘s-his-name with his pink umbrella and his adolescent bride, but no matter, he was not important enough. Trying to suppress a shudder of relief, Sukhanov wiped the water from his glasses.

“I mean to go when it’s open to the public, of course,” Belkin was saying, noticing nothing. “By the way, how was it?”

“Great. Very interesting works. A perfect space for displaying them too.”

“Perfect, eh?” Belkin repeated, and squinted at him good naturedly. “You used to say the Manège was better as a riding academy, that its architecture was suited for horses, not paintings—”

And then, without any warning, an incredible smile flashed across Belkin’s face. It was his unforgettable trick of old, that smile, the sort that very few people ever possessed; it transformed his ordinarily woebegone features instantly, brilliantly, imbuing them with rare humanity, with a kind of intense, radiant meaning. Smiling, he lightly touched a button on Sukhanov’s jacket.

“You also said that in a way it was appropriate, because most of the artists who exhibited here were fit to be displayed only in a stable. Do you remember, Tolya?”

It was astonishing, simply astonishing, that after all this time the man could still smile like that—and it was suddenly disconcerting to see how little his eyes had changed, how, in spite of the lines at the corners, the pouches underneath, the eyelids that had grown heavy, they could still dance in his face, they could still play with the same dark, fiery, infectious life.

“I don’t remember,” Sukhanov replied stiffly. “I don’t know ... Perhaps I said something like that once. In any event, they’ve redone the place since—” He faltered and ended hurriedly, “It’s completely different now.”

Belkin looked Sukhanov full in the face, then twisted his lips, nodded, and released the button. The fire in his eyes dwindled away, and the tired creases around his mouth became more pronounced.

“Funny,” he said flatly, “it looks exactly the same to me. I visit almost every exhibition, you know. Staying abreast of the new developments and all that. Not that there are any, but one keeps hoping.”

“Yes,” said Sukhanov, not knowing what else to say, and righted his glasses.

The whole thing was awkward—awkward and unnecessary There was so little space under the cornice that with every motion their shoulders nudged each other softly, and the dripping, splashing, murky world kept creeping closer, invading their cramped refuge, lapping at the edges of dryness, already seeping into Sukhanov’s beautifully polished shoes. He ached to be away, to be home, where it was light, warm, and comfortable, to be drinking his nightly tea.... The encounter was stretching to nightmarish proportions, and he knew he needed to end it, end it now, this very instant—but strangely, he could do nothing, as if he were trapped in a tedious, helpless dream. A short-haired girl darted across their lengthening pause, and he thought he saw the edge of a yellow dress flash beneath the flapping fold of a flimsy coat, but she ran by so quickly he could not be sure. Belkin too watched her melt in the rain.

“So, is Nina here?” he asked when the water had erased the girl’s steps.

“She got tired and went home early,” Sukhanov said, and added, pointing across the street, “She took our car.”

“Ah ... A pity. I was hoping to see her. I bet she hasn’t changed one bit.”

“We all change,” said Sukhanov. “None of us is getting any younger.”

God, haven’t I said that already, he thought miserably.

“And how is ... er ... Alia?” he asked, to prevent another silence.

“Oh, didn’t you know? She left me a long time ago. She’s married to a math teacher now. Has three kids. But she is doing quite well, thanks for asking.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know.... But apart from that ... That is, how are you getting along in general?”

“Not too bad, thanks. Painting and all. And you?”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain ...” He coughed, shifted his weight to the other foot. Their shoulders grazed again. “Well, it seems that the rain’s almost over.”

It was raining every bit as hard as before.

“Yes, certainly looks that way,” agreed Belkin. “So, where are you off to now? I’m heading for the metro. Shall we walk together? I have an umbrella.”

“I would, but ... I need to go the other way,” said Sukhanov with a vague gesture.

“Of course, I understand,” Belkin said quietly. “Well, good-bye then, Anatoly. Good luck to you and everything.”

He turned up the collar of his burgundy blazer, produced a disheveled umbrella from his pocket (ridiculous, who in the world keeps a wet umbrella in his pocket!), and without another glance stepped into the darkness. Sukhanov noticed that he stooped. Strange, he used to carry himself so straight, he thought involuntarily—and all at once, this stray little thought released in him some echo of the past, a solitary trembling note whose sound rose higher and higher in his chest, awakening inarticulate longings and, inseparable from them, a piercing, unfamiliar sorrow. He watched as Belkin trudged away into the downpour under his lopsided umbrella with one spoke sticking out, and he thought bitterly, Here we are, two aging fools, and our lives almost over. His throat tightened, and for a second he was afraid he would not be able to call out, to say anything at all.... Then the spasm passed.

“Leva, wait!” he shouted.

He feared at first that Belkin had not heard, that the rain had snatched away his words. Then Belkin turned. He was struggling with the umbrella, which had grown unruly.

“Listen, Leva, why did you come here tonight?”

“Oh, I was just passing by when the rain started, and I thought I’d wait it out!” Belkin yelled back.

Sukhanov could not see his eyes—he was too far, it was too dark.

“But ... you have an umbrella!” he shouted again.

“Not a very useful one, as you can see.”

“Oh yes, of course, I see! Well, so long now. Say hi to ... I mean, take care of yourself!”

Belkin did not move. The umbrella flapped over his head like a demented bird. Several moments passed, dreary, endless as a lifetime. Then he muttered something under his breath and strode back, throwing up sprays of water with each heavy step. His face, as he stopped before Sukhanov, streamed with rain.

“All right, so that wasn’t true,” he said, scowling. “I came because I wanted to see you. You and Nina. I read about the opening, and I thought, What better chance will I have?”

Violently squashing the umbrella, he dropped it at his feet, then fumbled in his sagging pocket. A golden candy wrapper flew out, twirled in the wind, and drowned. Sukhanov observed his movements with strange anticipation. Finally Belkin extracted what looked like a glossy postcard and held it locked between his palms.

“I wanted to give you this,” he said. “It’s next Wednesday. Naturally, it’s not going to be a big deal, nothing to write about in the papers.... Anyway, I realize now it was stupid of me, you can’t possibly be interested, so—”

Wordlessly Sukhanov stretched out a slightly trembling hand. Belkin hesitated, then shrugged, and shoved the postcard at him. A jumble of multicolored letters leapt wildly, confusingly, in all directions, against a shocking neon-green background. Sukhanov took off his glasses, smeared rain all over the lenses, and tried again. The letters started to behave more predictably, and eventually, in a long minute or two, joined to form a few words—“L. B. Belkin (1932—). Moscow Through a Rainbow”—and, underneath, in smaller print, the address, the dates, the times ...

And as Sukhanov looked in silence, he knew that his wrenching sorrow was giving way to some other, as yet unnamed, feeling, which was slowly unfurling its black, powerful wings inside his heart.

Belkin began to speak rapidly. “It’s my first, you see. True, I’ve had a few things displayed here and there, but this one, it’s all my own. Just a little gallery in the Arbat, but I’ll have the whole place to myself. The name, of course, is idiotic—it’s so cliché, it wasn’t my idea, but I let them do it, because my work is all about color studies anyway, so I thought ... Oh, hell, what am I talking about?” Abruptly he stopped, pressing his fingertips to his temples. Then, in a different voice, quiet and oddly desperate, he said, “Listen, Tolya, I know we didn’t remain friends, but it’s been almost a quarter of a century, and ... Well, it would make me really happy if you and Nina could come to the opening. It’s on Wednesday, at seven o‘clock, it’s all written right here, in the corner, see?”