The Museum of Abandoned Secrets (87 page)
A girl—plump, dark-haired, and pretty cute, an expensive leather jacket thrown open, scarf messed up on the run. She’s breathing hard, wide-open eyes like plums, spellbound, she’s glowing, so thrilled she can hardly see straight: She made it! As if she’s run a marathon to catch up with me.
“Daryna Goshchynska!” She is not asking, but triumphing like a soccer fan who’s spotted Andriy Shevchenko and can’t wait to shout to the whole world about it, name, exclamation mark, pointing finger—
look, look!
—before her deity disappears or changes itself into something completely different as deities in every myth are wont to do.
“Ooff!” She’s trying to catch her breath, hand on her chest—some rack she’s got there, C-cup at least—she shakes her head, laughing at herself now—at her breathlessness, at having run, and having caught up with me, and at having me stand now here before her, and at it being spring, and at the downpour that’s just passed, and at the sun shining—and I smile, too, infected, unwittingly, with this puppy-like burst of her young youthful energy: What a funny girl! Sweaty, flushed, clothes in a mess.
“I’m so sorry...I recognized you from afar; I’m so glad I caught you.” She’s still not taking her gawking black eyes off me, her plump-lipped mouth is stretched ear to ear; this must be the first time she’s seen Daryna Goshchynska live: “I would very much like to invite you, may I? Here!” she exhales, full-chest. “Take this, please.”
A white, or rather, a gray butterfly—a cheap booklet, on thin paper, like all free concert invitations.
“On the twenty-fourth...in the Grand Hall at the Conservatory...”
“Thank you.” I react with my standard working smile now, and put the flyer, without reading, into my purse: I’ll throw it out later, I get mountains of this junk every month, and the mail’s not letting up yet—the news that Daryna Goshchynska no longer works on television has not yet gained national currency. It’ll be a full year before my name is taken off all the mailing lists, and I must say something encouraging to the girl: “Your concert? Congratulations.”
“It’s our class concert...for our whole year, I’m in the second half. Piano, it’s in the program...I have two pieces—Britten and Gubaidulina.”
“Difficult composers,” I nod knowingly, about to wish her the best of success, anoint her with a ritual blessing by way of taking my leave: go with God, child—but the child has no intention of giving up so quickly, she needs to pour it all out, since she’s caught me, and, without giving me a chance to break away with another word, she bursts forth, like rainwater gushing from a gutter.
“This is my first serious performance, Miss Daryna, please come if you can, please. It would mean so much to me! It’s so important for me, if only you knew.” She clasps her hands prayerfully to her C-cup breasts, which protrude vigorously under her leather jacket and the fashionable short sweater under it, so that a pale strip of her belly winks every time she moves—the current fashion is meant for stick figures, and this girl—nothing to complain about—sports a good childbearing shape, but her hands—her hands are made for the piano indeed: large, with beautiful long fingers. And who wouldn’t melt a little hearing this: “You are my hero, I watch your every show; I haven’t missed one in two years! I even ran away from a date once, to watch it.”
“Thank you,” I say, waiting for her to ask me why the show didn’t air last Wednesday; I have to change the topic: “That’s very nice to hear, but running away from a date—that seems a bit much, doesn’t it? Unless the boy wasn’t anything special.”
She wrinkles her nose, laughingly shines her enamored bovine eyes at me, and concedes that he was not anything special: a moment of female solidarity; we are both laughing. This is it, my audience. This is what I have managed to accomplish in my life. How many of them are out there, across the country, girls and boys like this? Lord, the letters I used to get!
This is
Diogenes’ Lantern
and I’m Daryna Goshchynska, stay with us.
And they’ve stayed; they haven’t even noticed my absence yet.
“As soon as Dad said you were coming to see him, I just couldn’t wait...I had a class at the Conservatory; I don’t know how I sat through it, and as soon as it let out, I ran uphill! I tried to flag a cab on the way, didn’t see any, and just kept running, the whole way...I rang my dad and he said you already left! I didn’t think I’d catch up with you!”
“Your dad?”
“Well, yeah,” the joyous stream whirrs forth from the gutter unchecked and unstoppable. “I called after you back at Zolotovoritska, as soon as I spotted you from afar, but you didn’t turn to look. And I recognized you right away, from the way you walk, the way they show you in your show’s teaser when you enter the studio, you’re unmistakable.”
“I’m sorry, and who are you?”
The stream plugs up, the prominent eyes freeze in their sockets like prunes in whipped cream. “Oh...I’m sorry. I, I didn’t think.... ” Catching herself, she blushes even deeper—all the way to her ears now, “I’m Nika...Nika Boozerova.”
Never underestimate the value of professional training: all my facial muscles remain in their places. Well, well. Of course, how did I not figure it out—the same eyes like jet stones, the same plump lips, and the same high cut of the nostrils that makes them appear constantly puffed, and her body is built the same, too—she’s short-legged and big-bottomed, a dark little pony, but a girl with hips like that can do alright for herself, much better than her dad. Pavlo Ivanovych can be congratulated on this improved replication of himself—a softened, more delicate version, not as
oily-spicy-Al-Jazeera cast as the original: the features are seemingly the same but the treatment is in watercolor, not in oil. “My daughter,” as he bragged at our first meeting, with the stress on the first syllable. Nika, of course—Veronika Boozerova, a Conservatory student, my fervent admirer. This is she, in person. Apparently, the Boozerov family has decided to parade its full ranks in front of me today—who do they have left, mom, grandma? Bring them all out!
“Aha,” I say to the girl in the voice of an anti-banditism operative. “Very pleased to meet you.”
“Me too,” she blooms, malapropos, not having noticed how much like an idiot I feel. So, that’s why Pavlo Ivanovych took his sweet time shooting the breeze with me—for her sake; he was holding me back for his kid, until her class let out. But she is still too young to appreciate such complexities; she, with the happy enthusiasm of youth, is still filled to the brim with herself exclusively and her urgent need for self-affirmation (little princess, Daddy’s girl, and a late child to boot—Pavlo Ivanovych must’ve been pushing forty). And she springs at the chance to unload on me, all at once, everything she didn’t spill along the way while she raced after me with her booklet all the way from the Conservatory, up the hill from Gorodetsky Street to St. Sofia (and that’s quite a trek, must be what, about thirty minutes, and all uphill, no wonder the plump little thing is drenched!).
She reminds me, happily, that she has my autograph—in her mind, this must constitute some kind of intimacy between us, a sign of a connection—of course, I remember, the same loving father solicited it for the child the first time he ever laid eyes on me, must be nice to have such a loving dad! A strong, healthy one, not an invalid. A dad you can be proud of instead of swallowing every mention of him, mangled, as quickly as you can—oh yes, I remember the feeling: the last time I had it was at the opening of a fairytale palace, when my dad stood in the glowing crystal foyer in a huddle with other serious men, and they all took turns shaking his hand. I was still little then, but I remember; I know what it’s like.
Nika’s Ukrainian is natural if a touch too literary, as with all children from Russian-speaking families, without any slang—a Sunday language, starched for going out, not for home use. Although, it could be that she is making a special effort for me, cleaning up her act: I am a different generation, an adult woman, and she is speaking to me the way she would speak to one of her professors at an oral exam. Asking me for her A+, the straight-A girl. A good girl, engaged, diligent.
Aidy’s right, I have gone all sentimental like on the first day of a period—my eyes mist over as Pavlo Ivanovych’s daughter, and Captain Boozerov’s granddaughter, rattles off the list of the
Diogenes’ Lantern
episodes that made the most indelible impression on her—changed her life, Nika declares a bit too dramatically but with clear-eyed candor. She and her friends discussed these shows; they have a whole fan club going. They even tape me (used to tape; what are they going to tape now?). Of course, these are students, I mentally subtitle Nika’s nourishing babble for my exboss’s benefit, or perhaps for addressing the new owners of the channel—who also act as producers of a sex-industry show—these are students, gentlemen. These are the young people; this is our fucking future, you motherfuckers, young people always need role models—“who’s out there to shoot for,” as a boy taxi driver once said to me, spitting furiously through his rolled-down window. Young people need to have before their eyes not only millionaire gangsters and their Lexus-driving sluts but also—Vadym had a good phrase for it—moral authorities, and that is precisely why my never-heard-of heroes and heroines that hold for you no authority whatsoever are for these children like water for parched land: they gulp them down with a hiss, and beg for more! And what gets me the most, what cuts me to the quick, is that Nika unerringly names all the episodes of
Lantern
that were most important, closest to
my
heart, as though running her fingers over the departed show’s acupuncture points that only I could see, and by doing so, revives the pain I thought I had lulled to sleep. It is incredible how precisely this child is honed in to the same wavelength as me, and
this wave washes me from inside, finally closing around my throat when she brings up my interview with Vladyslava Matusevych—she says she was still in high school then, and it was that interview that cemented her determination to devote herself to art. “Is that so,” I manage to gurgle.
Yes, even though Daddy tried to convince her that musical performance is a profession without any prospects whatsoever and wanted her to go to law school. But Daddy is musical himself; he has perfect pitch and still sings sometimes in good company—he naturally has a wonderful tenor, Nika asserts so fervently as if it made all the difference in the world to me. As if I had visited her dad for the express purpose of assessing his natural vocal abilities. Now it is
my
turn—I recognize these notes in Nika’s voice with unerring precision, I can’t be fooled: Nika is making excuses, she is ashamed of her father’s profession—she would much rather see him an opera tenor, even of the second or third roster. Really, how did I not think of this before: at the time of her childhood, in the ’80s—and even of mine, in the ’70s—the acronym Kay-Gee-Bee spoken out loud was already likely to elicit from other kids the same snickering as names of certain hidden parts of the human body, so standing up and announcing to the whole class where her daddy worked could not have added to little Nika Boozerova’s popularity among her peers. It wasn’t all that cloudless, then, her childhood....
“Your father’s trepidation can be understood.” I smile at her maternally. “Art is an uncertain business; only a few make their way to success, and law school at least guarantees a living. Especially when, like in your family, it’s a legacy...”
To this mention of family legacy Nika darkens and bites her lip—it must be a nervous habit she has, because her front teeth have traces of the lipstick she’s swallowed.
“Well, not really...Daddy, when he was young, wanted to take the entrance exams to Mechanics and Mathematics, he was really good at math, but Gramps didn’t let him. And the musical talent—that comes with the Jewish blood...”
Jewish?
At first, I don’t know what to say: Nika and I truly belong to different generations—the freedom with which she speaks of her Jewishness can serve as a line of demarcation for an entire era. Among my peers, being Jewish was still a mark, something profoundly ambivalent and vaguely shameful, something even those with last names ending in -man and -stein were loath to admit to, and half-bloods hid like syphilis under the covers of their Slavic last names. And there was no game better loved by KGB-paid informants than teasing a Jewish grandma’s grandson with anti-Semitic innuendo and watching him go pale, change in the face and chuckle along stoically like the Spartan boy with a fox cub chewing at his stomach—the other extreme from the opposite camp was an urgent, tentative, roundabout confession, to everyone suspected of being Jewish, of one’s own Judophilia and love for the state of Israel (about which at the time absolutely nothing was known but which was loved anyway, long-distance, purely for the fact that it was not loved by Moscow).
And in my student years, I often said such things myself—feeling, however, every time, a slight awkwardness at this forced demonstration of basic human solidarity, like the feeling one gets from demonstrating one’s health at a gynecological exam. To Jewish people, I think this must have been as offensive as any anti-Semitic barb. But the problem, as Aidy says, did not have a solution within the framework of that system and instead took care of itself later, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, when I simply stopped noticing who was Jewish and who was not, and what kind of Jewish they were, and who was whose grandma’s sister’s husband, and have internalized this not noticing so deeply, it would appear, that I now stand before Nika Boozerova feeling like the world’s biggest idiot for the second time in five minutes: oh, so they are Jews!
So that’s where Pavlo Ivanovych gets his Arab look, his near-Eastern charm, some of which, in a diluted form, has trickled down to his progeny—and when Nika turns her head, the magnificent
prominent eyes, the tucked-up nose, and the plump-lipped mouth assemble instantly, like a 3-D image behind a stereoscopic picture, into a new kind of person: a Jewish girl, a mixed-blood—and what a comely mix it is!
“So, your grandmother must have been Jewish then?” I ask, now with genuine curiosity: this must mean that Gramps Boozerov managed to get married before 1937, before the great Jewish purges of the Party and NKVD. Afterward, Jewish wives were no longer fashionable among the fighters of banditism, and after the war, when they went after the Jews almost as zealously as in prewar Germany, a wife like that was a downright liability.