Happiness is Possible (17 page)

So that is what happened in front of my very eyes at an exhibition of rather uncontemporary art. Or perhaps it didn't happen, and I imagined it all. That happens to me sometimes, and probably to you too, if you're the same age as me. We like to fantasise; we keep hoping that something unusual can still happen to us, when in actual fact everything has been decided long ago and all that's left for us to do is live out our lives reminiscing about the past and growing old to the music of our memories.

‘Well, what do you think?'

‘About what?' I ask, pretending not to understand.

‘Don't act stupid,' says Dmitry Pavlovich, narrowing his eyes. ‘I'm talking about Mary.'

‘Mary?' I shrug my shoulders. ‘Well, Mary's lovely . . . Only she carries a lot of gold around.'

‘Yes, she likes that,' he laughs. ‘Only that's not what I'm asking you about.'

‘But I don't know about anything else apart from that.'

We fall silent, each engrossed in his own thoughts. We can hear dishes rattling in the kitchen; no doubt the women are whispering in there too. ‘How do you like him?' Toma asks. ‘But is he really a writer?' Mary counters, question for question.

Mary Kerimovna is their neighbour. Dmitry Pavlovich and Tamara arranged this dinner especially to introduce us to each other, although I think Tamara's involvement is merely incidental and he was the instigator of the entire occasion. Dmitry Pavlovich has obviously sensed a suspicious warming of relations between Toma and myself and decided to place me
hors de combat
. All his recent conversations with me have revolved round the idea that it is time to settle ‘the woman question', and for some reason he has narrowed the woman question down to his neighbour Mary, lavishing enough praise on her to give the impression that he himself is by no means indifferent to her charms.

Well, now I have seen for myself that Mary Kerimovna is a woman of no mean quality, in corporeal terms and in all sorts of other areas. Our dinner today was her benefit performance, an assortment of dishes from her own native Caucasus. Everything was quite delicious, but now I feel like a fire-eater after a performance.

‘She's a theatre critic by education . . .' Dmitry Pavlovich says, as if he's talking to himself.

‘There you go again . . .'

‘Yes, and that bust! Did you see that bust?'

This is beginning to annoy me: he can marry her himself, if her bust is that good. And give Tamara back to me. Out loud, though, I simply play along.

‘Yes, an interesting woman. But with too much gold on her.'

‘That's true,' Dmitry Pavlovich agrees. ‘Gold, trinkets – they like all that. Only she is a theatre critic by education . . .'

‘So what?'

‘Well, it means that she has cultural needs to satisfy. In fact, that was the reason she left her husband. Do you know who her husband was? The most famous orthodontist in the whole of Moscow!'

‘You don't say!'

‘I do say. Only he's one of them too, from the diaspora, so, you understand, he's a bit of a despot. But this woman's a theatre specialist, she has her needs. So she emancipated herself from him.'

‘Good for her . . . But where does she get her gold from now?'

‘He still gives it to her. And he bought the flat here for her too. That's the Eastern mentality, they don't abandon their women. He satisfies her material needs, and she satisfies her cultural ones herself.'

‘That's amusing . . .' I mutter under my breath. ‘So they're half-divorced, like me and Toma . . .'

‘What was that?' asks Dmitry Pavlovich, who didn't quite catch what I said.

‘Oh, nothing . . . So what are these cultural needs that you say she has?'

He opens his mouth to answer or to avoid answering my question, but just at that moment the women walk into the room.

‘There they are, our little bunnies!' Mary Kerimovna warbles. ‘We've brought you coffee.'

‘Bunnies'! The term doesn't really suit me and Dmitry Pavlovich, but this, as I have already realised, is her style. The standard kind of thing: a woman laying the charm on thick, so certain she is irresistible that all men are ‘bunnies' to her. I wonder who it was that raised her self-esteem to that level. Could it have been the orthodontist?

The coffee's good, though – Toma clearly didn't brew it – and the conversation over the coffee is cultured and agreeable. Mary Kerimovna (you can just
tell
that she's a specialist on theatre) holds forth on cultural topics, in particular show business. But all good things in moderation: Dmitry Pavlovich has yawned twice already. I think it's time for us to wind everything up.

Then come the goodbyes.

‘Goodbye, my little sweetheart!' says Mary Kerimovna, giving Tamara a thorough kissing.

‘See you soon, kitten!' she says, presenting her cheek to Dmitry Pavlovich.

‘I'll read you, I'll definitely read you!' – that's to me.

‘Liar,' I think.

As always I go home from their place in a taxi, for which Dmitry Pavlovich, as always, has thrust five hundred roubles into my pocket. He doesn't know (how could he!) that for driving from their home to mine a taxi driver always takes at least six hundred and fifty. My heart is heavy, and not only at the thought of the hundred and fifty roubles I shall have to shell out from my own pocket. I am still dazed by the jangle of gold in my ears, and the Caucasus is still ablaze in my mouth.

‘I'll read you,' she said. I rather think not.

She's arriving home right now – in fact, she's already there, because the flat bought with the orthodontist's money is less than a stone's throw away. She has already arrived, taken off her earrings, pendants and rings, and now she's standing there, examining herself in the mirror. I was wrong to think that she adored herself so greatly. There's no denying that the bust really is magnificent – the reader has already heard about that detail from Dmitry Pavlovich. Her bum's not bad either, although it used to be better. But below that . . . Actually the mirror only shows Mary down to the waist, but she knows. A woman knows when her legs are not up to the mark, and that's why she sighs. No, no one can be absolutely perfect, especially if that someone is already well past forty. And those wrinkles there on her forehead . . .

The standard schedule of pre-sleep procedures is performed with deliberate thoroughness. After removing her makeup, she looks at herself in the mirror again. Things have not improved . . . The news from the mirror could definitely be better, but that is not the only or, rather, the real reason for the lack of joy in Mary Kerimovna's heart. The fact is that she didn't like today's writer. She's no fool and she knows why the dinner was arranged. But the writer . . . how can she put it? He turned out to be an arrogant namby-pamby. He didn't express any clear opinions and always seemed to be trying to joke – at her expense. It's a good thing Mary was brought up properly, or she would have put in her
kopeck's
worth too.

‘I khaven't read khim and I never will!' she concludes out loud as she moves the toothbrush around in her mouth

But her thoughts run on. Dmitry Pavlovich now, he's quite a different matter . . . Dmitry Pavlovich is a real bunny. Of course, he's got Tamara . . . Tamara's impossible to understand too. She says she and this namby-pamby writer loved each other quite insanely. Then why did she leave him? What does she want with Dmitry Pavlovich? And what does he see in her, anyway? She can't cook . . . Next time he invites me round, I'll make
dolma
for him.

The idea of
dolma
comes to Mary Kerimovna when she's already in bed. She falls asleep with it in her mind.

Meanwhile I'm already approaching my home.

‘Turn left here, then left again,' I tell the taxi driver.

‘I know that, my dear man!' he replies with dignity. ‘It's my bread.'

Fine bread it is too – six hundred and fifty roubles! My driver has a distinctive accent and nose – the Caucasian theme runs right through the evening . . .

We say goodbye in the dim light from the taxi's interior.

‘Good luck to you.'

Thank you, friend, only good luck with what? It's too late now . . . If I were in your place, then, yes, I could use some good luck. I'd have the entire night ahead of me, the entire exuberant, ebullient Moscow night that promises such rich pickings to a taxi driver. After leaving me at home, that is, after offloading this namby-pamby, I'd go . . . where would I go? To the railway station, for instance.

The railway station is a risky place for a private cabby. The railway station is mafia territory. But on the other hand, the passenger at the station is amenable to persuasion. Newly arrived, he doesn't know our rates, but well-intentioned people have told him, of course, that taxis in Moscow are an incredible rip-off. They were right – I'm certainly going to rip him off.

‘Where to, guv'nor?'

‘Me? I don't know . . . The address is here on this piece of paper.'

‘Clear enough. We'll get you there fine, no worries. You just relax, comrade, light up – that's okay by me. The worst is all behind you now. You're lucky to have found me – the Caucasians drive all the cabs in Moscow these days. Don't even know the city, and they make out they're taxi drivers. By the way, how do you like our little town now, a long time since you were here last, is it?'

The passenger gazes out of the window in confusion.

‘I don't even recognise it . . .'

Yes, the capital is changing. Moscow of the welcomes, city of the golden domes – where is she now? Where is the enduring, red-brick, Kremlin-museum city of the Soviet TV logo?

Our provincial compatriots are not very fond of Moscow these days. Just recently one tried to tell me that the city's sucking all the juice out of Mother Russia. Swelling up as it draws the blood out of her white body, like some huge tick that will have to burst some time soon. Maybe so, I won't argue with that, but have you ever thought, comrades from the hinterland, that the substance swelling up this tick – or whoever it is – is you? You just keep on pouring in, and that's the problem: Moscow's wheeling-dealing big noises are ex-provincials like you. And two-thirds of our
beau monde
– pardon my French – that flits from one cultural event to the next, is also you. Some come for the cheap goods at the markets, some for the Vanity Fair of Moscow's intelligentsia, but the result is the same: the capital just keeps on getting fatter and it really is almost fit to burst. We can only thank all the swindlers and conmen for helping Moscow slim down a bit.

And the foreigners! The city's infested with them nowadays. Look at that lady over there, for instance, trying to stop a cab – she raises her hand and the diamonds on the fingers blaze like cat's eyes. There's an obvious . . . Ah, no, sorry, she's one of ours.

‘What a surprise, Mary Kerimovna! Where are you going at this time of the night? According to my information, you're sound asleep at the moment.'

‘You may have decided that I'm asleep, but I have cultural needs to satisfy.'

‘I beg your pardon. But tell me, aren't you afraid to be out at night in all that gold?'

‘Why should I be afraid? My husband's an extremely famous orthodontist.'

‘Ah, so that's all right . . . In that case, that will be six hundred and fifty roubles.'

No, I don't really think she's like a tick (I'm talking about Moscow again). She's not really like anything at all, nothing but a blurred sequence of flickering images. Armeno-Azerbaijanis, Arbat Streets (Old and New), Alfa Romeos, assassins, authors, apricots, attorneys, avocados . . . Turn the corner onto the letter B and there are boutiques, BMWs, Bentleys, bums, bimbos in boots, bootleg taxis, bedlam, bandits, buffoons, boulevards, bistros, babel . . . Maybe Moscow is basically an open concept, like those kindergarten barges that we used to load up with nouns when we were children? We just keep on loading them in without giving a thought to the fact that the barge settled on the bottom ages ago.

It seems to me that that the image of Moscow only exists in the minds of the provincials. It's the same with a whale, for example: look at it from the outside and you see a certain image, but when it swallows you and you end up in its belly, the image disappears.

Moscow is faceless, but sly. Let your guard down for moment and she'll creep up, blow in your ear and break into raucous laughter. The suddenness of it stirs up a blizzard in your head, leaving your thoughts hopelessly tangled, and she thinks that's just great. Moscow is very fond of confusing things. For instance, have you ever tried travelling round her using the map? On paper everything's clear: Such-and-Such Street runs into Such-and-Such Square. But once you wind up on that square, you're done for: where's the street, where's the junction? Nothing but the sound of Moscow's derisive laughter on all sides.

But don't you worry, I know the capital all right. I know it every bit as well as our Soviet agent Stirlitz knew Berlin. It's my
brot
, after all. So just hand over that six hundred and fifty, dear non-resident, and good luck to you. Although I think you've already been lucky – you arrived in Moscow at night, didn't you? Everything you've seen, this seething confusion of lights, people and cars, was only her dream. But she'll start waking up any time now, and then you and I won't have time to spin any more stories. The foundations will quake, the bilges will be flung open and all the nouns, from A-Z, will come gushing up to conjugate with verbs.

Only I won't be there to see it. As fortune's own nocturnal favourite, I turn my steed back towards its stable at the first glimmerings of dawn. My glove compartment is stuffed full of hundred-rouble notes and my one remaining ambition is to get home. At the last moment Moscow realises what's going on and arranges for traffic jams along my route, but she can't catch me now. I swerve in and out of courtyards with two exits, I'm as tricky as Stirlitz and I'll get back in time: I'll get back before my Tamara wakes up. Back at home, after taking a shower, I'll rouse her with my body and she'll smile at me through her sleep.

‘Raked in the loot?'