Happiness is Possible (20 page)

Assuming a vertical position, Tamara looks at Little Dima's broad back.

‘Dima!' she says.

‘Yeah?'

‘You won't tell Dmitry Pavlovich, will you?'

‘About what?' he asks and shrugs his mighty shoulders. ‘Telling tales isn't done in our line of work.'

‘It isn't done? That's good then,' says Toma, and her voice sounds determined. ‘Then turn round – we're going somewhere else.'

Dima looks at us in the rear-view mirror.

‘Where?' he asks dispassionately.

‘His place,' she says, looking at me, and I think I see a smile on her wet face. That dear, forgotten, smile of Toma's from the past, a smile filled with tenderness. All right, so let's go to my place, we'll remember our friend Zamoisky again, and lots and lots of other things as well . . .

Do you remember how they used to shoot car-rides in the old movies? Somewhere in the studio they set up a model of the interior of a car and sat the actors in it. Projected on a screen in the windows of the model, the road slipped back and away, telegraph poles flickered past, and the actors swayed about as if they were riding over a bumpy surface. Meanwhile, the actor playing the driver looked straight ahead all the time, swinging the wheel vigorously to and fro . . . But now imagine that shooting is over. The driver has let go of the wheel, the passengers have stopped bouncing up and down over non-existent potholes; everyone is relaxing, drinking coffee and chatting about something or other. Only outside the windows of the model car the forgotten road is still running along on the screen, it hasn't been switched off yet . . . Copses of trees ripple across cloud-dappled blue sky; fields of pasture open out like fans; Caucasians at the roadside go flying past, wreathed in shish-kebab smoke; a village spurts out from behind a hill in a lava-flood of houses: peasant women with jars, peasant women with buckets, flickering past, dazzling your eyes . . . Then it's clear again, with just the open country rising and falling in long, smooth movements, as if it's breathing with its large stomach. Ahead, drawn up in close formation, the perpendicular trunks of a pine forest advance into sight: a tight-packed, bronze organ-pipe colonnade, the forest trees drone, breathing out their solemn liturgical dampness at the windows of the cars flashing past. The windows of the cars, however, are tightly closed.

Sitting inside our model, we don't smell the aroma of the freshly mown grass or the breath of the forest, and if we imagine that we catch the scent of pine needles, it comes from the little cardboard deodorant tree dangling under the mirror on the windscreen.

‘We'll miss our turn, Palich. You could at least give the road an occasional glance.'

‘Don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs,' Dmitry Pavlovich replies.

He's sitting half-turned towards me with a little cardboard cup of coffee in his right hand. The plump fingers of his left hand are resting on the steering wheel. Resting and nothing more, because the Geländewagen, blasting along the federal highway at a speed of a hundred and sixty kilometres an hour, needs no steering. That's what it's like to drive a good car! Every little corner inside it is upholstered with something soft and non-traumatising. The interior is like a case for some precious item and a person sitting in it can't help feeling that he is that item. There's nothing so surprising about those weirdos who leave wills with instructions to bury them in their own cars. I wouldn't mind being buried in the Geländewagen myself, as long as it doesn't happen too soon.

But to ensure that our burial doesn't take place ahead of schedule, Dmitry Pavlovich needs to hold the driving wheel with both hands. I take away his cup of coffee and try to make him concentrate on his driving. It's not easy, though, the highway feels so wide and open after the automotive clutter of Moscow . . . Dmitry Pavlovich dropped the reins the moment we got past the ring road, and I have a very uneasy feeling that the drivers of the cars we overtake and the cars that overtake us have all done the same.

A road sign comes darting up and I read it: ‘R. Volya'. I heard somewhere that the names of all the rivers around Moscow have Sanskrit roots. I wonder what the word ‘Volya' means in Sanskrit? In Russian it usually means ‘will' or ‘freedom', but in this case it means that we've almost missed our turn!

‘Palich, we're here already,' I shout. ‘Look for the turn-off!'

‘I see, stop yelling,' he burbles.

In actual fact he doesn't see anything, or he wouldn't be travelling in the third lane from the shoulder. Scaring all the drivers dozing at their wheels, we cut hard to the right across two lanes of traffic going in our direction and brake so hard that Phil, who is dozing on the back seat, tumbles off onto the floor.

The Geländewagen's moment of truth has arrived. It's time for our German to prove that he's a genuine all-terrain model, that those big wheels and that cavalry army under his bonnet are there for more than just insolent swagger. Our German replies confidently: ‘Kein problem! Only plis explain me, ver going are ve?' No, he's not afraid of being tested, he's a jeep, he's rugged and powerful and the finest engineers have designed him to conquer impassable roads. But the Geländewagen is slightly puzzled: Why have we turned off a perfectly decent
autobahn
onto this nominal road that is a mere dusty earth track – sinewy, twisted and shrivelled, like some old anatomical specimen. God only knows where this track leads. The Geländewagen has heard that Russians call this sort of thing a ‘cross-country road'. But what do we want with it, we almost-European inhabitants of the megalopolis? Or have we decided to have some fun, go for . . . what's it called now? – a joyride? If that's it, then he understands.

‘Hold on, brothers, it's going to get bouncy!' our driver warns us excitedly.

With a roar of its mighty diesel engine, the Geländewagen plunges into the waves of Russian off-the-road terrain. Its broad tyres splat the fresh, damp cowpats and leave a clear track across hoof-prints and tractor herringbones. Its suspension handles the numerous tussocks and ruts confidently, with no banging or creaking. And, as it happens, no bouncing either: a modern jeep is not your old Soviet collective-farm bone-shaker!

The Geländewagen has no more questions, but Phil does. Behind us he runs from one window to the other with his tail tucked away, squatting down on it every now and then and whining agitatedly. Calm down my friend! You don't really think Dmitry Pavlovich and I have decided to go joyriding in our old age, do you? We're simply . . . we're simply going on a fishing trip, that's all. Drink a little vodka, breathe the river mist and feed the mosquitoes. Also an extreme sport of a kind, but rather more in keeping with our advanced years. And you, my friend. have your own amusements to look forward to: you'll be able to run around to your heart's content, wallow in dung and, if you're lucky, catch a water rat.

The track runs alongside the high bank of the river, alternately moving closer and further away.

‘Where's the way down?' Dmitry Pavlovich asks anxiously.

‘Coming up soon,' I promise him firmly.

To tell the truth, though, I'm bluffing, because I don't remember this area any longer. I used to come here once upon a time, but that time was so very long ago . . . The memories surface in my mind like fragments of dreams that carry no real credence . . . And, by the way . . . Ah, there, of course! That's it, the way down!

‘Palich!' I screech in delight.

‘I see . . .' he replies, scowling.

Dmitry Pavlovich is scowling because the way down looks too steep to him. But then, what exactly was he expecting? Out in the wild, with no conveniences . . . Like a horse poised above a river, the Geländewagen is halted, motionless, at the top of the descent, which is more like a sheer cliff . . . Right then, boldly does it! A stone spurts out from under a wheel and goes tumbling downwards. The Geländewagen follows it cautiously, snuffling intently and skidding first on one wheel, then another.

There now, fantastic, and you were afraid! Just look at that wonderful little green riverbank – this is a heavenly spot! True, as you walk through the grass here you have to watch your step, or else . . . Ah! There, I warned you . . . As he scours the dung off his trainer, Dmitry Pavlovich mutters something about anti-personnel mines.

‘What did you think we'd find!' I reply with a smirk. ‘This isn't Gorky Park.'

Now I feel my superiority over him, the archetypal urbanite, and there's a certain satisfaction in it. How could I not feel it: these are my native parts, I remember them from my childhood . . . Aagh! Now I've put my foot in it too.

Never mind. In the great outdoors the most important thing is never to let anything get you down. After a brief period of wandering along the bank, I find a relatively clear spot and we start setting out our camp. We, that is, Phil and I; Dmitry Pavlovich would be only too glad to give us a hand, but he can't, because he is engrossed in doing battle with the horse flies. As he lashes at his neck, his forehead and his legs below his shorts, he looks like someone doing a wild gipsy dance, and the longer he dances, the more horseflies are attracted to him, less by hunger than by curiosity.

Gradually, however we get the upper hand and, despite the resistance offered by enemy air power, we establish a bridgehead on the riverbank. Our tent has been erected, our campfire is raking the heavens above with scattered volleys and our limbs have been securely protected with a coating of salve that could frighten off even a large predator. Half-glassfuls of vodka have been downed.

An initial glance at our base might suggest to the unobservant outsider that we are a group of city folk who have simply driven out into the country for a banal picnic. But only to the unobservant outsider. Unlike those lovers of picnics who drive out into the country merely to have a drink and a bite to eat, we have arrived at this spot with serious intentions. This is already obvious from the fact that we have a tent with us, but no women. Not to mention the strange manipulations with which Dmitry Pavlovich has been occupied for the last half hour. On closer inspection it is possible to guess that he is assembling American fishing rods out of components that we have brought with us. He has already caught himself on a hook several times, but in general he's doing just fine and the job will only take him another forty minutes or so. Of course, it would have been quicker and simpler to go into the nearest bushes and cut two good, stout rods there, but then what is technological progress for?

There is another achievement of progress that has definitely proved useless to us. I mean the American electric pump that Dmitry Pavlovich bought to inflate the rubber dinghy. The trouble is that the pump and my old boat, which was acquired by my father at an army surplus sale in a previous historical era, do not mate together in any form or fashion. The two products represent not only different systems, but also technological generations that are very far apart. This, however, is no disaster, because for inflating the boat we still have the standard hand bellows, which look like the leg of one of those boots that people used for pumping up samovars in times gone by. The hose runs between my clasped thighs, against which the bellows are braced. The boat's valve produces a loud, indecent sound; as I pump, the healthy sweat of honest labour drips from my nose.

At last our flotation and angling equipment is all in working order. Now, even from the most superficial glance, it is obvious that Dmitry Pavlovich and I intend to engage in one of the most ancient of human arts, that is, fishing. Naturally, neither my companion nor I are under any illusion that this is a simple business. That's why Dmitry Pavlovich laid in the American rods, the electric pump and a jar of some repulsive and extremely expensive caterpillars, which according to the adverts simply drive fish crazy. To be honest, I can't imagine myself eating a fish that eats crud like that: the mere thought of picking up that caterpillar and impaling it on the hook makes me shudder.

Here too, however, my memory comes to the rescue or, perhaps, not even my memory but some kind of instinct or atavistic intuition. I pick up a stick and rummage in the bushes, where the earth is damper. After about a quarter of an hour I grub up a dozen or so wonderful, fat, moist, shiny, appetising earthworms. They will be my bait, and Dmitry Pavlovich can use his foul caterpillars, if he really doesn't find them too disgusting.

So, everything's ready. All that's left is to down another half-glassful apiece, launch the boat and . . . And decide what to do about Phil. As soon as he realises that he's not being taken sailing, he has a fit of hysterics. While Dmitry Pavlovich and I load ourselves into the dinghy (which is no easy task, in view of our overall dimensions) Phil dashes backwards and forwards along the bank, howling despairingly. He even makes an attempt to throw himself in and swim after us but, fortunately, he's a hopeless swimmer and his fear forces him, wet and miserable, back to the dry land. His barking gradually merges into a plaintive ululation; hysteria is replaced by melancholy. And then Phil's attention is distracted by a frog hopping into the grass. In the face of this provocative challenge, all woes are immediately cast aside.

As happens with all of us, more urgent concerns help Phil to bear the separation. Especially since our separation is not so very great, in terms of distance. From the shore to the spot where Dmitry Pavlovich and I have dropped anchor is no more than fifteen metres. There's no point in sailing any further, because we are already at the midpoint of the river. In fact, it's not really clear why we had to do our fishing from a boat in the first place. Supposedly someone told Dmitry Pavlovich that the biggest fish lurk here, in the deep water. Maybe they do, but why would they be interested in us? The mere fact of sitting in the same boat helps fishermen develop chummier relations, though – if not with the fish, then at least with each other. And isn't that precisely why Dmitry Pavlovich and I have undertaken this outing?

Each of us threads his bait on a hook and we toss them into the water to give the big fish pause for thought. Now, it would seem, we can socialise a bit. My companion has apparently been wanting that to happen for a long time . . .

Only what are he and I going to talk about? Men in a boat usually talk about politics or women. The problem is that my Dmitry Pavlovich is an ideological Westerniser. He holds such liberal views and is so doctrinaire in the way he holds them that if we start talking about politics, we'll frighten all the fish away. It's even more awkward for us to talk about women because, after all, we are husbands to the same one. Never mind that I am the deserted husband: I know Dmitry Pavlovich is jealous of my relationship with Tamara, and I know he has good reason to be.