Happiness is Possible (7 page)

‘Quarter past two, little girl.'

Only then did I realise there really was a wet little girl standing in front of me, clutching some kind of bundle in her arms.

‘Mister, take the doggy,' she said, obviously not for the first time.

‘All right,' I said without giving it a thought and took her bundle, in which something promptly started whimpering.

‘Thank you,' the little girl said with a smile and ran off through the puddles.

I ought to have asked what the doggy was called, but I didn't think of it. And I didn't know the little girl's name either. When I got back home, I studied the contents of the bundle carefully. The creature proved to be a male, about six weeks old. I glanced into the calendar of saints and baptised him Philip.

What is the absolutely primary public good? Of course, a shop that's only a step away from home, an EAS (Easily Accessible Shop). Price accessibility is taken as given, although this is a relative term. If we had EASs everywhere, there wouldn't be any need for the president's CC (Civic Chamber), because every shop like this is a citizen's forum
par excellence
. We assert our rights loudly on the sales floor, we conduct protracted debates on the steps, and in the alleys behind it we exercise personal freedoms that are not established in law. And all this without distracting the government from affairs of state.

As for my own neighbourhood, in this respect it could not possibly be better provided for: the nearest shop is located directly under my windows. So if I should get the urge, it's within spitting, as well as walking distance. When the shop was built a long time ago, it was called simply ‘Bakery'. Nothing was ever actually baked there, but you could always buy bread and those rock-hard Soviet spice cakes. Later, when all the changes everyone knows about took place in the country, the shop was privatised and its name was changed to ‘Rosa Bakery Shop'. Who this Rosa was – the first owner of the shop, the owner's wife or his beloved, nobody knows these days. During the next fifteen years this retail outlet changed owners several times; the shop sign was renovated and the words in it switched places, but the set always remained the same. I realise that ‘Rosa' can't be taken off the sign, because that's the brand now. But I am surprised by the stubbornness with which our little shop continues to call itself a bakery, when they still don't bake anything there. On the other hand, it now has low-quality versions of everything. The undemanding consumer who lives only a step away, including myself, always does his or her shopping at the ‘Rosa'.

However, if I absolutely must have freshly-baked bread buns or some other product that isn't out of date, I have to take a step further. Located about two hundred metres from my building is a large, modern grocery store. It's considered to be economy class, but that doesn't mean the customer can make any huge savings there. In wintertime the old ladies tumble like ninepins on its icy steps, and the air on the sales floor is stale and stuffy in both winter and summer, not to mention the chronic shortage of shopping baskets and little keys for the lockers where you leave your own shopping bag. The economy-class grocery store represents our second level of consumer prosperity.

The third level, and the highest in our district, is exemplified by the ‘Throne' shop, which is distinguished from the first two by its automatic doors and certain strict internal security measures. And also, of course, by its prices. This third level is only three steps away from me, but it is well beyond the reach of my wallet and, indeed, of most wallets around here. We usually walk past the ‘Throne': the miraculous doors gape invitingly wide, but all they catch is air. The checkout lady here is not overburdened with work: she spends the whole day leafing through a glossy magazine with her manicured fingers or flirting with the security guard.

The third level of consumption is not my level; my level lies somewhere between the ‘Rosa' and economy class, and that's only when my financial affairs are in relatively good order. My finances are subject to disruption when I have to make any large purchases – shoes, for instance, or trousers. In such cases I sometimes borrow from my brother-in-law, as I call Dmitry Pavlovich, my ex-wife Tamara's husband. I don't find it pleasant to do this, but I really have no choice. I'm a writer and, therefore, a public figure and, therefore, there's no way I can manage without a decent pair of shoes. That's the way I see it, and Tamara agrees with me, although nothing here really follows from anything else. My relative celebrity as a writer of prose simply allows me to get past face control at certain literary clubs in Moscow without any problem. Every now and then I attend other people's presentations at one place or another, provided, of course that the functions are accompanied by a buffet meal. I don't go for the pleasure of it, only to demonstrate to Tamara and Dmitry Pavlovich that I am an item of some cultural significance. Otherwise, I suspect he wouldn't loan me the money for shoes, and I wouldn't be able to go.

When my indebtedness exceeds my creditworthiness, Dmitry Pavlovich doesn't write it off, he restructures it. I don't find the moral aspects of this process very pleasant either. ‘Forget about the money,' says Dmitry Pavlovich, ‘pay it back when you can.' The first part of this phrase doesn't tally with the second, because if I forget about the money, then I'll never give it back. But that's okay. What's worse is that he moves on to speculate about fixing me up with some kind of work, not so that I can pay him back, of course, but so that I can buy my own shoes. Our conversations on this subject are ritual in nature and never lead to any practical conclusion. Never, that is, with one single exception, which I am going to tell you about now.

One day Dmitry Pavlovich called and informed me that I was invited to dinner. Dinner sounded good; I rarely decline invitations of that kind. But it was strange that he called in the middle of a working day. If I try to contact him at that time, Dmitry Pavlovich doesn't immediately recall who I am and addresses me in an intimidating, bossy tone of voice. This time too, in fact, the tone was peremptory, brooking no objections.

‘Be ready at half past seven. Tamara and I will pick you up.'

I tried to ascertain the occasion for the prospective dinner, and why my presence was required, but Dmitry Pavlovich didn't go into the details.

‘I've got no time to talk to you now,' he snapped. ‘It's a business dinner, you'll find out what's what there.'

Not entirely satisfied with his answer, I phoned Tamara. Managers of her level don't give themselves such airs and anyway, to judge from the occasional slurping sound in the handset, my call caught her at coffee in the corporate canteen.

‘What is it you don't understand?' Toma asked with a slurp of surprise. ‘Dima's found you a job and wants to introduce you to the people you need to know.'

‘So that's it,' I muttered, ‘I see. But I'd like to be in the loop too.'

‘In what loop?'

‘Well . . . where we're having dinner and who with.'

‘Didn't Dima tell you?' Toma slurped. ‘We're dining at Gridlevsky's place, Griddle.'

‘But who with?'

‘Gridlevsky, of course.'

I paused for a moment, gathering my thoughts. The surname surfaced slowly out of the depths of my memory, trailing vague gastronomic associations . . . and then sank again.

‘And who is he, this Gridlevsky?' I asked cautiously.

Tamara gasped in amazement:'

‘What do you mean, who is he? And you a writer! He's a celebrity, all your lot eat at his place.'

‘My lot?'

‘Yes, your lot – the cultural fraternity. He's read you and he liked you. He wants to commission you to write a book.'

‘A recipe book?'

‘Why a recipe book . . . well, maybe it is a recipe book. What do you care, as long as they pay for it?'

The situation had been more or less clarified. The idea of a recipe book didn't exactly inspire me, but I thought I probably ought to get to know Gridlevsky and his establishment. After all, it's rather frustrating to be known as a Moscow writer and not know where the cultural fraternity dines – the part of it, that is, that has the wherewithal to eat out at restaurants.

At eight o'clock or, to be precise, eight-forty, the Geländewagen rolled up to the entrance of my building with Dmitry Pavlovich, Tamara and the driver Little Dima in it. I got in, kissed my ex-wife and we set off.

We drove through Moscow: traffic jam – spurt, traffic jam – spurt . . . There were lots of restaurants on both sides of the road, with gilded turnstiles and guards who looked like Little Dima at the entrances. The red-carpet tongues of these establishments licked up patrons as they arrived, but these patrons didn't look like the cultural fraternity. Then the Geländewagen turned off the main avenue and started threading its way through side streets. There were no more opulent signs here, but there were many tightly-parked expensive cars. Half of them were compeers of our Geländewagen – steep-sided jeeps – and the other half were meteoric sports models as flat as squashed insects. All this gave the impression that the local population consisted entirely of safari-lovers and demon drivers, but I knew this was not the case. The cars stood along the wall like lacquered shoes in a hallway and I felt inclined to pity them.

‘How inconvenient to live in the centre,' Tamara remarked. ‘There's not even anywhere to park.'

‘Uh-huh,' responded Dmitry Pavlovich.

It seemed to me, however, that they weren't being entirely sincere with each other.

Meanwhile Little Dima whispered something unprintable as he spun the wheel hard and cast rapid glances into both mirrors, straining to hold the Geländewagen in check. Eventually we squeezed backwards into a small space at the pavement.

‘Out you get, we're here!' announced Dmitry Pavlovich.

Naturally, this order was intended for Tamara and me. Little Dima slumped back in his seat and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. I clambered out of the Geländewagen and looked round, but failed to observe any entrances with carpet runners nearby, or any entrances of any kind.

‘We've got to go into the courtyard,' Dmitry Pavlovich announced.

Tamara took hold of his arm and we proceeded on foot, polishing the glossy flanks of the endless automobiles, and soon our leader turned into an arched passageway that smelled of cats. Alarmed, Tamara pressed up closer against Dmitry Pavlovich while I, on the contrary, felt that we were on the right track, although there was no sign of the cultural fraternity just yet. I was not mistaken: once in the courtyard, we discovered a handwritten inscription on the wall of the building: it said ‘Griddle this way'. A crooked arrow pointed to a flight of steps leading down to the basement. At the end of the steps was an iron door with a similar handwritten inscription: ‘Entrance'. The door yielded without a creak.

Everything inside the basement establishment was just as I expected: walls of whitewashed brick, pipes, valves and pressure gauges. True, the reading on the gauges was zero. Underground ambience, but not entirely so: the pipes had been neatly painted, and the tables standing in the open space all looked spick and span. There was a thick scattering of clients, not flamboyantly dressed, but hanging loose, drinking and eating something off plates that were small, not like the ones at free literary buffets. On looking closer, I discovered several familiar faces in the restaurant. Someone even waved a hand to me. Tamara had not lied: this was a place of culture.

Having ascertained from the manager that Gridlevsky hadn't dropped by yet, we sat down at the reserved table and picked up the menus.

‘Let's see how our intelligentsia feeds itself,' Dmitry Pavlovich joked.

I opened my menu card. The fare on offer proved to be extremely varied: apart from every possible variety of griddle­ cakes, there were dishes from all round the world, from Ukrainian borscht to Argentinian carbonado. Russia was represented by genuine fifty-per-cent-alcohol moonshine, which was called ‘the house tipple' for reasons of security. But anyway, before we could actually order anything, the owner of the establishment showed up.

‘Ah, there's Gridlevsky,' Dmitry Pavlovich announced, but he needn't have bothered, because I had already spotted him myself. The stocky man with a curly beard was walking round table after table, exchanging a few words with his guests. He gave some of them a friendly slap on the shoulder and clasped the select few in a tight embrace. When he eventually reached us, he immediately started pawing Dmitry Pavlovich

‘Hello, my dear friend . . . hello . . .' Dmitry Pavlovich muttered between the kisses. ‘Allow me to introduce . . .'

Gridlevsky turned towards me.

‘A-a-ah! I've read you, I've read you . . .'

Before I could even take fright, he fell on me too. It's a good thing I don't wear any facial hair, or Gridlevsky's beard and mine would have entwined and we would have remained like that, pressed cheek to cheek, forevermore. Nevertheless, I felt flattered and happy to feel the envious gaze of the cultural fraternity on me.

After our mauling, we resumed our seats and Gridlevsky assumed command of the table. He ordered from hither and yon and all points in between, rapidly transforming our dinner into a culinary degustation. What an array of dishes we sampled at his insistence – I can't recall them all now! Only the moonshine, with which we washed down one item after another, lent any semblance of structure to the gastronomic chaos. I've also forgotten the conversation that accompanied the meal; I think we talked about football. But whatever that discussion was, we never finished it. I don't think it would have been possible to finish any discussion with Gridlevsky, because cultural celebrities kept coming up to him to be embraced. There was only one short-cropped lady who greeted Gridlevsky simply, without any kissing. In fact, she took a free chair and sat down beside him.

‘Allow me to introduce you,' he said with a sideways glance at the lady. ‘Irka. My executive director, who also doubles as my wife.'

Irka smiled at us with just her lips. She laid a device halfway in size between a mobile phone and a laptop on the table and enquired in a business-like tone,

‘So, how are our negotiations going?'

‘Negotiations?' We exchanged puzzled glances.

‘We're still eating,' Gridlevsky explained in an affectionate tone of voice.

‘So I see,' said Irka. ‘But it's time to get down to business.'

‘Then down to business it is!' said Gridlevsky, wiping his lips with a napkin.