THE LUTE AND THE SCARS (8 page)

“
In his youth he was attractive, tall. The last time I saw him was back before the war. He was still wearing his old-fashioned
pincenez
and an Order of St. Nicholas on his shabby old dress coat.
”

I give Nikolaj the manuscript of my first book. (It would end up being published three or four years later.)

“
It
’
s as if you belonged to the circle of the Serapion Brothers,
”
he says.
“
There are hints here that you share the same artistic program. Your reality is a poetic one.
”

I say something to the effect that poetic reality is still reality.

“
Reality is like grass and earth,
”
he says.
“
Reality is the grass that grows and it
’
s the feet that mangle it.
”

I tell him that this is also a poetic image. A metaphor.

“
An image, perhaps,
”
he says.
“
Let
’
s have another round. This is homemade kirsch
.
Some friends brought it to me. A writer,
”
he went on,
“
is supposed to observe life in its totality. The writer has to point out the great theme, dying
—
so that humans might be less proud, less selfish, less evil
—
and, on the other hand, he or she must imbue life with some kind of meaning. Art is the balance between those two contradictory concepts. And a person
’
s duty, especially for a writer
—
and now you
’
ll say I
’
m talking like an old man
—
involves leaving behind in this world not work (everything is work) but rather some goodness, some knowledge. Every written word is a piece of creation.
”
He paused.
“
Listen to that: the birds are singing already. Let
’
s turn in. Marija Nikolajevna will be angry if we go on like this till morning. She
’
s had a difficult life. Very difficult.
”

I never had the nerve to ask him what kind of conflagration left its terrible tracks on her body. Just as I also never came to learn anything about his own life. From my
“
acquaintance,
”
the woman who had called my attention to this apartment and recommended me to the couple, I knew only that Marija Nikolajevna
“
had suffered burns while escaping from Russia
”
and that Nikolaj Aleksinski had come to Belgrade by way of Constantinople and was a specialist in forestry (a profession that I later assigned to the fictitious protagonist of one of my stories, in memory of Nikolaj Aleksinski, who already struck me as fictive, even back then). Although I spent many nights in conversation with this lively, good-hearted old man, I never heard so much as a single sentence from him spoken in confidence. I figured that my own shared confidences would make him my debtor, that he would one day grow communicative. But despite my confessions he never revealed anything about his earlier life.

I say to him:
“
What . . . should . . . I . . . do? I . . . am . . . in . . . love . . . with . . . two . . . women.
”

At once his face assumes an expression of sincere concern. His eyes, twinkling with encouragement, betray the fact that my romantic woes have touched his heart.

“
Love is a frightfully tricky thing. Don
’
t hurt either one of them. And don
’
t rush into anything. For your sake, and theirs.
”

I say:
“
You
’
ve met one of them . . . I introduced her to you a month ago.
”

“
Clytemnaestra,
”
he comments.
“
A real Clytemnaestra. She
’
s capable of doing serious harm. Harm to herself or to you. Love is a terrible thing. What can I tell you? One can
’
t learn anything from the romantic experiences of other people. Every encounter between a man and a woman starts off as if it were the first such meeting on earth. As if there haven
’
t already been billions of such encounters since the time of Adam and Eve. You see, experience in love is nontransferable. This is a great misfortune. And a great piece of luck. God set things up this way. Just one more, and then I
’
ll put the bottle away. Marija Nikolajevna would be upset. Be careful. Don
’
t hurt anyone. Our souls carry the wounds of love longer than anything. And take care that literature doesn
’
t come to be a substitute for love for you. Literature is dangerous that way too. Life can
’
t be replaced by anything.
”

Sometimes I asked him to play on his lute for me. When he was in a good mood, he
’
d say,
“
Tune it for me. I know you know how to do it.
”

I would tune the lute and he
’
d start to play. He knew a few
lieder
and some Gypsy romances by heart. His ears had gone deaf but a few melodies still tingled in them, like distant memories; and he would make these remarkable sounds as he played, as though humming to himself.

“
I think it sounds good today,
”
he
’
d say.

I would nod in agreement.

“
That
’
s because it
’
s cloudy outside,
”
he stated.
“
The lute has been drying out. But weather like this suits it. Is it in tune?
”

Leaning over the instrument as if he was listening for something, he strummed a few chords. Then he looked me in the eyes.

“
A-minor,
”
I responded.

“
It
’
s cloudy outside: the humidity does it good.
”

I continued visiting him for years afterward, long after I had moved out. When my spirits were low, or when I needed advice, I would look him up. I knew he was reading all my writing in the journals, along with the reviews of my books.

“
Talent is a curse,
”
he said to me.
“
Pushkin suffered on account of his talent. People envy nothing so much as a divine gift. Prodigies are rare, while mediocrity is legion. It
’
s an unending struggle. And don
’
t you go bury yourself in books. Travel. Listen to people. And listen to your own inner voice. Now, Marija Nikolajevna is expecting to see you too. Don
’
t get upset if she scolds you from time to time. She
’
s sick. And unhappy.
”

Marija Nikolajevna, wrapped in a threadbare woolen shawl, was sitting by the window. The window gave onto a gloomy courtyard surrounded by battered walls.

“
I read in the newspaper,
”
she said,
“
that the theater company you work with is going to Russia. Are you going along?
”

“
Yes,
”
I answered.
“
We
’
re going on a fifteen-day tour.
”

“
That
’
s what the paper said. Could you do us a favor?
”

“
I
’
d be happy to.
”

“
I
’
ve written down two addresses for you here. The first one is my sister
’
s: Valerija Mihajlovna
Š
č
ukina. The second is for Marija, like me, Marija Jermolajevna Siskova. That
’
s her best friend. Once she was my best friend, too. The last letter I received from either of them was in January of
’
56. So, nine years ago. There
’
s a chance that they
’
re both still alive, or at least that one of them is. I assume that there would
’
ve been somebody to notify me if they had died. But just in case, take this
—
another name. Karajeva. Natalija Viktorovna. She
’
s the youngest of all of them. Let me write down her address for you, too. She could tell you what became of them, in the event you can
’
t find those first two. Would it be too hard for you to do this for us?
”

On the second day after our arrival in Moscow, I was able to bribe the stern-looking caretaker on our floor. In front of the entrance to the hotel an invalid in a shabby army coat was standing propped up on crutches; he held out his greasy cap to the passersby. I gave him a bit of change. He tendered his thanks as though reciting a passage from Dostoyevsky.

I had barely turned the corner when I came upon the taxi stand that I
’
d discovered the day before, during our official tour of the city. The taxi took me to a large apartment building with a grim entrance and long, cold corridors.

I approached a couple of girls who were playing by the door. They looked at me, flabbergasted, and then scattered without a word. Finally a woman showed up and I read off the name and address to her.

“
I don
’
t know,
”
she said.

“
Who else can I ask?
”

“
I don
’
t know. There are a lot of tenants here.
”

I didn
’
t intend to give up. Once inside the building I figured out how things were numbered and what the abbreviations in the addresses meant; they represented the doorways, floors, building wings, and then individual apartments. At last, when I
’
d figured out the note, I knocked on a door. After a long pause, I heard a woman
’
s voice:
“
Who is it?
”

“
I
’
m looking for Valerija Mihajlovna
Š
č
ukina.
”

“
She doesn
’
t live here.
”

The voice came from just behind the planks of the door; I knew that the woman was observing me through the peephole.

“
Maybe you know where I could find her?
”

“
You
’
re a foreigner?
”

“
Yes. A foreigner.
”

I heard the woman unlocking the door. She stuck out her head.

“
Let me have a look at it.
”

I gave her the address.
“
Do you know any of these three people?
”
I asked.

She shook her head.

“
We
’
ve only been living here for three years. Ask over there, down at the end of the hall. Last door on the right. Ivanovna. Varja Ivanovna Strahovska. She might know.
”

Then she handed me the piece of paper back; I heard her locking the door.

I knocked slowly, cautiously. No one responded. At some point it dawned on me that no one was behind the door, and I pushed down on the handle. The room measured about five meters square. A lightbulb without any kind of shade hung down from the ceiling. In the corner was a massive stove, like the ones in factory canteens. I understood then that this was the communal kitchen for the whole wing of the building. Feeling like I
’
d stumbled onto a secret hiding place, I exited quickly and closed the door behind me. But my inspection had apparently not gone unnoticed.

“
What are you doing here? Who are you?
”

The woman was enveloped by a large knit shawl; she wore her hair done up in a big bun. On her feet were stiff army boots.

“
Excuse me,
”
I said, handing her the paper with the addresses as if it were an official form.
“
They told me that Varja Ivanovna lived here. Strahovska.
”

“
You
’
re a relative of hers?
”

“
You could say that.
”

“
A foreigner?
”

“
A foreigner.
”

“
Varja Ivanovna is very ill. Her heart. Wait here.
”

She knocked on the door right across from the community kitchen; she disappeared for a minute and then reappeared.

“
She says she has no relatives abroad. Or anywhere else.
”

“
I
’
m a friend of Marija Nikolajevna Aleksinka. Tell her that. She
’
ll know.
”

The woman went back into the room without knocking again. This time she was gone longer. At last she emerged.

“
Go in for just a bit. I take care of this building. You should have called ahead. Go on in.
”

The room resembled a cell. Bare walls. A bed against the wall, and next to it a stool. A glass of water and a little bottle of prescription medication on the stool. A pale gaunt woman lay with her head on a thin pillow, covered up to her chin with a singed army blanket.

“
I am Varja Ivanovna Strahovska. I heard who you are. You were asking about Natalija Viktorovna Karajeva. She died two years ago, in this same bed. She was a friend of Marija Jermolajevna, who died four years ago. No, it was five. I knew Marija Nikolajevna Aleksinka too. And her children. They died in a fire. I
’
m glad to hear that she
’
s still alive. Her sister, Valerija Mihajlovna
Š
č
ukina, was the first one to die, about eight years ago. Well, now I
’
m dying in turn. I
’
ve told you everything I know, so please leave me in peace. I don
’
t feel up to remembering anymore, or talking either. I
’
m preparing to die. Meetings in this world mean nothing to me now.
”