After Love (9 page)

None of her friends moved to help her. The banner was ripped apart and lay on the ground between them. The militiawoman pulled it again and was finally able to grab it. But as she pulled it in she also ripped the sweater off the young woman who had nothing on underneath, not even a bra.

The crowd giggled at this spectacle and the militiawoman threw the sweater back at the protestor, who struggled to her feet and joined the other three.

All four stood silently for a while and then merely walked away. Amazingly, no one was arrested.

As I walked past Gogol, I tried to recall the name of the woman in the yellow sweater. ‘Galya,' I told myself, ‘yes, her name was Galya.' The older of the three men, I recalled, the one with a beard as thick as Marx's, had asked: ‘Galya, are you OK?'

From the statue the boulevard sloped down, slowly curving then taking a sharp turn before culminating in the impressive arched pavilion of the Metro station. The eastern side, along which a stream used to run, is raised. The water was channelled into a huge pipe when Moscow was rebuilt after the fires started by Napoleon's army of occupation.

During the day the place would be crowded with many chess players, their boards spread across the tables in front of a small three-storey building standing humbly next to a palatial house with five Ionic columns. The small building housed the headquarters of the Russian Chess Federation.

As I reached the Metro station and stepped into the street to cross, I quickly retreated as two ambulances, followed by a militia-van and three Soviet ZiL limousines rushed past. They were no doubt carrying an important Party official to the special hospital near the Lenin Library.

I crossed the street as mist rose above the open-air swimming pool and a row of blinking neon lights. I walked down towards the bank of the river and noticed that two letters, the first and the last ‘a', of the sign on the pharmacy had blown off, and the third ‘m' was blinking on and off in a strange rhythmic fashion. ‘I'll go and sit for a few minutes on the embankment, eat my apple and then walk along the bank,' I told myself.

I found a spot where the river divided into separate canals, the upper following the southern wall of the Kremlin. The stone bridge over the canals looked bare and ordinary compared with the light and delicate Krymsky Bridge in the distance.

I sat and rested but didn't eat the apple. I took it out, looked at it and put it back in my pocket, remembering the red stain of Tamrico's lips. I felt its warm roundness. As a child I used to carry a marble in my pocket. I would take it everywhere, even sleep with it. Jijee-ma used to laugh at me but she always made sure that the marble was with me.

I touched the apple again. It seemed to be helping keep me awake. Because it was there, so red and so real, I knew that the city divided by the waters of the meandering river wasn't an apparition, that I wasn't dreaming, that my walk was real.

I got up and walked towards the giant Ferris wheel hanging over the green treetops of Gorky Park. Suddenly I heard a splash and in the disturbed water the boats near the bank bobbed up and down in the river. After a brief moment I saw a head and arms illuminated by a bright searchlight. The person in the water was swimming towards the far bank. ‘Masha!' I heard someone scream from the boat, ‘
Ne duri
' (Don't be stupid).

But Masha didn't stop, didn't turn back. Soon she reached the other bank, dragged herself out, lay flat on the ground for a few minutes, then got up and staggered out of sight.

I walked down some stone steps with the words ‘
Masha, ne duri
' still sounding in my ears. At the railway I decided to cross the Metro Bridge, and as I approached I heard a goods train rattle across in the opposite direction.

I stood for a few minutes in the glimmer of early morning, watching the giraffe-like towers standing over the big bowl of Luzhniki Stadium. Soon the trucks arrived to sweep and wash the streets. On the opposite bank, I noticed the hill rising and falling like an enormous python. A ridge thickly lined with trees followed the river's curve and moved beyond it. It was slashed with steep narrow gullies full of rocks brought down by frequent landslides. Just a few weeks ago the slope had been brilliant with autumn colours. They had faded now. Only tinges of yellow and orange remained, pierced and poked by the green spikes of pines.

I suddenly felt hungry, pulled out the apple and took a bite. I finished it very quickly and chucked the core into the river. That's when I spotted the trampoline on the opposite slope, hidden under the arched span of the Metro Bridge. A few hours ago, as I began my walk, it had surely been the giant slalom trampoline that had flashed through my mind.

When I reached the trampoline I wondered whether I should climb up or just go back to the Metro. I was tired and didn't want to climb up the slippery steps. However, I knew that once I reached the platform I would be able to see the most wonderful panoramic view of the city.

The climb was hard and I was overcome by the dank, pungent smell of decaying leaves. I reached the lift tower used by skiers going up to the platform. But the lift was closed and the door to the stairs seemed to be locked. I pushed at it and to my great surprise it opened.

At the top of the platform there was a strong wind and it took me a few moments to stand up against it. I looked out in the direction of the Metro Bridge and saw the blue coaches of the trains rush through the station. The bridge trembled and I felt the platform beneath my feet shudder, as if disturbed by a mild tremor.

‘Soon the sun will rise,' I thought, knowing that I would see the city as I had never seen it before. But then it started to drizzle and the sun hid behind the early morning clouds. Rain began to fall in thin sheets. It fell into the river, at first gently then in big gushes and splashes, as if someone had put water into a jar and shaken it.

A ferry appeared, blowing its horn and producing clouds of stinking smoke. Its engine's heavy
chug chug chug
and its delayed echo were shattered by the rough crowing of ravens which suddenly took off, circled the platform a few times and disappeared.

I waited for the rain to stop. Soon the sunlight broke in and the city opened out before me. But I felt cheated, realising that even this wide view showed just a slice of the vast city. Slowly I began to trace the route of my walk. From where I stood I couldn't see the Arbat and Gogol Boulevard but I could guess their position from the high-rise buildings lining Kalininsky Prospect. I saw the embankment and as I looked around I spotted the place where the girl had jumped into the river. I saw the streets curve and bend and intersect with others, all converging towards a central point. Suddenly the ring-like shape of the city I had often seen on maps revealed itself.

I lingered on the platform for a while. As soon as I came down I felt terribly tired. All I wanted now was to reach my room on the fourteenth floor of the University building. It wasn't far, just half an hour's walk away.

Back in my room I quickly fell asleep and slept soundly until the early hours of the following morning. Then I got up to write a letter to Anna, even though I knew I would see her during the day. I told her about the shapes of old cities and how they grew like complex living organisms. I told her about
Vastushastra
, the ancient Hindu practice of architecture and town planning, and the relation between astrology, architecture and the human body, the body of Adipurusha, the first man-as-god or god-as-man.

‘Although I see you every day,' I wrote, ‘I still miss you all the time.' Suddenly I began to write about Shurik. I told her that in spite of all his jokes and funny stories he seemed to me to be deeply sad; that I had gleaned the shades of a similar sadness in Vladimir and in many others I had met during my four years in Moscow.

The Interview

Anna

I was surprised to find a rather long letter from Vasu. He hadn't told me anything about it when I had met him at the library. In the letter he described his early morning walk after Katya's birthday party. I liked the letter, although his habit of theorising about this or that seemed somewhat tedious. But I was intrigued by the sadness he had seen in the eyes of his Russian friends in Moscow. He called Shurik mysterious, his melancholy romantic and his story tragic. ‘Wait until I tell him Papa's story,' I thought. ‘It isn't so much sadness which permeates our hearts, but the fear that we are doomed.'

The following day I phoned Vasu to tell him that Papa wanted to meet him, and that he had also summoned Aunty Olga from Kiev.

‘Is this the interview then?' he asked.

‘It certainly is,' I said but assured him that he shouldn't worry. Papa would be delighted to see him and would readily bestow his approval and blessings.

‘But what about Aunty Olga?'

‘We'll soon find out,' I said, laughing. Vasu, unusually for him, arrived late. I heard him walk up to the door and ring. I didn't respond and let him ring again, then opened the door and helped him take off his
pal'to
and
schapka
and handed him a pair of slippers from the rack. ‘It's quite windy outside,' he began nervously. I chose to ignore this and called Papa to come and meet him, at the same time handing Vasu a hairbrush. He noticed signs of irritation on my face and recoiled. I sighed. This would irritate Aunty Olga even more.

I had advised him on the phone to come suitably dressed, in a nice jacket with matching tie, but he had decided to please himself and although the woollen jumper made him look fresh and young I still felt let down.

After the introductions I ushered him into the library. He refused to sit on the sofa and moved to a chair next to Papa.

Papa reached for his tobacco pouch and began to roll a cigarette. He could hardly have missed the expression on the face of Aunty Olga, who hated his smoking.

We chatted. Papa said that our block, like many similar multi-storey apartments, had been constructed as a housing co-operative for scientists.

‘It isn't big but it suits us perfectly,' he added. Aunty Olga complained how cold winds whistled between the towers and Papa explained that this was because of poor siting. If the blocks had been built a few hundred metres closer to the nearby pine forest, this would have provided a shield from the wind.

Vasu was meanwhile studying our packed bookshelves.

‘Anna calls this mess disorderly order,' Papa said, looking slyly in my direction.

‘Needs a massive cull,' Aunty Olga snapped.

‘Perhaps after I retire,' said Papa, and both Aunty Olga and I laughed, because we knew this would never happen.

Vasu laughed as well. As yet he hadn't spoken a single word. To stir him up a little I reminded him of the bag he had brought with him, which was still sitting near the door. When he went to fetch it I followed him and whispered that he should cast off the dumbness he found so comfortable. But he just smiled and shrugged.

Back in the library he opened the bag and took out his two presents: an LP for Papa and a scarf for Aunty Olga.

He actually handed the woollen scarf to me. I pushed it away and pointed him in Aunty Olga's direction. Papa seemed both pleased and humbled with the LP. He excused himself, went off and returned with the
radiola
from my room. He carefully removed the record from its sleeve, placed it on the turntable and gently lowered the needle. As it began to play he adjusted the bass and treble and fiddled with the volume. ‘This is such a rare recording,' Papa said. It was the celebrated 1956 Verve release of
Ella and Louis
, the two jazz greats, in its original jacket. ‘You didn't have to bring me anything, you know.' But he was obviously pleased.

‘Where did you find it?' I asked Vasu.

The smile on his face showed his own pleasure. It was only later that he told me how he had unearthed the record. Vladimir had given him a name and a phone number, and a meeting had taken place inside the Mayakovsky Metro station. A young hippie had handed him a bag and taken away two cartons of Marlboro cigarettes.

Soon Aunty Olga ordered us to move to the dining table. As usual, she and not Papa took the seat at the head of the table. Papa and I sat on her right and Vasu sat facing us. Before she took her seat Aunty Olga turned the music down low and in the silence that followed I heard the muted humming of our old fridge. Outside the window the wind howled, occasionally penetrating the cracks. It had stopped snowing.

It was only when we started eating that I noticed Aunty Olga was wearing Vasu's violet woollen scarf.

‘Isn't it pretty?' I said.

‘And warm. Pure Cashmere, I think,' she said. She looked at Vasu and actually smiled.

The dinner was simple: borscht with onion, cabbage, potato, carrot and a small dollop of sour cream; chicken with walnuts and garlic; a potato and zucchini
zapekanka
with mushroom sauce (especially for Vasu); and for dessert, Aunty Olga's special, a fabulous cheesecake. Papa opened two bottles of Romanian wine, a present from a colleague who had recently returned from Bucharest.

During the dinner Aunty Olga asked Vasu about his family in India and he told us how he had been brought up by his older sister, his Jijee-ma, after his mother had died giving birth to him. Both Papa and Aunty Olga seemed shocked, and to get over this Aunty Olga told him about Tonya, my mother, who had also died before I knew her.

I sensed that at this moment Vasu would want to look at my face. But I turned away and suddenly the fluorescent light in the library exploded and we were plunged into darkness. I asked Vasu to help me carry in the lamp from my room.

Together we set it up next to the table and resumed eating as if nothing had happened.

‘Why did you come to Moscow?' Papa asked Vasu.

‘Because of Uncle Triple K,' he replied. ‘He told me that Moscow would change my life forever. Although he teaches French literature and philosophy he also speaks good Russian.'