Back to Moscow (17 page)

‘I’m so fucking stupid,’ he said.

‘Calm down, man.’

‘I’m wasting my life. I’m not doing anything meaningful. I left university so that I could work and take photos and now I’m not even doing that. Ira is the only thing I
have.’

He covered his eyes with one hand and cried.

I searched for something appropriate to say but nothing came to mind.

‘And now she’s gone,’ he said. ‘She just packed a few things and said she’d go to a friend’s place.’

Sergey finished the rest of his beer.

‘Want another one?’ I asked.

‘Please.’

I got another Baltika from the fridge and opened it for him.

Sergey was silent for a while, staring at the samovar on the table.

‘I’m sure the American guy makes tons of money,’ he finally said, shaking his head.

‘I don’t think Ira is the type of woman who cares about that.’

‘Of course she does. They all do. Women don’t give a shit about a smart guy or an interesting partner. All they want is someone who earns enough to buy them stuff. That’s why
Russian babas run after foreigners.’

‘But Ira has a good job. She can buy her own stuff.’

Sergey blew his nose again, took a slice of cucumber.

‘Can you talk to her?’ he said. ‘Please.’

‘I don’t think that’s going to change much.’

‘You’re her friend, she’ll listen to you. I want to know why she did it, if she wants to come back to me.’

‘I don’t think my getting involved is going to help you in any way. Maybe it’s better that
you
speak to her.’

‘Please, talk to her. Please.’

Sergey’s mobile rang. He glanced at it and silenced it without taking the call.

‘It’s my mum,’ he said. ‘She’s been calling the whole day. She’s worried I’m going to kill myself or something.’

‘Maybe you should give her a ring.’

‘Later,’ he said. He looked around the kitchen, as if inspecting the walls. ‘Expats have a great life. With all the money and the good flats, partying all day and meeting
Russian girls.’

‘Most of us work as well,’ I said. ‘It’s not all a big party. My research takes up quite a lot of my time.’

From the books on the table Sergey grabbed my Penguin Classics edition of Chekhov’s plays, translated by Elisaveta Fen.

‘I thought you read these things in Russian,’ he said.

‘I like to read them in English as well, just to make sure I’m not missing anything.’

‘Even Chekhov?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you know these plays by heart?’

‘There’s always something new every time you read them. And it’s interesting to see how translators go about concepts that don’t really translate. For example, there is
this quote in
Three Sisters
.’ I took the book from Sergey’s hands and opened it at one of the marked pages. ‘Look here,’ I said, pointing at an underlined paragraph
halfway down the page. ‘At the beginning of the first act, Irina says, “If only we could go back to Moscow.” But if you read the Russian original, as Chekhov wrote it, what Irina
really says—’

‘I can’t read fiction any more,’ Sergey said abruptly, looking not at my book, but at his beer. ‘Such a waste of time. I haven’t read a novel in years. There are so
many interesting things to read about real life in newspapers and magazines or history books. Why bother reading something that someone made up?’

‘I used to think like that,’ I said, disappointed by Sergey’s lack of interest. ‘But in the end, if you think about it, fiction is not that different from non-fiction.
Non-fiction offers a very partial view of reality. When authors choose what to say and what to leave out, they are already distorting facts. Because the biggest chunk of any story, real or
fictional, always remains untold.’

‘The book you plan to write about Moscow,’ he said, ‘will it be a memoir or fiction?’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘Things either happen or don’t happen.’

‘Not that simple,’ I said. ‘Memory is very selective, it changes the past. In the end, all memoirs are fiction.’

Sergey closed his eyes for a couple of seconds.

‘I guess,’ I said, ‘that if I ever write my book about Moscow, I’ll just bury my own experiences within a fictional story.’

Sergey stood up, anchoring his hand on the wall to keep his balance. ‘Need to go to the toilet,’ he said, tumbling out of the kitchen.

When he came back a couple of minutes later he didn’t sit down. He took the beer and finished it in three or four long gulps.

‘I don’t want to keep you up,’ he said. ‘It’s very late, sorry to drop in on you like that. I’m heading home.’

He walked out of the kitchen, sat on the stool by the entrance and started to put his shoes on.

‘Would you talk to her?’ he said.

‘I’m not sure it’s going to help.’

‘Please.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Sergey put his coat on and we hugged goodbye. He kept hugging me for a few seconds, his beard scratching my neck. I patted his back, which was, I imagined, the manly and appropriate thing to do.
When he had left the flat I cleared the beers from the kitchen, wiped the table and put the salt cucumbers back in the fridge.

L
ENA WAS NOT REPLYING
to my messages or phone calls. As the days got colder and darker, I started to accept that she was no longer there, at the other
end of the phone, waiting for my call.

Something strange happened to me. Now, when I was alone at home trying to watch a film, I would picture Lena lying at my side. Often, I would find myself staring at the Indian tapestry
she’d given me, or at the empty couch, exchanging words with an imaginary Lena – comments about whatever I was watching: this is funny, ridiculous, I don’t get it – then
trying to imagine what Lena would have said in return.

Perhaps these divagations of my mind were due to the fact that, precisely at that time, I’d started to sleep badly. Regardless of when I went to sleep, even after a long vodka night, I
would wake up early in the morning. As soon as I regained the smallest spark of consciousness – an awareness of who I was and where I was – my brain would be bombarded with dozens of
fresh thoughts that grew out of control and then I couldn’t get back to sleep. Lying on the couch, my eyes open, I often ended up thinking about Lena.

I also thought about Lena after a bad night out, when I hadn’t met any promising girls and it was time to go home. As the music in the last club of the night stopped and the lights went
on, and people gathered on the street, and new couples kissed, and phone numbers were exchanged, and taxis were shared – as the night was ending and a new Moscow day was about to begin
– I would stand alone in the street and think about Lena. But I would not think about the drama or the tears. I would think about her body and I would visualise the exact moment when she
unfastened her bra for the first time and offered her perfect breasts to me. This vivid image would produce a sharp pain in my chest. The night gone, I would take a taxi home, crash on my couch and
wank myself to sleep.

I
T WAS DARK OUTSIDE
, freezing, close to minus twenty. I walked down Tverskaya, wearing my heavy coat, scarf, hat and thermal gloves. I turned left at
Kamergersky – the cold seeping up through the soles of my winter shoes, reaching my feet. By the time I arrived at Pirogi, my nose was frozen numb.

Inside it was warm and lively – all the tables were occupied by young people drinking beer, eating, talking loudly. I walked towards the back room, where the books were sold, but
couldn’t see Ira.

The day after Sergey’s unannounced visit, I’d called Ira to see how she was doing. She’d suggested meeting on Thursday for dinner.

I walked down the stairs into the basement rooms and found her sitting at a small table at the back. In spite of her make-up, she looked tired, the bags under her greyish eyes darker than usual.
We kissed hello. After taking my winter gear off, I sat at the table.

‘Have you ordered yet?’ I asked.

‘Only tea. I was waiting for you. We should order right away, it usually takes ages in here.’

She beckoned the waitress. We both ordered mushroom soup, which Ira said was very good, then kotlety, salad and a bowl of pelmeni.

‘So,’ I said with a smile, ‘what have you done to poor Seriozha?’

‘What did he tell you exactly?’

‘That you are sleeping with an American guy from work.’

‘It’s more complicated than that.’

‘He was pretty drunk when we met. He didn’t look great.’

‘I’m sorry that he came to your place like that,’ she said.

‘It’s OK, I just felt sorry for him.’

One of the other tables in the room was occupied by two girls in almost identical woolly brown sweaters. I noticed one of them staring in our direction, with a red lipstick smile. For a moment I
wished I was with Colin, instead of Ira, so that we could chat the two girls up.

‘This isn’t any easier for me,’ Ira was saying.

‘So, what happened?’

‘Not much,’ Ira said. ‘There’s this guy at work. We became friends and he made it clear that he was interested in me. Then we went out a couple of times. And we started
to have a thing. Nothing serious.’

‘Who is he?’

‘His name is Rob. One of the consultants.’ Ira unbuttoned her cardigan, revealing a tight black top with unusually deep cleavage.

‘Were you seeing him the last time we met?’ I asked. ‘You know, when we had lunch at MGU.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I think I tried to tell you, but you didn’t seem interested.’

The waitress brought two bowls. The cold from the street remained in my bones. I took my spoon and went straight for the soup.

‘That was quick service,’ Ira said.

‘Moscow
is
changing after all. You cheat on Sergey. Quick service at Pirogi. What’s going on?’

‘Not funny.’

‘This is delicious,’ I said.

‘I told you.’

‘Creamy and tasty.’

‘They make it with white mushrooms.’

We savoured the mushroom soup in silence. The dyev with the red lipstick kept staring at me. So did her friend now. They giggled and I wondered if they thought Ira and I were a couple. I hoped
they realised she was just a friend.

‘So,’ I said. ‘Who’s this Rob? Married with kids?’

‘Nope. Young, single. A babnik, like you.’ Ira ate some soup. ‘You might have met him in your nightclubs, he goes out with other expats.’

‘I don’t really hang out with Americans. Except Colin, of course, but he’s been Europeanised.’

‘Rob’s fresh from New York. His first time abroad. He’s been in Moscow for four months.’

‘These things happen,’ I said, hoping these words would close the subject. ‘I just thought you were happy with Sergey.’

‘This has nothing to do with Sergey.’ Ira pulled her black top down, readjusting her cleavage.

‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘It’s fine. These things happen.’

I had promised Sergey I would talk to Ira. Done. Now we could move on.

‘Really, it’s not about Sergey,’ Ira insisted.

I looked at the other table. The dyevs were emptying a jug of beer and seemed to be having a good time. If only Colin were here. Even Diego would do.

Ira was looking at me with an angry expression, as if reading my thoughts.

‘But it
does
have to do with Sergey,’ I said, trying to pick up the conversation where she’d left off. ‘He was your boyfriend and you started to fuck someone
else.’

‘I can’t believe my ears, Martin. Are you giving me lessons on fidelity?’

‘I just mean . . . I don’t know.’

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I know you’re trying to help.’

She placed her spoon on the empty plate. ‘You know, Martin, I think sometimes you forget I’m a woman. I’m not only your friend but also a woman, even if, for whatever reason,
that’s not how you see me. I need attention and courtship. Someone to give me compliments. Rob likes me, he makes me feel appreciated,
as a woman
.’

As a woman. Kak zhenschina.

‘So it’s a serious thing, the American guy and you?’

‘Of course not,’ Ira said. ‘He’s an expat, he just wants to have fun, like all of you. He probably has other women on the side. But that’s not the point. I know
he’s not crazy about me, but at least he cares enough to make an effort. Women need that. We need to feel that men try hard to get us.’

‘And buy flowers.’

‘It has nothing to do with flowers,’ Ira said. ‘It’s about feeling wanted.’

‘But Sergey worships you. He’s mad about you. And you understand each other so well. Ira, you don’t need other people to know how much you are worth.’

‘But I do,’ she said. ‘I do need other people to tell me. I know I’m good enough to be Sergey’s girlfriend or to be your “just friend”. But maybe
that’s not enough for me.’

I finished my soup, pushed my plate aside. I took a sip of beer, trying not to look at the girls on the other table. ‘What I’m saying is that sometimes it’s better to be with
someone who really appreciates you for who you are than with someone who just wants to sleep with you and have a good time.’

‘Sergey is a great guy,’ she said, ‘but I don’t want someone I need to take care of. I want someone who takes care of
me
. Sergey spends all his time complaining
about his problems but doing nothing about them. Getting drunk is all he does. In the end, no woman wants that kind of man, Martin. At least before he was more fun to be around, but now he’s
so gloomy.’

‘He has his moods. That’s true.’

‘I would like to have children one day. And I want a man who brings money home, a man who’s hard-working and resourceful.’

‘Sergey is going through a rough patch,’ I said, ‘but he’ll find a job. It’s not all about money.’

‘Of course it’s not all about money.’ Ira buttoned her cardigan all the way up. ‘The problem is not that Sergey doesn’t bring in money. The problem is that he
doesn’t care about it. He’s happy living at his mother’s old flat, off my salary. He says we don’t need anything more. He has no ambition. I love Sergey very much but I
can’t stand this situation any longer. I have to think about my own life.’