The Same River Twice (48 page)

“Everybody has secrets; it goes without saying. And this detective found out a great deal about this Strasbourg girl, who, believe me, has more to conceal than most brides-to-be. But as your friend Rachel so sensibly predicted, none of this affected Gaspard in the least when I told him.” Eddie shook his head. “I should’ve known.”

“Love is blind,” said Odile gently, her gaze fixed for some reason on the tabletop. “Otherwise, you know, there’d be so very little of it.”

“Practically none,” Eddie agreed, reaching for his glass.

They smiled at this reminder of their similar view of the world, one not always available or congenial to others, which was fine with them.

Odile said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you. Dominique’s doing much better, I think. She still has her moods, but more out of habit than anything else. Happiness used to terrify her; now she’s only suspicious of it. Like the rest of us.” Odile laughed. “But she’ll be okay, I’m certain.”

“I hope you’re right. These days, it’s hard to tell.”

Odile left a small interval, then asked, “Does she ever see her mother?”

“Her mother’s running a bamboo tourist hotel in Bali, as I may have already told you. So the long answer, politely put, is no.”

“Oh yes, I remember.” Odile pretended to hesitate, then to make up her mind. “You know, Dominique and I are getting along very well lately. Of course, we’ve been seeing much more of each other since Allegra arrived. Anyway, tonight I told her that she should feel free to come by anytime to talk or just hang out, with or without Allegra. I hope you don’t mind.”

Eddie’s face lit up. “Really? Are you serious? Odile, you’re an angel!”

“
That
we both know to be a lie. But at least I’ll try not to encourage her toward devil worship, all right?” She swallowed and tried to smile. Eddie’s compliment had frightened her. It reminded her of what the night’s business might yet entail. Already she was on her feet.

“Odile, I cannot tell you how grateful I am. She desperately needs a woman to confide in, a woman of the world like—”

“Forgive me, Eddie. I’ve got to run.” She pulled her sweater from the closet and threw it over her shoulders, failing, in her haste, to allow him the courtly pleasure of helping her into it. “May I ask a favor?” she said instead. “Would you call Max and tell him the girls decided against the party, and Allegra’s spending the night here, but that everything’s fine?” Checking her watch, she added, “Better try his mobile, because I’m not quite sure where he is just now.”

“Absolutely. I’ll do it right away.”

At the door, when they embraced, he drew back and looked at her with concern. “But Odile, you’ve lost so much weight!”

She gave him a crooked smile. “It’s an experiment.”

“An experiment? In what?” He followed her out into the hall.

The elevator was already there. She got in, drew the accordion gate shut, and, as she started down, called back up to him, “I’m fasting. I want to see what it’s like not to eat.”

THEY WERE ENSCONCED
in Kukushkin’s private aerie—a soundproofed, wood-paneled chapel of calm, fitted out with antique birchwood furniture from Saint Petersburg that over the centuries had been lovingly rubbed to a golden glow. Only a row of security video monitors and a window, mirrored on its other side, that looked out on the floor below gave any evidence of the club’s more public revels, which had by now picked up noticeably.

Kukushkin removed an open vodka bottle from a solid block of ice and poured Max, Véronique, and himself another round. There had been many such rounds, requiring many lengthy toasts, but now that they were on their second liter things had become much less formal, the toasts more like token interruptions in the ongoing conversation. Other than this loosening of ritual, however, neither Kukushkin nor Véronique seemed at all affected by the alcohol. Max kept up with them—this, too, was obligatory—but was trying miserably to conceal his drunkenness.

They raised their glasses.

“Za lyubov!”
Kukushkin offered with a glint in his eye.

All downed their drinks, then, as was customary, took a bite of the accompanying
zakushi
—pickled baby beets, stalks of wild garlic, caviar on black bread, and other delicacies—lavishly laid out on a silver platter.

“It means,” Véronique explained to Max, “‘Let us drink to love.’” Then, to Kukushkin: “Max is one of the very lucky few who actually love their wives. He told me this almost as soon as I met him. And I believe it’s true.”

Kukushkin laughed. “Perhaps lucky because honorable, yes? Not every man meeting beautiful young woman in a café would be so quick to mention his wife, I assure you.” Then, to Max: “You are honorable, Max?”

They stared at him with disconcertingly intense curiosity.

“I’d like to think so,” Max replied. “And, yes, I do love my wife. But of course, deep down, like all men, I’m probably capable of anything, given the right circumstances. It’s what you decide you can live with
afterward
that determines how far you let yourself go, assuming you’re in control of your actions in the first place, needless to say. At least that’s my opinion.”

His listeners nodded encouragingly, waiting for him to go on.

“Well, for instance, to lie is dangerous, destructive, and often stupid. To lie to yourself is worse still. Both lead to chaos, misunderstanding, and wasted time, which I personally abhor. But not to lie at all can be just as dangerous, just as destructive and stupid. To use the truth as a blunt object with which to batter people over the head, who would say that’s a good thing? So the problem becomes, where to draw the line?”

“Indeed,” said Kukushkin, glancing quickly at the security monitors. “Very difficult problem. But to be in control of all actions: this is
central
problem. Precondition of honor.”

“Yes, of course.”

“So. I conclude you are honorable man after all, Max. Not Pushkin, maybe, but honorable man.” Kukushkin inspected him closely, then roared
with laughter. Max politely joined him, but Véronique looked away with undisguised discomfort.

“What about you, Kolya?” Max asked. “Also honorable?”

“This is subject not yet fully addressed,” the Russian said gruffly, though amusement again rippled visibly through him.

Thinking about his moral pronouncement, Max was compelled to recall how easily a person might pass from liquor-fueled eloquence into incoherence of one sort or another, all equally unwelcome. And yet the present bottle, now that it was opened, would have to be finished if Max wasn’t to insult his hosts, so he took advantage of the lull in the conversation to pour them each another round. After this, he estimated, just one more would be left. That would signal the end of their evening together. He’d enjoyed it, but enough was enough.

“Na zdorovie!”
he said, raising his glass.

“Na zdorovie!”
the other two repeated.

All drank, then reached for the
zakushi
.

Kukushkin had just raised a stalk of wild garlic to his mouth when something he saw through the window caught his attention, and he flung the morsel back on his plate, cursing softly. Following his gaze, Max saw that a fight had broken out on the dance floor—two leather-clad young men trading blows at an incredible, almost robotic rate. Both wore heavy gold rings, and there was already quite a lot of blood. Kukushkin picked up a nearby phone, spoke a few words of Russian into it, and immediately four security men, automatic pistols drawn, appeared downstairs to separate the men and escort them roughly out of the club. The clientele appeared unfazed. No doubt they’d seen it all before.

“Please excuse momentary unpleasantness,” Kukushkin told Max, “but is inevitable, you know. Russians very passionate people.”

“Famously so,” said Max. “In your literature, in your music and dance, in everything requiring …
dusha. Dusha
means soul, right? If I remember correctly.”

Again Kukushkin and Véronique studied him more clinically than Max thought suitable to the occasion. They seemed to be waiting for him to reveal something necessary, even crucial, to the fruition of interests as yet unspecified, and, worse, were making a quiet display of their patience. He felt a twinge of resentment. Had the three of them not exchanged nearly two liters’ worth of cheer, friendship, personal confession, and moral speculation right here in this very room? Should trust not follow naturally from all that had been said and shared and sworn to for eternity and beyond?
What, otherwise, was the point? Were they not all bent on ascertaining the truth, however discomfiting, strange, or disappointing?

The truth! Only then did he realize just how hopelessly drunk he was, how inane. The truth. He’d dropped his guard, then lost it altogether. That wasn’t like him, and quite probably he’d pay dearly for the lapse. But so be it. He’d proceed from here because this was where he was, and because so much remained to be done. Miles to go before he slept? Fine. He was up to it.

Kukushkin said, “I see you are cultivated man, knowledgeable in culture and arts. Also in deepest dramas of human heart. Love, violence, honor. Who knows, maybe even loss and grief, suffering. You know suffering?”

“As much as most men my age,” said Max.

“Yes, yes. This too I see.” Kukushkin’s eyes were fixed thoughtfully on Max. “Allow me to tell you story. Do not worry, is not
War and Peace
, only short anecdote, personal in nature. Okay?”

“Certainly. I’m very interested to hear it.”

Now Véronique was staring at Max with an intensity even greater than before, as if his reaction to what he was about to be told would determine the fate of her most cherished hopes, perhaps the very hopes she’d confided to him at one of their meetings, though at the moment he couldn’t recall quite what those hopes were.

“My father, Ivan Kyrillovitch—this was in Stalin period, after war, but still very shitty time for Russia—had two great strokes of fortune in life. One, he was musical genius. Straight from childhood he played violin like someone not of this earth, full of that quality so rare, even in most technically accomplished musicians, that it cannot be named, only recognized. Is possible to call this quality depth of feeling or maybe soulfulness that can move dictators to tears. But I will tell you, it was more than that. Much more.”

Kukushkin removed a pack of Turkish cigarettes from his breast pocket, offered them around, and, when he had no takers, took one for himself. He lit it and smoked for a moment or two in silence. Max looked at Véronique for guidance, but she, still studying him intently, offered no help.

“Fortunate stroke number two. He married my mother, poor girl from Odessa who came to Moscow to study ballet. Very beautiful, very hardworking, not egomaniac like most dancers. When he met Irina, she had just been accepted to join Bolshoi. One year later they were married, not rich but happy, and life goes on for some time. I am not yet in picture.”

For a moment, Véronique’s fix on Max wavered and, laughing softly, she
said, as if to herself, “Imagine Kolya not in the picture. Would this be good or bad, I wonder.”

Kukushkin smiled. “For my father, I think, it was bad, but this Max will soon decide himself. When Stalin died, people also asked, is good or bad? But that is different story.”

“Perhaps,” said Véronique enigmatically.

“Okay. So, for my father, there develops big problem: one day, after a couple years of marriage, suddenly his musical gift, his special way of playing, has been taken from him. Still he has technique, still he has job, still he can play, but: feeling is gone. He who played for only this feeling and its emotional effect on
audience
, okay? The spiritual
transports!
Music and my mother were twin joys of his
life
!” Kukushkin drew deeply on his cigarette, then slowly exhaled the smoke. “Meanwhile, my mother, career is taking off. Dancing more and more lead roles, traveling with company to Europe. She is celebrated, happy. And all this time my father grows more and more—what is word?—morose. Yes, morose is also big part of Russian temperament. Part of
dusha.”

“Kolya, my love,” Véronique interrupted, “please get to the point. I’m sure Max will have to leave before long.” She touched his shoulder affectionately but returned her attention to Max, scrutinizing him as before. The effect, he decided, was a bit strange but not at all unpleasant.

“Yes, yes,” Kukushkin said, releasing yet another cloud of blue smoke that Véronique hastened to wave away, lest it obscure her line of sight. “So, long story short, my father tries everything he can to regain gift, mastery. Works with concertmaster. Plays different, very
special
violins. Consults other very
talented
, even world-famous musicians. Nothing works. Finally he confides in best friend, tells best friend he is in despair, perhaps cannot go on, et cetera, et cetera. Friend is silent for long time. Finally he says, ‘You know, Ivan Kyrillovitch, your wife has been spending great deal of time with principal dancer of ballet company. Is only my opinion, but maybe examination of this most
vibrant
teacher-student relationship—keeping intelligence and heart held close, of course, with benefit of
reason
—would put things back to normal. You never know with music. Its sources, such a mystery.’”

Max couldn’t restrain himself. “So your mother was having an affair! Your father sensed it without realizing it, and that’s what took the fire out of his music, right?”

“This is exactly so, yes.” Kukushkin let some seconds pass in contemplation. “After making discreet inquiries, a few careful
observations
, he determined
beyond all doubt that my mother had become the principal dancer’s principal lover. Three, sometimes four times a week. It was true.”

“And what did he do?” Max asked. “How did he handle it, your father? What did he do?”

Véronique’s gray-blue eyes now bored into him with a harsh, expectant light that he ignored.

“Most important,” Kukushkin continued, “is what he did
not
do. He did not confront his wife with what he knew. Why? Because then he would lose her, most certainly. This is axiomatic.”