The Suitcase (13 page)

“I heard you switched to white wine.”

“And you believed that?”

In the taxi Schlippenbach explained: “You don’t need to read the script – everything will be built on improvisation, like in Antonioni. Tsar Peter finds himself in modern Leningrad. Everything is disgusting and alien. He goes into a grocery store. He starts shouting, ‘Where’s the smoked venison, the mead, the anise vodka? Who
bankrupted my domain, the barbarians?’ That kind of thing. We’re going to Vasilyevsky Island now. Galina is waiting for us with the van.”

“Who’s Galina?”

“From supplies at Lenfilm. She has a company van. Said she’d meet us after work. Incredibly cultured woman. We wrote the screenplay together. At a friend’s apartment. Anyway, let’s go to Vasilyevsky. Do the first shots. The Tsar heads from the Rostral Column towards Nevsky Prospekt. He’s in shock. He keeps slowing down and looking around. Get it? You know – be scared of cars, look puzzled at signs, shy away from phone booths… If someone bumps into you, draw your sword. Go with it – be creative.” My sword lay on my lap. The blade was filed off, inside the scabbard: I could draw about three inches of it.

Schlippenbach waved his arms with inspiration. But the driver was unmoved. As he dropped us off, he asked in a friendly way, “So, what zoo did you escape from, pal?”

“Terrific!” Schlippenbach cried. “We can use that line! Ready art!”

We got out of the taxi with the boxes. A minivan stood across the street. A young woman in jeans was pacing near it. My appearance did not interest her.

“Galina, you’re a marvel,” Schlippenbach said. “We start in ten minutes.”

“You are the bane of my existence,” she replied.

They puttered with the equipment for about twenty minutes. I walked up and down in the slush in front of the Kunstkamera. Passers-by examined me with interest. A cold wind blew from the Neva River. The sun kept ducking behind clouds.

At last Schlippenbach said we were ready. Galina poured some coffee for herself from a thermos. The cover squeaked revoltingly.

“Go way over there,” Schlippenbach told me, “around the corner. When I wave my arm, start walking along the wall.”

I crossed the street and stood behind the corner. By then my boots were soaked. Schlippenbach kept delaying: I noticed Galina hand him a glass of coffee. Meanwhile, I was wandering around in wet boots.

At last Schlippenbach waved. He held the camera like a halberd beside him. Then he stooped behind it.

I put out my cigarette, came around the corner and headed for the bridge. It turns out that when you’re being filmed it’s hard to walk. I did my best not to trip. When the wind gusted, I had to hold on to my hat. Suddenly Schlippenbach yelled something. I couldn’t hear what he said because of the wind, so I stopped and crossed the street to him.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I couldn’t hear you.”

“What didn’t you hear?”

“What did you shout?”

“I shouted, ‘Brilliant!’ That’s all. Go on back, do it again.”

“Want some coffee?” Galina finally asked me.

“Not now,” Schlippenbach said. “After the third take.”

I came out from around the corner again. Headed for the bridge again. And once more Schlippenbach yelled something. This time I paid no attention.

I walked all the way to the parapet. I looked back; Schlippenbach and his girlfriend were inside the van. I hurried over.

“Just one comment,” Schlippenbach said. “More expression. You should be absolutely amazed by everything you see. Look at the posters and signs in astonishment.”

“There aren’t any signs along there.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll edit them in later. Just look amazed. Every three yards, stop and throw your hands in the air.”

Schlippenbach made me do it seven times. I was exhausted. My breeches kept slipping down under the waistcoat. It was hard to smoke with the gloves on.

But finally my suffering ended. Galina handed me the thermos, and we drove to Tavricheskaya Street.

“There’s a beer stall there,” Schlippenbach said. “More than one, I think. Winos all over the place. It’ll be terrific – the monarch among the scum.”

I knew the place – two beer stands and a vodka window, not far from the Theatre Institute. It really was loaded with drunks.

We parked the van in a courtyard and set up there.

Schlippenbach whispered excitedly, “The scene is simple – you approach the counter. You look indignantly at all these people standing in line for a drink. Then you make an address.”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“Whatever you want. The words don’t matter. The important thing is your expression, your gestures.”

“They’ll think I’m an idiot.”

“That’s great, say whatever you want. Ask about the prices.”

“They’ll really think I’m an idiot then… Who doesn’t know the price of beer?”
“Then ask who’s last in line. Just so your lips move. We’ll record the soundtrack later and dub it to match. Go to it.”

“Here, have a drink for courage,” Galina said. She got out a bottle of vodka and poured it into my coffee glass.

My courage did not increase. However, I got out of the van. The show must go on.

The beer stall, painted green, was on the corner of Rakov and Mokhovaya. The line stretched back across the lawn to the Central Food Council building. People were jammed up near the counter; the crowd thinned out farther away. At the end it was just a dozen grim and grumpy people.

The men wore grey jackets and vests. They were aloof and apathetic, as if at a stranger’s grave. Some had brought jars and teapots for their beer. There were only a few women, five or six. They were noisier and more impatient. One of them kept nagging, “Let me go ahead of you, out of respect for an old woman and mother!”

When they got their mug in hand, people would move aside in anticipation of bliss. Grey foam flecked the ground. Everyone had a small personal fire inside; once it was extinguished, people grew animated, lit up cigarettes, looked for a conversation. The ones still in line asked, “How’s the beer, OK?” “Seems OK,” the others answered.

I wondered how many beer counters like this there were all over Russia. How many people died and came to life again like this every day?

As I approached the crowd, I felt afraid: why had I ever agreed to this? What was I going to say to these people – exhausted, grim, half-mad? Who needed this ridiculous masquerade?

I joined the end of the line. Two or three men glanced at me without the slightest curiosity. The rest simply paid no attention at all.

In front of me was a Georgian or an Armenian in a railroad-uniform shirt. To my left stood a bum in canvas shoes with the laces untied. Two steps ahead, an intellectual was breaking matches trying to light his cigarette. He gripped his skinny briefcase between his knees.

My situation was getting more and more ridiculous. No one said a word to me, no one was the least bit curious, no one asked me any questions – what could they ask? Their only concern here was getting the hair of the dog. And what could I say to them – ask them who’s last in line?
I
was.

I realized I had no money on me – I had left it in my regular, pedestrian trousers.

I saw Schlippenbach waving his fists from the courtyard, directing me. I could see that he wanted me to follow the plan – he was hoping it would make someone hit me over the head with a mug.

I just stood in line, and quietly moved along to the counter. I heard the railroad man explain to someone, “I’m behind the bald guy. The Tsar’s behind me. And you come after the Tsar.”

The intellectual spoke to me. “Excuse me, do you know Sherdakov?”

“Sherdakov?”

“Aren’t you Dolmatov?”

“More or less.”

“Glad to see you. I still owe you a rouble. Remember, we were leaving the Sherdakov’s house together on Cosmonaut Day? And I asked you for a rouble for a taxi? Here.”

I had no pockets; I stuck the crumpled rouble note into my glove.

I actually did know Sherdakov – a specialist in Marxist-Leninist aesthetics, an assistant professor at the Theatre Institute. A habitué of the vodka bar. “Give him my best,” I said.

I saw Schlippenbach approaching. Galina followed, sighing.

By now I was almost at the counter. The crowd grew denser. I was squeezed in between the bum and the railroad man. The end of my scabbard was pushed against the intellectual’s hip.

Schlippenbach shouted, “I don’t see the scenario! Where’s the conflict? You’re supposed to antagonize the masses!”

The line grew wary: here was some busybody with a camera trying to get people riled up.

“Excuse me,” said the railroad man to Schlippenbach. “You’re jumping the line.”

“I’m on duty,” Schlippenbach replied, thinking fast.

“We all are,” mumbled someone in the crowd.

The dissatisfaction grew, the voices got more aggressive. “There’s all kinds of wise guys and jokers around here.” “They take your picture and then they use you as a bad example, like ‘Another Troublemaker’.” “We’re just getting a drink in a perfectly civilized way, and he comes here stirring shit.” “A bum like that should be locked away.”

The crowd’s energy was close to the bursting point. But Schlippenbach was angry himself.

“You’ve boozed Russia away, you vipers! You’ve lost the last remnants of your conscience! Up to your eyeballs in vodka from morning till night!”

“Yura, enough! Yura, don’t be an idiot, let’s go!” Galina tried to pull Schlippenbach away.

But he resisted. And then came my turn at the counter. I took the crumpled rouble out of my glove and asked, “How much should I get?”

Schlippenbach calmed down immediately. “Get me a large one, warmed up. And a small for Galina.”

Galina said, “I do not indulge in beer. But I’ll drink it with pleasure.”

There was little logic in her words.

Someone complained, but the bum explained to the disgruntled one, “No, the Tsar was in the queue, I saw him. And that fag with the camera is with him, so it’s OK, it’s legal!” The winos grumbled a bit more and quieted down.

Schlippenbach put the camera in his left hand and picked up his mug. “Let’s drink to the success of our film! True talent will always make its way.”

“My fool,” said Galina.

When we were backing out of the courtyard, Schlippenbach said: “Those people! Those are some people! I was even scared. It was just like — ”

“The battle of Poltava,” I finished for him.

It was hard changing in the van, so they brought me home, still in the emperor costume…

The next day, I ran into Schlippenbach at the cashier’s desk. He told me he wanted to get involved in human rights. So the film-making was over. The tsar costume lay around my house for two years. A neighbour’s boy took the sword. We polished the floor with the hat. Our
extravagant friend Regina wore the waistcoat as a spring jacket. My wife made a skirt out of the velvet breeches. I brought the driving gauntlets along when I emigrated; I was sure I’d buy a car first thing.

I never did get round to it. Didn’t want to. I have to stand out somehow! Let all Forest Hills know me as “that crazy Dovlatov, the guy who has no car!”

T
HE SUITCASE IS ON THE KITCHEN TABLE: a rectangular plywood box, covered with green fabric, with rusted reinforcements on the corners.

My Soviet rags lie around it. The old-fashioned double-breasted suit with wide trouser cuffs. A poplin shirt the colour of a faded nasturtium. Low shoes shaped like a boat. A corduroy jacket still redolent of someone else’s tobacco. A winter hat of sealskin. Crêpe socks with an electric sheen. Gloves that are good if you need to cut a hungry Newfoundland hound’s hair. A belt with a heavy buckle, slightly bigger than the scar on my forehead…

So what had I acquired in all those years in my homeland? What had I earned? This pile of rubbish? A suitcase of memories?…

I’ve been living in America for ten years. I have jeans, sneakers, moccasins, camouflage T-shirts from the Banana Republic. Enough clothing.

But the voyage isn’t over. And at the end of my allotted time I will appear at another gate. And I will have a cheap American suitcase in my hand. And I will hear: “What have you brought with you?”

“Here,” I’ll say. “Take a look.”

And I’ll also say, “There’s a reason that every book, even one that isn’t very serious, is shaped like a suitcase.”

p. 3,
But even like this… precious to me
: From a 1914 poem ‘
Greshit’ besstydno, neprobudno
’ (‘To sin shamelessly, ceaselessly’) by Alexander Alexandrovich Blok (1880 – 1921), a leading figure of the Symbolist movement.

p. 5,
OVIR
: The Russian Office of Visas and Registrations, which issued legal documents for those wishing either to enter or leave the Soviet Union.