The White Hotel (27 page)

One morning she took the score of
Eugene Onegin
out of the battered piano stool, and played over some of the passages. Then, because she had too much time on her hands, she began to compose her reply in the form of Tatiana’s letter to Onegin. She told herself she would let the rhymes lead her to the correct decision. After writing, and crossing out, all day, it came out like this, just after midnight….

As if I were a child, I tremble;
The pen is shaking in my hand.
Tanya could not her thoughts dissemble;
My thoughts—I do not understand.

In one way only I resemble
Reckless Tatiana—that my breast
Is all on fire and cannot rest.
Regretfully you are recalling,
I know, the mood that made you write
Words which torment me day and night,
Day and night!
Why have you disturbed my peace?
The heart was cool, the embers ashen,
For long ago I found release
From the indignities of passion.
I was contented, in a fashion,
And would have stayed so till I died.
It is too late to teach my heart,
Which is worn through, Tatiana’s part,
To flower, and open, as your bride.
Too late!
Her ancient nurse, not Tanya,
Sits listening to the midnight bird—
The kind, dull, ignorant old
nyanya
To whom love is a foreign word.
A word from a far country. Yet
That is not true: a word—for me—
That has been easier to forget
Than hold in fruitless memory.
I do not know why I am frightened
To pick the blossom that I crave,
As if my body were a grave;
Though, it is true, those fears have lightened
Since I have crossed the Rubicon,
A little early…. You will gather
What I am saying…. Would you rather
Not choose for your new wife someone
Still young enough to be a mother
To Kolya, and to bear a child
To be his sister or his brother?
He is alone, and therefore wild.

I would be loving to him, tender;
And were you here I should surrender
To all you asked from me, I know.
For I am not indifferent to you;
That night you kissed me—
then
, I knew you
Might make the frozen torrent flow.
Who are you? Angel of salvation,
Or an insidious temptation?
And who am I? A still naïve
Young girl in wrinkled flesh: you, only,
In marrying, might have cause to grieve.
There are worse fates than to be lonely.
So be it, then! I make my choice.
I shall not come to play the Polish
Tsarina. As all else, my voice
Has crossed the line…. It would be foolish,
Though I am flattered, to pretend
To be the bride of the Pretender;
The throat is hoarse that once was tender.
Best smile at what one cannot mend!
And cast it off,
And cast it off! Harsh as the raven,
Who was
almost
a nightingale.
Choose someone young. You cannot fail
To think me spiritless and craven.
Now I must close. Some other thing
You asked of me…. If you are certain,
Yes, I will come, though not to sing,
Except perhaps—behind the curtain.

She scribbled down, as an afterthought, some of Pushkin’s own artlessly simple lines…“Perhaps this is all idleness, / Delusions of an inexperienced soul, / And what is fated is something quite different…/ Imagine: I am here alone! / No one understands me!…” For a few moments, waiting for the ink to dry, she was a lovesick girl of the 1820s, foolishly and recklessly laying bare her heart to a loveless cynic. But unlike Tatiana, Lisa did not hesitate to seal the envelope, with a lick of her tongue, once she had signed her name; and not having an old nanny to send out, she put on her coat and hurried downstairs into the dark night to post her letter at the street corner.

3

After the wretched doubt-ridden weeks, tiresome packing and sad farewells—the first week in Kiev was a delirium. Victor’s broad grin on the station platform; meeting Kolya and his aged grandmother at the apartment; a party at the Opera House, being made welcome by all Victor’s protégés—delightful young people; reviving her brief encounters with the city, in walks and rides; and how pleasant (except for her uneasy awareness of being privileged) that their flat was in the heart of the city, the Kreshchatik, with its elegant shops, theatres and cinemas. Then, after a simple ceremony, the wedding party, even wilder than the welcoming party; promises of singing pupils—if Kolya wasn’t too much of a burden; celebratory drinks with this, that, and the other person, between helping Victor’s mother to pack. There was no time for thought—except that she had come to the right decision.

It was her idea that they take her mother-in-law the long journey by train to Tiflis, and then return by way of the Black Sea; they could pick up a cargo ship at the little Georgian port of Poti, which would carry them to Odessa: and so to Kiev by train. It would be a short honeymoon, and also a happy experience for little Kolya. Lisa thought the excitement of an ocean trip would console him for saying goodbye to his nana, and also provide the right relaxed, peaceful atmosphere for the child and his new mama to get to know each other.

Victor’s mother was a tiny, hunched, gay-eyed, balding, sprightly lady of eighty. She was more excited than anyone, because she was going home to her village to die. Her son’s marriage did not at all put her out; in fact, it was clearly a relief to her. She loved her grandson dearly, and cried at having to give him up; but he was too much of a handful for an old woman.

At Tiflis she was handed over to a horde of her relatives and neighbours, who keened over her as if they were receiving her corpse. Lisa could see that her husband was overcome by this meeting up with his past, only to say goodbye again; and especially to be embracing his mother, probably for the last time. It was too painful to wish to prolong it, and mercifully there was a swift connection with the train going over the mountains to the coast. They were soon crawling up the steep gradient—their train pushed by two engines, rather like working elephants—through spectacular scenery which both Lisa and Victor, for different reasons, were too distraught to take in. Then the Black Sea came into view, and they were rushing down towards it. They had no trouble, at Poti, in finding a cargo ship which took passengers; and Lisa was on the sea of her childhood.

When she had first been introduced by Victor to his four-year-old son, with the words “Say hello to the lady who is going to be your mama,” he had put his hand up to shake hers and said seriously, “Hello Lisa.” It had made them laugh, and broke the ice. She had picked him up in her arms and hugged and kissed him, swearing he was the image of his mother, the same straight blond hair, green eyes and mischievous smile. He had smiled when she kissed him—and really the sea voyage did not seem necessary, since he had taken to her. He still called her Lisa. Well, that was fine with her; let him call her Mama in his own good time, if
ever
—she didn’t mind. “He’s been so
good
, Victor!” she said in amazement, when he had gone off to sleep without a fuss, in their cabin. “I can’t see that he’s any trouble at all.” He chuckled, and said this was only the lull before the storm.

But she couldn’t believe there would be a storm. A few gusts, for sure; but she already knew she could cope. Of course, she was old enough to be his grandmother; but she would seem young
to him after the bald old soul who had been mothering him. She would make sure he had lots of playmates.

He was an adventurous little boy, and soon found the bridge and appointed himself First Officer. He “steered” the ship all morning, and had to be brought down for luncheon by a grinning steward. Yet he was pleased to see his daddy and the new lady—hugging her knees and saying, “Hello, Lisa!” She walked with him on deck and they watched the dolphins. She told him how, in winter, the sea was covered in ice; and later, when she undressed him and put him to bed, she told him a story about a huge whale, with the funny name of Porphyry, who hundreds and hundreds of years ago had wandered into this sea, because he loved adventures too. Bad sailors tried to catch him, but he was always too quick and clever for them. The little boy lay sucking his thumb, gazing up at her with round eyes.

While he lay asleep, they had dinner with the ship’s officers and a few other passengers. Even the unmusical had heard vaguely of Victor Berenstein, and they were impressed. They begged him to sing at the tinny old piano. Laughingly he protested that his singing days were over; and told them they should ask Lisa instead, for she too was a famous singer. So the happy honeymoon couple were compelled to sing duets. And in the cabin, he scolded her for having pretended her voice had gone off. He ought to be rehearsing
her
in
Boris
, on their return home, not the Leningrad upstart Bobrinskaya! She laughed away his flattery; Kolya was stirring, so she perched herself on his bunk and very softly hummed a lullaby. He was soon sleeping soundly again.

They undressed with embarrassment, even in the dark, for it was the first time they had shared a room. There were only two bedrooms in the Kiev apartment, and at first Lisa had shared with his mother. On their wedding night it seemed embarrassingly obvious
to change rooms; and anyway it was only for a couple of nights. Awkwardly, now, he climbed into the narrow bunk beside her; but as soon as they put their arms around each other, they felt at ease, and happy. It was not the wild passion of youth, but that would hardly have been possible anyway, with little Kolya sleeping near them. They had to be very quiet. Perhaps that helped; they were not under pressure to thrash about wildly as lovers are supposed to do…which made them both wish, at times, that they could.

They moved gently, silently, with the creaking timbers of the ship and the plash of the waves. She saw no unpleasant visions; only, through the porthole, the flash of a familiar lighthouse she had forgotten. As they made love she listened to the child’s quiet breathing. Almost like another child’s was the head resting on her breast. The flashes of the lighthouse lit up her husband’s white hair.

The voyage achieved all she had hoped, and more. By the time they berthed at Odessa, on a cool late-summer morning, she felt they were beginning to knit already into a family group. One of their holiday photos, taken by a fellow passenger, brought out the hopeful beginnings of unity: leaning against a lifeboat, there is the tall, heavy frame of Victor, in an astrakhan coat and fur hat, his plump and amiable face glancing proudly towards his wife, her coat collar turned up and her hair ruffled by the breeze; and she in turn is glancing proudly down at the little boy who is between them, holding their hands. He is smiling at the camera, his eyes closed—for he had blinked at the wrong moment.

Lisa did not recognize the city, and the city did not recognize her. As they walked or were driven around the places of interest she
felt—not even dead, but unreal, as though she had never lived. Actually, someone did recognize her. A faded, middle-aged woman paused uncertainly on the pavement and, looking straight into her eyes, said, “Lisa Morozova?” But Lisa shook her head and walked on past, pulling Kolya along to catch up with daddy. The woman had been a close friend; they had been members of the same ballet class.

Victor misinterpreted her sombre expression, and sympathetically drew her arm through his. They were in the region of the docks, and he thought she was upset at the air of desolation. “Don’t worry; it’s all in the past,” he murmured. He began explaining to her why most of the business premises along the dock front were shuttered and half derelict, including one that used to be marked:
Morozov: Grain Exports
. There was a government sign over the doors now, but the paint had faded on this too, and the windows were broken.

Kolya wanted to look in through the broken window, and his father hoisted him up to the sill. But there was nothing to be seen inside, except darkness and some broken glass.

They caught a bus eastwards along the coast towards her old home. The rambling white house had been converted into a health resort. Though its facilities were not usually available for the use of passing holiday-makers, Victor, as a leading Soviet artist, was able to buy luncheon tickets. The pleasant dining room was packed; mostly, it seemed, with factory workers from Rostov. None of the furnishings or pictures were left over from the former owners; only the trees outside the french windows were the same. And one old waitress, who served them their cabbage soup, had been a scullery maid in the old days. She served them in a surly manner, and clearly did not recognize Lisa; nor did Lisa feel
like making herself known, though in the past she had often exchanged friendly words with her.