Ninochka (Suny Series, the Margins of Literature)

Ninochka

SUNY series, The Margins of Literature Mihai I. Spariosu, editor

Ninochka A Novel

Svetlana Boym

State University of New York Press

Published by State University of New York Press, Albany © 2003 State University of New York All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission. No part of this book may be stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. For information, address State University of New York Press, 90 State Street, Suite 700, Albany, NY 12207 Production by Judith Block Marketing by Fran Keneston Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Boym, Svetlana Ninochka : a novel / Svetlana Boym. p. cm. — (SUNY series, the margins of literature) Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 0-7914-5773-7 (alk. paper) — ISBN 0-7914-5774-5 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Women detectives—France—Fiction. 2. Americans—Russia (Federation)—Fiction. 3. Russia (Federation)—Fiction. 4. Americans— France—Fiction. 5. Russians—France—Fiction. 6. Russian Americans— Fiction. 7. Women immigrants—Fiction. 8. Paris (France)— Fiction. 9. Conspiracies—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series. PS3602.O974N56 2003 813'.54—dc21

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Contents

Chapter One In which the murder takes place

1

Chapter Two In which you catch a glimpse of my green card and sample immigrant crêpes

11

Chapter Three In which I try to examine Nina’s diary but speak with the strangers instead

21

Chapter Four In which we observe émigrés on the beach and learn everything we need to know about potential murder suspects

28

Chapter Five In which we revisit Nina’s childhood and play hide-and-seek in the Summer Gardens

50

Chapter Six In which the detective gets unexpected mail

56

Chapter Seven In which we finally learn about the men in Nina’s life and meet “the Eurasian genius”

59

Chapter Eight In which we attend the Eurasian tea party and lose all respect for Attila the Hun

73

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Chapter Nine Which might make you blush

83

Chapter Ten In which we learn about the “other woman” and read the Manifesto of the Kinopeople

88

Chapter Eleven In which we all go to a Hungarian party and learn about Soviet missile launchers

95

Chapter Twelve In which I finally see Ninotchka and wonder about the consequences

100

Chapter Thirteen In which I spend some time in the Bibliothéque Nationale and stumble upon a conspiracy theory ciphered in the script of Ninotchka

110

Chapter Fourteen A digression on common fears and on the importance of dusting, preferably with a wet rag

118

Chapter Fifteen In which the best part happens behind the scenes, so the anxious reader can just skip this chapter altogether

122

Chapter Fifteen-A Hardly a chapter at all, a couple of loose pages from my computer diary

127

Chapter Sixteen Which tells you how to cure a common cold with roasted salt and potato steam and how to remove stains on your red Pioneer tie

129

Chapter Seventeen In which the detective misbehaves in the movie theater while watching a film with Gerard Depardieu

133

Chapter Eighteen In which we finally meet Nina’s last lover Lionel, learn of his desire to become a great American writer and read his sketch about Russian roulette

144

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Chapter Nineteen Which tells you what to do when you run into your lover’s wife in the supermarket

151

Chapter Twenty In which we learn how Ninotchka was conceived and what made Greta Garbo laugh

154

Chapter Twenty-One In which a mysterious character from the third row packs his bags and makes a confession

155

Chapter Twenty-Two Up in the air

170

Chapter Twenty-Three In which we travel to Russia and watch a musical dedicated to the Soviet Constitution

174

Chapter Twenty-Four In which my beautiful grandmother takes her last stroll in Paris

185

Chapter Twenty-Five In which I invite you to come home with me but Tram No. 30 runs very slowly

187

Chapter Twenty-Six In which I bury my grandmother

193

Chapter Twenty-Seven Which offers you seven elephants of happiness

197

Chapter Twenty-Eight In which we dispel our sad thoughts and learn what Ninel Markovna really did in Paris

200

Chapter Twenty-Nine In which you meet my English professor and drink the cheap wine of our youth

210

Chapter Thirty In which we taste a fruit drink and cabbage pirogi at my Alma Mater and learn what happened to Boris Krestovsky in Russia

217

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Chapter Thirty-One In which we stop making Eurasian jokes and explore the double life of Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky

225

Chapter Thirty-Two In which you follow me to Moscow and have a pickle treat

236

Chapter Thirty-Three In which we eavesdrop on Comrade Kaganovich

242

Chapter Thirty-Four In which we watch The Lilac Sunset and listen to Kachalsky’s songs

247

Chapter Thirty-Five In which I meet Cossacks and have a romantic escapade at the Pizza Hut

256

Chapter Thirty-Six In which the murderer makes a scene

263

Chapter Thirty-Seven In which we get homesick in Gorky Park

280

Chapter Thirty-Eight In which we leave Russia and bid farewell to Rabinovich and Anka the machine gunner

285

Chapter Thirty-Nine Which tells you that there is no place like home

294

Chapter Forty Greta Garbo’s Last Smile

298

Postscript

302

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In which the murder takes place MGM presents Greta Garbo in Ninotchka an Ernst Lubitsch production 1939 “This picture takes place in Paris in those wonderful days when a siren was a brunette and not an alarm—and if a Frenchman turned out the light it was not on account of an air raid!” The lobby of the Grand Hotel with its gilded chandelier, spring slush on the marble staircase, and someone’s back in a gray trenchcoat leaning against a column. At first you hesitate to enter, you press your face against the window, breathe on the squeaky clean glass. Maybe it’s the wrong address after all, it just doesn’t look right. But then you find yourself caught up in the revolving door. Somebody must have pushed you from behind. Go ahead, comrade, it’s your turn. It is too late to slow down now. There is no way back, no escape. “It’s not my kind of movie,” whispered Nina to Lionel. She moved closer to him, but not too close. She kept some distance, letting their clothes, but not their bodies, touch. Meanwhile three comrades, Bolsheviks, already made their way through the Grand Hotel lobby and were now entering the Royal Suite. They were in Paris on a secret mission: to sell the crown jewels and to save Soviet agriculture. Paris bewitched the comrades. Before they knew 1

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it, women in expensive hats started to roll their Rs and bare their shoulders. Men arranged their pomaded hair preparing to kill time. Cigarette girls in skimpy skirts appeared from nowhere ready for anything: “You don’t smoke, Messieurs Bolsheviks? Too bad . . .” “So that’s what life is like in the West, comrades. I see.” “Well, we were warned back home, right? One night here would cost our country seven cows . . . Seven cows, comrades. Did you know that? Well, I think you should” At that moment the audience must have laughed. Or rather some people just uttered their polite ha, others cleared their throats with a barbaric ha-ha-ha and still others chuckled mutely. Nina didn’t get the joke. It was in a foreign language, after all. For a Russian immigrant, she didn’t have a heavy accent. She mastered the grammar, recognized the roots of the words, but the derivatives often escaped her. Also, it was hard for her to make sense of those teasing prepositions—ons and offs, ups and downs—that put the natives at ease. Let them laugh, then. She can always try one of Lionel’s candies and rustle the purple foil. Please don’t get me wrong; Nina loved the movies, although she found the talkies much too garrulous for her taste. She felt at home in the darkness of the movie theater, watching flickering shadows on the screen in a room filled with whispering strangers. This just wasn’t her day. She hadn’t eaten since that morning. That cheap croque monsieur she had for breakfast had been stale and cold. Wasn’t it supposed to have a piece of ham inside? You’d think so. There was a hint of something there, a smell, perhaps a lingering memory of ham that had been there before. And she was coming down with a cold. Her throat was dry and swollen. She didn’t feel like getting out of bed. But then she remembered that that nice American fellow Lionel had invited her to a special screening. “A Soviet Commissar falls in love in Paris,” read the blurb on the invitation. “Greta Garbo laughs on the big screen.” “Why not,” thought Nina. And here she was next to him, leaning backwards on the uncomfortable chair shaped by the bodies of hundreds of fidgety moviegoers. Five perfectly sharpened pencils stuck proudly out of the pocket of his white suit. There was no doubt, Lionel wanted to be a writer. He wasn’t an émigré like Nina; he was in Paris on a long vacation. 2

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“Do you ever think of going back to Russia?” Lionel whispered in Nina’s ear. He never quite knew how to make conversations with her. “No, not really.” “But you do miss home, don’t you?” He was ready to be understanding, to comfort her, to take her little hand into his. She didn’t budge. “Maybe. But it’s not what you think.”

In five minutes all the hustle and bustle of the movie theater was drowned out by the clamor of the train engine. A special commissar was sent from Moscow to supervise three misbehaving comrades, Bolsheviks who began to care more about the cigarette girls than about Soviet agriculture. Comrade Nina Yakushova (such was the name of the special envoy) was standing tall on the platform, shrugging her broad shoulders. Her suit was tightly buttoned up, her hat poised to the left, her unsmiling eyes the color of steel. Just as Comrade Yakushova was about to walk out of the revolving hotel door into the busy Parisian street, Lionel pressed Nina’s hand. It was as if he tried to distract her from what was to come.

“Is she a spy or something?” whisphered a woman on the row behind them. “Who? Greta Garbo?” asked her companion. “Who else!” “Stop talking down there!” “And look who’s talking now!” Shhh . . . for God’s sake!

Comrade Yakushova was now on her way to the Eiffel Tower to inspect the inner workings of capitalist technology. There on a dangerous streetcrossing she encounters the counterrevolutionary count, Leon (the one who sent cigarette girls to the trusting comrades Bolsheviks) She told him that his species would soon be extinct. He found that absolutely charming. 3

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Half and hour later, they were in love. And Greta Garbo did burst into laughter, just as the ad promised. She laughed compulsively and desperately, unable to restrain herself. The jewels of the counterrevolutionary princess, the misbehaving Bolsheviks and the ailing Soviet agriculture were all but forgotten. Comrade Yakushova bared her stately shoulders, becoming a lovable, bubbling Ninotchka, and Count Leon began reading Marx. Meanwhile the counterrevolutionary émigrés and the Soviet bosses struck back at them. Comrade Yakushova was summoned to return to the Soviet Union immediately and leave her love behind.

“Oh,” sighed the woman in the back row. “Will she really go back to Russia? That’s so cruel, isn’t it, dear?”

Lionel wanted to tell Nina something witty and make a strategic move to touch her fingers casually, bring them to his lips for a lingering kiss or, even better, press his knee against hers, but not too forcefully. What lovely silk stockings she wore even with one unfortunate run on her left ankle. As Lionel turned towards Nina, he suddenly realized that she was napping. Once again, Nina had slipped away from him. She was travelling back East on the invisible train of her dream. It is too late now for last-minute farewells. There is a man running on the platform, desperately unwilling to face the fact that he missed the train. He isn’t the young man he once was. He’s going to trip any minute now, he’s going to hurt himself, and he doesn’t know it. The woman in the train window, thirtysomething, wears a gray hat that seems too small for her. No, she isn’t traveling light. She wishes she were. Are there tears in her eyes or just the drops of the drizzling rain on the glass? She’s going back to her hometown. They say there’s no place like home; that’s where you belong. Why then did she procrastinate for years, leave everything to the last minute and linger on the platform for as long as she could, breathing the polluted air of exile? It’s hard to say. It’s better to keep a distance from immigrants and grieving lovers. Watch the clouds. There is a large one passing by, a foreign-looking cloud, detached and very photogenic. 4

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As the train leaves the station, the Parisian outskirts disappear in the dusk with their smoky chimneys and rows of cypresses. It’s dinnertime now, and in each of those lighted windows there might be two or more gesticulating shadows caught in their pleasant or unbearable everydayness, accustomed to the siren of the train. In the breeze of the moving train imaginations run wild. A nice French family over there is setting down for a family dinner. A man is reading the daily news in the corner, frowning. It is not too promising, the news. The “war in Europe” is in every second headline. Oh, but what do they really know, those doomsayers! No, dear, nothing to worry about. So, what’s cooking today? This very second the man’s wife is pouring extra-virgin oil on the sizzling skillet and then a drop of red wine. Oof—it all goes up in flames. The meat will be soft and pink now, juicy and rare. Then the train runs through dusty provincial towns with unpronounceable names of too many consonants. Is it going in the right direction? Are we in the right car? Passport control officers don’t smile here and don’t wish you a casual bon voyage. “Your visa, miss. Is that you in the picture? Please take off your glasses and follow us.” Occasionally, women in white scarves with tiny black polka dots appear at the station, their wrinkled faces burned by the northern sun. They carry baskets covered with cloth with halos of warm steam. The litany of their whispers takes over the station. “Potatoes, potatoes, potatoes, kartoshka, kartoshka, kartoshka . . . Goriachaia kartoshka, berite, ne pozhaleete. . . . Dear daughter, you should get some of my warm potatoes, your journey will be long and hungry, believe me you will need them. And here are some of my baby pickles, just for you, free of charge.” They really are delicious, those young potatoes with pickles and dill, you eat them from an old newspaper spread on the folding table. Yes, it’s stained with margarine and has a bit of a smell. So what? Just pick it up with your hands, will you? We’ve left our paper towels behind, in another life, there is no use for them anymore. And don’t ask too many questions here. Where you are going is none of our business. But we share a hearty meal. One fellow pulls herring and vodka out of a brown bag. The other tells a joke about Ivan the Fool who goes to the Eurasian steppes and meets Rabinovich at the crossroads. “Hey, Rabinovich,” says Ivan the Fool. “Fix me a cup of coffee.” “How do you like your 5

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coffee?” asks Rabinovich. “Without milk,” shouts Ivan the Fool, “and hurry up!” “Can it be without cream,” pleads Rabinovich, trembling. “I’ve been here a long time and I ran out of milk.” The potatoes and good company warm you up and calm you down. You doze off quietly and pleasantly, lulled by the rhythm of the train. It goes on like that for days. You and your fellow passengers are a family now. You laugh at each other’s jokes long before the punch line. Remember Anka the machine gunner? You know how it goes. You get used to each other, you quarrel over trifles, play cards, bet and make amends. Until one day the train comes to an abrupt stop in a dark pine forest. Here the railway tracks become the roots of the trees. They tie you to the soil and keep you in place. There is no signpost here, no clearing, only the contorting roots in the dry earth. This is the border you can’t cross.

“Did you know that Greta Garbo worked for the Secret Police?” said a man in front of Nina. “Fucking émigrés!” hissed someone at the back. “They’re everywhere. Even in the movie theaters . . .” “Only an agent can cross the Soviet border so easily. After all her love troubles . . .” Shh, Monsieur, really . . .” “You know,” Nina turned to Lionel, rubbing her sleepy eyes. “That’s not entirely impossible.” “Oh, come on, Nina,” said Lionel. “You’ve slept through it all. It’s only a comedy.”

Indeed, it was a comedy. First, Comrade Yakushova felt lonely in the Soviet Union, cried over Leon’s censored letters and gave away her silk lingerie to her friendly communal apartment neighbor. Yet she dutifully went to all the parades and ate omelettes with comrade Bolsheviks. Then the Secret Service decided to reward her for her excellent work and send her back to the West or rather to the Eurasian city of Constantinople where Count Leon was waiting for her. The lovers were reunited again. They dined in the Russian restaurant recently opened by the enterprising ex6

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Bolsheviks, and lived happily ever after or at least for the last minutes of the film. It’s too bad that happy endings don’t last long. This time too, the lights must have been turned on a little too soon. The drowsy and teary moviegoers could no longer hide. Now they had to talk, return back to their lives, act as if nothing had happened. Nina lingered a bit longer in the shadowy movie theater, as if she felt someone’s intense gaze on her back and wanted to return it, to catch her follower unawares. Was it that man in a raincoat who had whispered something about the émigrés in a coarse Slavic accent, or that couple in the corner who didn’t bother to move when the words “The End” appeared on the screen? “Stop imagining things, Nina. Let’s get out into the light, eh?” Lionel pulled her impatiently by the arm. “I’ll cheer you up, you’ll see.” They went out of the movie theater and for a while wandered aimlessly around Paris, unable to decide what should they do. Nina had a sore throat, and Lionel did most of the talking. It began to drizzle as they walked along the Seine. The vendors covered their vintage magazines and postcards with black cloth. The little park on Île St. Louis looked like a cemetery of dead umbrellas. Lionel put his arms around Nina. “Listen,” he said, “may I offer you a drink, or would you like something to eat? What do you think? Or, I have another idea. Let’s forget the food and go straight to your place.” Lionel thought that Nina liked his American straightforwardness, so he was trying very hard. Nina’s cough was getting worse. She was, in fact, hungry and not really in the mood, but it was one of those situations when it’s easier to just play along than to explain why not. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. There was something youthful, healthy, clean-cut about him; he seemed to know where he was going and where he came from. A rare breed among people she knew.

In her tiny crammed room, he took out a gramophone record. “I’ll show you my new acquisition—your compatriot, Kachalsky. I must confess . . . I prefer jazz.” “So do I,” said Nina. But Lionel did not hear her. He was playing out his fantasy: 7

Svetlana Boym I am a princess without a sou and I elope with my little Jou Su Malaysian ba-ron o-o- my baby Jou Su. Malaysian ba-ron . . .

“I’ve heard there is no word for foreplay in Russian,” whispered Lionel, kissing Nina’s ear. “What a practical language, indeed . . .”

The song went on and on, but they no longer listened. He was rather gentle and quick. Theoretically, he believed in “a virile rupture of the female.” He read somewhere about it, and the phrase stuck in his mind. But he had a sweet side too. He brought her tea with lemon in an old porcelain cup with blue nightingales or sparrows— it was hard to tell. The room was rather dim. She drank the tea and her throat felt much better. She looked at the cockroach moving slowly on the bas-relief on the wall. It was a friendly, inoffensive kind of cockroach, just seeking a way out. She wanted to pretend that she hadn’t seen it. OK, there it goes. Lionel was talking passionately about something else not related to her. Yes, of course, the movies. “Cinema will be the universal language of mankind . . .” “Sure,” said Nina conciliatorily, “especially if they get rid of the words.” In the morning he went to the neighborhood pâtisserie to pick up fresh croissants and jam. He must have run into friends and chattered longer than usual. He wanted to end the conversation but one of his friends kept rambling about some continentocean and utopia achieved, while the other was nodding skeptically. When Lionel came back, Nina was no more.

This is what was written in the report: “Nina B. was found dead on 55, rue de Saussure. Death was caused by a gunshot wound. No sign of forced entry. Ten francs remained in her purse. There were immigrant workers doing repairs on the fourth floor. All cleared.” Lionel was arrested but quickly released. The owner of the pâtisserie, Monsieur Bonacieu, testified that he purchased two pains 8

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au chocolat and one almond croissant at exactly 9:30, the time of Nina’s alleged murder. Then Lionel met two men Bonacieu described as “definitely not French, possibly East European refugees. Paris is no longer what it used to be, not like in the old days. There are hardly any French people left here, you know . . . But then again, those foreigners like my croissants, too. Sometimes they even pay for them. So maybe it’s good for business.” Dear reader, of course I wasn’t there. It was not I who eavesdropped on Nina in the darkness of the movie theater. I did not overhear the chitchat of the good-natured Mr. Bonacieu. And yes, I cannot prove without a reasonable doubt that he said just that. It’s too late to ask him. He is dead now. He died peacefully in his sleep surrounded by his loving Madame Bonacieu and two sweet-looking daughters, Yvette and Lisette. I just tried to imagine and reconstruct Nina’s last evening at the movies as precisely as I could, to pay her my last respects. It happened more than fifty years ago, and the murder remained unresolved. According to Nina’s file in the local commissariat of police that I was able to peruse, two used movie tickets for the opening of the American film Ninotchka and a newspaper review of the “great masterpiece of Ernst Lubitsch” were found lying near Nina on the bed. Her crêpe-de-chine purse contained red lipstick, a pair of silk stockings, colored candy wrappers possibly from Belgian chocolates, dried yellow flowers, embroidery kits, an address book, and a strange pamphlet in Russian entitled Eurasian Supremacy. An anonymous Russian translator was invited to give a brief summary of the pamphlet. This is what he typed up in his imperfect French with lots of misplaced accents: “The pamphlet describes the destiny of Russia-Eurasia, the land of great empires, from Byzantium to Genghis Khan, from Russia to Turkey, and its mission in the world. It presents a case of international conspiracy against Eurasianists by the people of the West and their agents on the Russian soil and argues for a new constructive relationship between Eurasian patriots and the Soviet Union and the subsequent return of the Eurasian leaders to the native soil. ‘Some borders must be crossed, some blood might be spilled.’ The authors believe that a strong Party of Eurasia is destined to provide a peaceful transition from Bolshevik to Eurasian ideology and build a theocratic state on Eurasian territory.” In the margins somebody had scribbled in purple ink, “troublesome but deep.” 9

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There were two other items confiscated from Nina’s room at the time of the murder and marked “possibly relevant.” One was an unfinished letter to the Professor of Eurasian Linguistics, Dr. Boris Krestovsky, which read as follows: Dear Boris Vladimirovich, Forgive me, I am going to drop “Herr Professor” this time. You have strictly prohibited me from writing to you on this matter. But why, why don’t you want me to come to the Congress of Eurasianists and meet our “Soviet colleagues.” Did I offend you the other day when we ran into one another near that crumbling movie theater (the name escapes me now). You, of all people . . .

The second item was a note and a poem scribbled on a napkin by a friend of Lionel, a poet named Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky. He was rumored to have disappeared around the time of Nina’s murder and was unavailable for questions. To the unsmiling princess of the Nin Dynasty: The bullets in my brain The vermouth in my blood washed out in the flood of drizzling Baltic rain to be continued. I am dying to see you, yours, comme toujours, J. P-R.

The summary of Nina’s case was remarkably brief. Deceased: Belskaya, Nina; stateless; 34-years-old; relatives: none. Body identified by Natalie Chernoff, downstairs neighbor, age 16. My eyes linger on the first line of the report: “Surname, given name, date of birth.” There was an error there, the correction of a typo perhaps. One letter of the last name was added later, not even a letter, only an apostrophe, frequently used for the Russian soft sign—Nina Bel’skaya—and then it seemed that the soft sign was erased again. The jumping letters of the old typewriter were unusually shaky. “Crime of passion suspected but hypothesis declined due to lack of evidence.” 10

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2

In which you catch a glimpse of my green card and sample immigrant crêpes Now let’s take a deep breath, sip hot tea with lemon and sugar and begin again at a slower pace, like in the black and white movies of my childhood with long takes and few cuts. Nothing wrong with killing time before visiting my main witness Madame Natalie Chernoff. Here in Paris we can lose ourselves among tourists, legal and illegal immigrants or disguised natives. I hear foreign speech, Creole, English, Arabic, Hungarian, Albanian, Spanish, Turkish, Russian, broken French. “Where are you from, mademoiselle?” asks a curious stranger at the table next to me. “Let me guess—Argentinian! Ay, hangover of Pampas! Las noches blancas de tango . . . “Russian? Oh, that’s wonderful. You read about all those changes over there. It must be so exciting. You know I love Swan Lake. Tchaikovsky was such a genius. Tata—tata—ta-a-a—-tararata tatatata-taaa. And then that movie, remember, with the beautiful white snow and a sad, romantic tune playing in the background. It lasted more than three hours and you wouldn’t believe how much I cried at the end. He sees her go by, oh, maybe it’s not her at all, just another woman with pale lips. But he jumps anyway, he jumps off the streetcar, runs after her and dies of a heart attack. Just like that, by accident. I couldn’t believe it, after all that happened. They really loved each other, but it didn’t work out. You know what I mean? Frankly, I don’t think you look Russian. And you have such an American accent!” Thank you, dear stranger. I still miss definite articles, and occasionally indefinite ones as well. But I’m working on my speech. You see, I am a Russian-American. I live in the States now. Not quite. I’m studying to be a historian. No, but I have a green card. I’m still an “alien” but a resident one. I’m legal, I swear, but not yet completely naturalized. These days you’re lucky to get the green card. I am really afraid of accidents so I always carry it with me. Want to see it? It gives you a good view of my left ear. They asked me at the interview in the Immigration and Naturalization Agency whether I was a member of the Communist Party. No, I 11

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wasn’t, but my grandmother was a member. Oh, I see. You already knew that. I always fail at making small talk. My well-wishing stranger just wanted to know where I was from, have a café chat, show off a little and mind his own business. I shouldn’t have opened my notebook and started biting my pen so demonstratively, as if impatient to record something or just wishing to be left alone. My defensive tone and then this talk of accidents and of a communist grandmother was really too much for the occasion. Yet it is precisely that, the fear of accidents, that brought me to Paris in the first place and made me obsessed with Nina’s murder. I don’t remember when it started. Perhaps it was my grandmother who taught me the train game when we travelled to our dacha, nothing more than a rented room with a tiny porch, on the Gulf of Finland. We stood in the smoky platform of the last train car watching stations go by, with a lonely blueberry vendor here and there and receding pine forests in the backround. I must have been doing something to displease her, like chewing the foil from White Bear of the North chocolates or twisting off a doll’s head to see what was inside it. I no longer liked to play with dolls, especially not with that rubber East German Natasha with a bleached-blond perm and vapid glass eyes. “Now listen carefully,” said my grandmother, “or you will miss your chance. You have to stare at the train rails. Put your index finger between your eyebrows and then move it slowly to your nose, like the eye doctor does. Now count to eighteen. One, two, three. Ready? How many tracks do you see?” “Two,” I said “Go on, count faster, four, five, six, seven . . . I had a terrible accident once,” she whispered out of the blue. At that moment as if at the command of my index finger, two parallel train tracks collided turning into one single rail, narrow and rusty black It went deep into the earth like a root of an ancient pine tree. We were not moving anymore, there was no place to go, no destination, no arrival, only the arid soil. “Aaaah,” I screamed. I haven’t played that train game for a twenty years but somehow I remembered it this time as I was taking a train to Paris from Berlin, the same route that Nina took in 1932, seven years before her murder. Only now there was nobody to play the game with 12

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me. The rhythms of the train were calm and slow, and as I looked through the window at the crossing tracks, overgrown with weeds, they appeared to me remarkably unthreatening, a map of a forgotten adventure that has become safe and familiar. “My journey from Berlin to Paris was pleasantly uneventful,” wrote Nina in her diary. “Paris was a cheerfully anonymous city that only vaguely resembled my dreams.” Without apparent sadness, she observed that nobody came to meet her at the station and that the porter boy was extremely insistent in trying to help carry her meager luggage, and that he spoke with a Russian accent and looked like another “unemployed little prince.” Nina’s diary was incomplete, with many missing pages and entries that were out of order. I stumbled upon it by a sheer accident through a hapless friend of my grandmother, Uncle Leo, who emigrated several times, always moving to the wrong place at the wrong time. There was something in Nina’s diary that struck me, a pang of recognition, a secret affinity, something that at the time I didn’t clearly comprehend. Nina left Russia as a teenager, following her parents who were escaping the October revolution. Then she left her parents and moved from Berlin to Paris, where she studied psychology and linguistics and wrote a series of essays, “In Praise of Exile,” that created a veritable scandal in the émigré community. It is at that time that she began to cultivate a friendship with Professor Boris Krestovsky, the charismatic leader of the Eurasian movement, although it is not clear what her allegiances to the movement really were. She disappeared without a trace in 1939. Most likely, she was murdered, even though the motive for the murder and the suspects were never identified. “You are interested in the history of Eurasianism, my dear. This is what it does to you,” said Uncle Leo enigmatically. Uncle Leo had a heart attack on the day of Chinese-Russian rapprochement. “The Eurasians,” he whispered, “they are in power in Russia today. The Eurasian empire will conquer the world.” Poor Uncle Leo was delirious, but in his delirium he was sometimes more lucid than in everyday life. After Uncle Leo’s death I felt obliged to fill in some of the horrifying gaps in Nina’s story and, hopefully, put it to rest. My journey to Paris, like Nina’s, was quite ordinary. I arrived at the Gare du Nord and dragged my carry-on luggage patiently, saying no to every possible offer, to the red roses, to the cheap 13

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hotels, to the aggressive taxi drivers, and to the American tourists looking for directions to Hotel Americain near the Bastille. I took the Metro to my pension “Petit Eden,” where a taciturn and unsmiling attendant escorted me up the winding staircase to a tiny room with furniture and toilet from the 1930s. I notice a long window extending into the inner yard and a little desk with a green lamp. I switch the green lamp on and off almost un-self-consciously. “Don’t worry, Mademoiselle,” says the hotel attendant. “The lamp is one thing here that works! It makes funny noises sometimes— tch-tchk-tchk-tcha-tcha—like someone’s hissing at you, but don’t worry, there is nobody there.” “I believe you,” I said. “This room is just what I need.” I switched off the green lamp and took the narrow staircase down to the streets of Paris. The city overwhelms me with its smells, noises, colors, multitudes of faces, arched eyebrows, unfolding scarfs, tatoos in foreign language, and pierced flesh. Am I really here? I leave my unfinished cup of tea and the disaproving gaze of the sulking stranger and walk on the curved pavement where too many people before me tried desperately to leave a mark. The faded masks on a once elegant facade, trash on the street corner, the symmetrical bare breasts of the girl on the poster advertising bubble bath help to dispel my reverie. The problem with Paris is that you dream about it too much, especially if you come from Russia or Eastern Europe. Wherever you go, you stumble upon a building block of somebody’s else’s imagination. Paris is overcrowded with foreign dreams and unreasonable expectations. There was a good Soviet joke about dreaming of going to Paris that I tried to tell to my American friends and failed miserably. It is about Rabinovich and Anka the machine gunner. Anka, I would explain, was a heroic Soviet woman, a Russian beauty and a woman warrior from the early days. Rabinovich, I assumed needed no introduction. So one day Anka runs into Rabinovich on the street corner. “Why are you so sad, Comrade Rabinovich?” asks Anka, the machine gunner. “Is your wife well, are your children healthy?” “Oh, Anka,” says Rabinovich, “dear Anka. I dreamed of going to Paris again.” My American friends are usually completely perplexed by this encounter. One thing they are sure is that they missed something. You see, Rabinovich has never been to Paris, I would explain, and neither has Anka, and they both know it. So it sounds as if 14

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Rabinovich would like to go to Paris again, but actually, he’s just dreaming again, that’s all. I always insist with great authority that there was absolutely nothing between Anka and Rabinovich. No, absolutely not. Anka and Rabinovich were just friends. Now the center of Paris is filled with foreigners’ laughter, and some of it is too loud, even to my taste. As I am trying to escape the crowd of heavily pierced Italian teenagers ogling the Pantheon with an air of disapproval, I find my way into a lively bar, Crêpe Européen, where a Vietnamese cook prepares French fast food. I suspect that she makes much better crêpes than her French rival on the other street corner under the sign, Crêpe Français. Watching her acrobatic manipulations of the frying pan, I figure out her secret. Madame Nguyen simply puts much more cheese into her crêpe. Her crêpe overflows with melted cheese. It leaves greasy stains on the wrapping paper, but it satisfies the tourist’s hunger. It is funny how the immigrants quickly adopt the cuisine of their host country and then sell it to the tourists. Immigrants understand tourists better than natives, they know what the tourists are looking for and feed them their own sweetly spiced illusions. They have mastered the business of souvenirs. In Berlin, near Checkpoint Charlie, at the site of the horrifying passage through The Wall, Turkish immigrants sell Gorby dolls and East German military uniforms to the well-wishing tourists. I am glad that they manage to make money out of that. East German history was not theirs, but the souvenir trade belongs to everyone. Immigrants of the world, unite! Immigrants often appear to be happy people, especially those lucky ones who wear the proud name of “legal aliens.” Not only do they put more cheese in their crêpes, but they smile a bit too much, and they say “have a nice day” with too much enthusiasm. Sometimes you look at their lips as they wish you a nice day, and they seem to move out of synch, as in a cheap production of a movie where the producer did not raise enough money to do a professional job. But don’t worry about the lack of slickness. Immigrants are happy people because they crossed that ultimate “no trespassing” sign, that border of fear. At least for those of us who lived in a closed world, sometimes comfortably, sometimes uncomfortably so, the border crossing seemed for a while like the ultimate transgression. I was five or so, still in the kindergarten, when I memorized the song about the great border of the motherland. 15

Svetlana Boym On the border the clouds float somberly, The severe country’s steeped in silence, On the high banks of the Amur river, The guardians of the motherland are watching

Surprisingly, I still remember the words It gets more cheerful in the second couplet: “Three tankers, three merry friends, tatataaatata-tata-tata.” The three tankers were like Atlases supporting the Soviet world. “Three tankers, three merry friends . . .” The border of the motherland was a Great Wall and going abroad was like traveling to another world, like crossing the border between life and death. The immigrants from the somber borderland said their final good-byes and after the last exhaustive body search at the customs they crossed into that unreal zone of glossy surfaces and squeaky-clean toilets. The lucky immigrants-to-be boarded their planes, sat back and relaxed, enjoyed their orange juice, free of charge, and saved their honey-roasted peanuts and paper cups for a rainy day. No, dear stranger, it’s not like going to Canada. I know you hated it once when they made you wait for an entire 45 minutes, and then you had to fill out that stupid declaration form because you purchased a refrigerator in a Toronto suburb. It was a real pain. You kept bickering with your significant other and even thought of calling him your less significant other, and all because of this damn Canadian bureaucracy. It was simply awful! Well, believe or not, what I’m talking about is even worse. “Do they get homesick?” the stranger interrupts me, looking very concerned. How can I explain it? Yes and no. Clandestinely, furtively, insidiously. Don’t fantasize about immigrant tears, don’t project into them your dreams of escape. First, they were forced to renounce their past, and then they chose to forget it. Or rather, they didn’t have any other choice but to forget it in order to survive. You have to travel light to pass through that border of fear, too much emotional luggage will slow you down. But I am talking to myself, and what’s even more strange is nobody seems to mind. On the quays of the Seine Parisian vendors sit behind black curtains blowing in the wind like high priestesses of ancient temples. This is not a place for the immigrant trade. The yellowish postcards with crumpled corners tremble in the moody Parisian weather. I can’t help but take the old postcards into my 16

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hands, touch their fading surface. On the back of the picture of the Eiffel tower tinged in rose with the passing clouds in the background, I read an inscription in neat handwriting: “October 6, 1915. My tender friend. I spent the last month in the trenches, in utter misery, supported only by the courage and perseverance of my comrades. Being back in Paris gives me a strange sense of irreality, that even this hideous tower brings joy to my heart. I hope your health has improved. Yours, truly, petit Jacques.”

On the erotic postcard next to the one of the Eiffel Tower, I see two plump, dark women in negligees, one lacing up her black stockings on the chair with curved lion legs and the other licking the tip of the pen dreamingly half-undressed and still writing. Nothing is written here even though there is a stamp attached to the card. Someone must have changed his mind. On the other side of the portrait of Asta Nielsen eating grapes I find a little note in Russian: “April 19, 1917. Dear Zhenechka. You are probably thinking how low she fell to send your postcard like that, but our kisses (the middle is hard to read) our kisses. . . . are like grapes without seeds.”

“Mademoiselle, what do you think you’re doing?” the vendor shouts at me. “You want to meddle with people’s lives and pay nothing for it? It’s truly impolite to read other people’s letters without buying them. I thought you were interested in landscapes. I have the best collection of landscape postcards, didn’t you see the sign? Some are completely unspoiled!” I apologize profusely without feeling guilty and begin a dutiful examination of the view of the Black Forest (nothing much, just a dark thicket and a dim promise of a clearing on the right, heavy roots spreading in all directions like a spider web). Just as my thoughts venture away on a narrow sylvan path, my left elbow inadvertently pushes the stack of postcards. I try to hold on to it, but only make the matters worse with my embarrasing pirouette in the air. Disaster strikes. The vintage pictures with wrinkled corners, purple doodles on the back and gorgeous views of the entire world fly in all directions, desperately swirling in the air. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I will buy them—the ones that are now in the puddle. I know they’re spoiled now,” I mumble in 17

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English. Now the vendor must think that after all that I am a rude American, or even worse, a clumsy immigrant. “These people are nothing but trouble!” I squat and try to gather the fallen cards. It lasts an eternity; then I flee the scene. Nina’s letters, Fall 1939 9/21 Morning. Migraine. Am I ready to start another day? Economize on croque monsieurs, kill underfed cockroaches? And all of that just to save a few francs here and there and think furtively about my lingua franca. How is the universal language made? With cheap margarine, my dear, with cheap margarine. 9/25 I don’t really know why am I writing this, dear diary. My life consists of burdensome, insignificant chores, misguided encounters with the wrong people at the right time or with the right people in the wrong place, a few friends, a few lovers, a few lessons, but for what purpose. Is there any meaning to all of this? Next time I’ll just record the weather. The sky in Paris is blue and gray. The air is thin. It is not too cold for the season. 10/2 I saw Boris standing alone by the newspaper kiosk looking lost. He was frowning to himself, breathing at his dusty glasses, rubbing his dear blind eyes. I felt very close to him at that moment, as if I were the only one who could understand his worries and disenchantments. I rushed to greet him, but then I stopped myself. No, if I really understand him, I shouldn’t catch him unawares like that in a moment of his dark solitude. 10/5 The following is the beginning of a letter. Whether it was mailed or not remains unknown. 18

Ninochka Dear Boris Vladimirovich, It’s late morning. I am sitting in my robe looking at the chimney in the yard, counting the raindrops. I see your face reflected in the window of someone else’s house, your eyes reflected in someone else’s eyes. 10/13 Today on my way to Madame Rousset I saw “the March of the War Heroes.” Blind and deaf, some without hands, others without legs, some walking very slowly holding hands, others riding in children’s carriages, they moved through the Champs Elysées towards the monument to the Unknown Soldier near the Arc de Triomp. The representatives of the organization la guelle cassée walked in front. Their faces, destroyed by the war, looked like monstrous tragic masks. The crowds watched silently. Two Russian beggars wept. Most people continued sipping their café crème and enjoying the sunny holiday morning on the terrace of Champs Elysées. “You have to learn to forget,” said Madame Rousset, ironing the blouses that I finished embroidering for her à la Russe. “The First World War was atrocious, awful, we lost our handsome young men. But if we don’t learn to forget, we will never be able to get along with our lives.” 11/5 Listened to the radio. Poland has surrendered. Hundreds cheered the occupying army. Thousands are dead. Poland is partitioned again—this time between Hitler and Stalin.

Notes for “Exile is a Double Life” To feel at home To feel at home—to be comfortably unaware of things, not to worry about the names of things, to know that things are in their places and so are you. To be home is a state of the mind that doesn’t depend on actual place. Hominess is a tactile sensation— you don’t need a confirmation of sound and sight, you just relax in the familiar feel and smell of things. 19

Svetlana Boym To be home To be home—byt’ doma’ (Russian), etre chez soi (French)—is a slightly ungrammatical expression in many languages. You just know how to say it in your native tongue. You don’t have to learn it. It’s a grammatical exception that only proves the rule, a trace of one’s remote mother tongue unassimilable in the modern languages. But are you yourself when you are home? “Not to have everyone home” “Not to have everyone home” in Russian (ne imet’ vsekh doma) means to not be clearminded, to be crazy, to not be quite one’s self. In Russian, domesticity is not equated with privacy (what a difference with the French “chez soi”!) Home is collective. “Everyone” has to be there in order for one to be “sane.” I wonder, though, if this kind of collective sanity borders on collective paranoia. I’d rather not have everyone home. I am a little sick of being home even when I am homesick. Border Since when did the border of the motherland becames a Great Wall and going abroad akin traveling to another world. I remember the Finnish border in the pine forest a few miles from St. Petersburg, pine cones that we gathered to make scarecrows. My friend once whispered that the Finnish pine cones were smaller than the Russian ones but that their nuts tasted better. 11/6 Today is overcast. The wind is blowing east. On the whole it’s not so bad. I have a sore throat, but my cough is light, nothing to be alarmed about. I describe the weather like a good English girl, and now I will describe what I ate like a good French girl. I ate bread with margarine and a piece of cheese, and I drank a cup of tea with lemon and sugar. For lunch I ate an omelette made with two scrambled eggs. You have to break eggs to make an omelette. I don’t understand this proverb. It makes no sense besides the statement of the obvious. I had one café crème. For supper I ate borsht with sour cream from the Russian deli, courtesy of Madame Chernoff, Natashka’s mother, and drank tea with lemon with a few good chocolates. Oh God, whom am I fooling? 20

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3

In which I try to examine Nina’s diary but speak with the strangers instead “What a funny dog. Must be a chow. What is it called?”

I am sitting in Café Bonaparte, putting Nina’s diaries, letters and notes in order, but I am interrupted. Something’s licking my ankles. It’s a dog, of course.

“It’s not mine,” I answer, “I wouldn’t know.” I notice an ironic dimple in his cheek and his light brown hair with just a touch of gray. He must be in his late thirties. Well, at some other time I might have smiled at him, but not today. I’m just not in the mood. In the Café Bonaparte everyone seems poised to conquer the world. Each man and woman here is doing more than one thing. The waiter carries four espressos in two hands with ten different facial expressions, the young man next to me speaks on the cell phone and writes on his computer while sipping his latte, a beautiful woman with unsmiling gray eyes reads Liberation, while smoking and powdering her already pale cheeks. Only I am barely succeeding in my one and only task. Clearly, I am not one of the Bonapartists. Even the waiter ignores me, showing me that he has nothing but contempt for clientele that drink little, eat nothing and doodle on the napkins.

Bolsheviks

Eurasians

Moscow

Nina

Lovers

Budapest

Ninotchka

Filmstars

Paris 21

Hollywood

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“Listen, I hate when people interrupt me, especially strangers.” That’s the man on the left again, the dog lover. “I just think we have met before.” I don’t answer. My eyes are fixed on the unfinished diagram. “I know, it’s a banal thing to say.” I still keep silent but I notice one thing. He has a nondescript accent that could be Danish or Dutch. “Were you at that ‘Neo-Barbarians’ exhibit in the East Village last month? I think you were admiring a Scythian holographic sword there.” “Yes, wasn’t it strange?” I answer, surprising myself. I must have spoken loudly, the way Americans do, because the woman with the powdered face gives me a disapproving look. She is about to leave. My American self is unstoppable “Where are you from?” I ask him. He, in turn, is taken aback. “Do you really want to know? I’m as American as you are.” We stop talking for awhile. On the empty table next to me the abandoned pages of Liberation blow in the wind like a stray seagull. The man with the laptop computer begins to speak loudly and at an accelerated speed. It is unclear to whom he is speaking, his computer, his cell phone or himself. He is running out of power. His cellular phone is beeping. He still has but a moment to save his document before it goes into electronic oblivion, or does he? The battery sign is blinking hauntingly, the screen is getting dimmer and dimmer. Quick, quick, plug it in.

“So where were you from?” I ask again with irritating persistence. “New York,” he chuckles, “and you?” “New York.” “So we are compatriots.” “You might say so.” “In more ways than one.” The waiter is glad that I am no longer doodling on my napkin pretending to be sipping the same old cup of café crème. “You must try one of our plats de jour, mademoiselle. You’ve been sitting here for hours—you must be hungry.” “I have a feeling I’ve met you before. Budapest, perhaps?” 22

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“No, I’ve never been there. I flew over Budapest once, but that’s as far as I got.” “No? Aren’t you a friend of Andras and Akos?” “No, no. I knew you were confusing me with someone else.” “I thought you might be Hungarian.” “No, I’m originally from Leningrad.” He caught me off guard. I had no time to come up with anything better. “Oh really,” he says. He proceeds in very broken Russian, “Tovarish uchitel’nitsa, ia segodnia dezhurnyj. Pogoda segodnia xoroshaia. Svetit solntse.” (“Comrade Teacher, I am on duty today. The weather is good. The sun is shining.”) Now I believe that he’s Hungarian; only friends from the former Eastern Bloc would recite this gibberish as pick-up lines. “You get a B+ for a bad accent.” “Well, you’re being tough on me, Comrade teacher. Tell me why is it that the weather was always sunny those days, at least in the Russian classes? It was never even partly cloudy. You know, after a while I couldn’t admit that the weather could actually be good and the sun could be shining and it wasn’t all propaganda.” “It’s an East-European trait. We distrust straight talk. ‘The weather is good.’ Fine, but what is it that you’re really trying to say? Is this a password or something? Today, for example, the sun was really shining, wasn’t it?” “Yes, it was a kind of Russian weather.” “You see, here you go.” “I just can’t help it.” “So what are you doing in Paris?” “I work for the International Bank.” “Seriously?” “Why not? It’s a summer job. I used to be an unsuccessful filmmaker . . . one of those people who still wanted to make long black and white movies in which nothing happens, and people just walk, talk and watch their lives go by . . . with lots of wind, clouds, shadows, puddles.” “No car chases, no dinosaurs, no indecent proposals?” “Well, maybe some indecent proposals, but very slow-moving ones.” He smiles. “And does the International Bank subsidize all this?” “No, I’m afraid not.” 23

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Somehow we are already friends. We leave the café and begin walking, or rather, he is following me as if he had nothing better to do on that that warm and breezy summer night. “Are you ever asked, ‘Do you miss home?’ ” “Yes, here and in New York, all the time. Don’t you hate that question? What’s worse, it’s usually asked by very nice people, my American friends.” “What do you answer?” “I say, ‘yes, but it’s not what you think’ and then get all involved in some inarticulate explanation. What do you say?” I say: “No, but it’s not what you think.” “Maybe it’s the same thing.” We find ourselves at the street crossing as the light unexpectedly changes to red and a mint green Renault appears from nowhere. He grabs me by the elbow.”Hey, be careful!” The car slams on the brakes at the last moment. The driver makes an obscene hand gesture, yells and speeds away. We continue more or less safely on the sidewalk.

“And what do you do here, in Paris?” “I’m trying to find out who committed a murder fifty years ago.” “Was it a relative of yours or something?” “No, not at all.” “You’re a detective, then?” he asks. “I’m a graduate student in history, somehow caught up in a detective plot.” “You must have read a lot of Sherlock Holmes in the Soviet Union.” “Yes, he was my favorite after the Three Musketeers and The Last of the Mohicans.” “So you smoke opium, play violin and know everything about the stranger by the sight of his umbrella? We’ve all been brought up on the scientific method, right?” “Oh no. I am a historian, so I rely on documents and on human error. I’m a kind of accidental detective. I believe in stumbling onto things by chance. And then I try to reimagine things the way they were or could have been. That’s the best I can do. “But surely you do something to increase the chance of a chance encounter?” 24

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“Of course. I go to the scene of the crime, talk to witnesses, but I don’t pretend to know more than they do. I allow myself to be led by my witnesses, to take digressions and detours. I trust that I’ll get lucky if I don’t push my luck. Things and people will eventually reveal themselves.” “I get it. No scientific method, just fatalism and feminine intuition?” “See, you’ve already revealed your prejudices, so it works. Yes, I have a method—the theory of objective chance.” “All right. I’ll play Doctor Watson. Doctor Miklos Watson, Hungarian-American.” “Nice to meet you.” “Glad to stumble on the scene of the crime.” “There might have been a few Hungarians there before you.” “Good. I hope it’s a crime of passion.” “I don’t know. There was a broken gramophone record found on the scene—Russian love songs for piano and guitar.” “You see! You see! And how do people break records? In a lovers’ quarrel. They argue passionately, scream, throw their most precious belongings at each other, make heart-breaking statements that they regret later and then they make up. That’s the sweetest part. Too bad, the record is broken. You can always get another one! Am I right? You see how helpful I can be?” “I don’t think so. That stuff about making up was very perceptive. But my story isn’t a romance. It’s an immigrant thing, you know. Somebody went back home betraying the others. Most likely it was a part of an international conspiracy, the Eurasian-Bolshevik plot. You know in the 1930s Soviet agents were recruiting immigrants in Paris, persuading them to come back. I don’t know which side Nina was on, but something tells me, she didn’t play it safe.” “Sounds like a bad Russian joke.” “No, it’s a historical fact.” “I have to say, I am afraid of conspiracy theories, even the historical ones. They seduce you into believing that everything relates to everything else. Maybe that’s exactly what happened to that murdered woman. Of course, I’m just speculating. I don’t know anything about your story. We’ve only just met, right?” We abruptly turn around the corner and change the topic. Now we talk about how nice it is to be in Paris because it reminds us of Leningrad and Budapest. Yet, it’s foreign enough. It has just 25

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the right combination of familiarity and foreignness without burdensome intimacy. Only in Paris could you have Stalingrad Square and the Bridge of Alexander III together! And then there is the movie theater “Kosmos,” yes, with a “K.” We could go there sometime. Not now, some other time.” says Miklos in passing. We reach the Seine and pause for a moment in the middle of the Pont Neuf. We look down into the darkness of reflective ripples where the city of Paris disintegrates in front of our eyes. We seem to share the same fear of remembering too much. We try to laugh it off, to stop reminiscing. We both know how to joke ourselves through difficult situations. We don’t stay out late. There is something gentle and tentative about this encounter, we know that we are under no obligation, no obligation at all, to continue talking. Our next meeting, should it take place, would be all about our differences. This colorful soap bubble of immigrant intimacy could evaporate as quickly as it appeared. Miklos suddenly seems ill at ease, as if in a hurry. I search my pockets for unused Metro tickets, plain yellow without the black mark. “Here you go,” says Miklos. “I think we take the same Metro line but in opposite directions. So long. I hope to see you again.” Nina’s Diaries continue Sleepless night, bleak November Happy and ashamed of myself. I will say nothing absolutely nothing. I will keep a secret like a fleeing defector from the great army of Attila the Hun. 11/12 Oh, cockroaches, my only kind listeners! I am so tired. Have more translations to do to pay for the room, Boris K. didn’t look in my direction, didn’t nod, didn’t call. I must have offended him. I know I did. What can I do? 11/15 Yesterday Boris was fiery: “It’s time to go home, now. Yesterday was too early; tomorrow will be too late. Eurasia is not a geographic entity. Eurasia is not a linguistic unity. Eurasia is the lost Atlantis. We Eurasians are different from those diasporic peoples 26

Ninochka that forever cohabit with others, strangers in any land they live. We must taste the sweetness of return.” Sometimes he scares me. His eyes acquire a glassy expression as if he’s looking beyond me. Nothing is reflected in them. But then a shadow passes, he winces a little, as if scared of the darkness or too much sun light. There is something very disarming in his defensiveness.

Two unfinished drafts: Letters to Boris Krestovsky Dear Boris, I remember your words, your whisper, your truth . . . 11/20 Russian immigrants have gone wholeheartedly into the movie business. Cinema is our second homeland. Yurik Poltavky is rumored to be writing for Hollywood (a rumor that he denies) He keeps inviting me to the movies, the poor soul, and when I refuse, he sends me unfinished poems. Andras Kovac, the strange man who has an incomprehensible spell over everyone, is busy writing manifestos of kino people: “We are kinopeople, made of light and shadow, projected on the screen of the world. Shadows of the present, we are memory-free.” Boris, on the other hand, is categorically against. Against what? Just categorically against the “comfort of illusions.”

Letter from Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky Dear Comrade movie star, You are so busy working that you never see me anymore. Your little cousin has been drinking with strangers. Why won’t you relent and go see a movie with me one day? Here are some poems. The Horror Movie It was a silent movie but your palms asked many questions and had no qualms your fingers were so garrulous that night that we have missed the monster’s soundless bite Dying to see you! Yours, Y-P-R 27

Svetlana Boym 12/8 Dear Boris, I am sorry about yesterday. I am writing to you in the morning, an insomniac’s morning. I feel not entirely awake from the sleep that I never had. I feel alone yet also overcrowded. The girl who comes to play the scales on the piano has stopped for a moment and now whistles some prohibited contemporary tune. Madame concierge must have stepped out of the room. There is an interminable noise coming from upstairs. It has been almost three weeks that this has been going on now. I don’t know who is moving where and why, but I have a feeling that the whole house is moving. You should come and listen to the immigrant speech, their pidgin French, their guttural native tongues, their interjections and sighs as they carry down yet another sack of someone personal belongings. If I only knew that I would see you today, it would give me a reason to live, even if it is a murky day, even if you are irritated with me and with your liver disease, even if we bicker as usual about all my missed prepositions. The noises of the house, the smells from the street are part of me. Little Natashka Chernoff runs across the yard wearing a red neckerchief. She thinks that makes her look revolutionary.

4

In which we observe émigrés on the beach and learn everything we need to know about potential murder suspects Looking for Madame Chernoff’s apartment in the Marais, I turn left and then left again on the narrow street where designer boutiques give way to little stores selling vintage clothes and used menorahs. In the window of the Goldberg Deli I catch a glimpse of nestling matreshka dolls wearing furry Hassidic hats. Is that possible? But I am in a hurry and have no time to look back. Madame Chernoff identified Nina’s body fifty years ago. She might be my best witness. I dial the code at Madame Chernoff’s entrance door, just as she instructed me, and walk up the steep staircase. “The door is open,” she shouts as I enter a lobby crammed 28

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with objects, books, memorabilia and celebrity photos. They follow me with their tired, world-weary eyes: smoking Sartre and de Beauvoir, unsmiling Fyodor Dostoyevsky, aging balerinas, three very young men in the World War Two uniforms, Audrey Hepburn on the verge of tears.

“It’s the Russian girl from New York I told you about. Old Leo showed her the diary. No, not that one. No, she is not looking for a job. No, no! No again! Oh come on, Nikki, you’re truly impossible. Yes, I told her the door code, so? Darling, I will speak with you later, all right? You’re making me ignore my guest.”

Natalie Chernoff greets me profusely in Russian. She is a little woman in her sixties, with painted dark eyebrows and a 1920s short haircut. She speaks in that old-fashioned language that I recognize from highly affected performances of Chekhov in provincial theaters. Madame Chernoff is most eager to meet me and share some “amazing” (or did she say “amusing?”) information. Her Russian is full of French words. “I am awfully glad that we got to have this rendezvous. Let’s sit down for some tea, or would it be tisane? Thank you for the sweets, you really didn’t have to. Well, well, let us indulge ourselves. It’s never too late.” “It’s nice to see a young generation of Russians from the ‘third wave.’ You hear all these bad things about the ‘third wave,’ that they never cared about Russia. They speak that awful Soviet language with lots of Americanisms. What nonsense! Please take another eclair, you look so skinny. Are you on a diet, my dear? Surely you don’t want to look like those emaciated creatures in the American ads?” “Thank you,” I say and pick up creamy eclair with my fingers. I do it in clumsy haste. I want to make sure that Natalie doesn’t think I am one of those untrustworthy dieting foreigners. Yes, I’m somewhat Americanized, but not that much. “You know our parents called themselves the ‘first wave,’ and surely they suffered a lot in exile. But we, the younger generation, born abroad, we thought that they whined a little too much about how truly Russian they were and how nobody cared about them in this indifferent land and on and on and on. My parents were 29

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Socialist Revolutionaries, they were very insulted when the French called us all ‘White Russians.’ You see, the Russian émigré community was quite divided, there were Eurasians on the one extreme and communists on the other, and then it got all mixed up. As for me, I grew up reading the Communist Party Manifesto instead of the Bible. Oh, I just couldn’t get enough of the first line: ‘A specter is haunting Europe, the specter of Communism.’ Isn’t it beautiful? We were brought up not to be afraid of ghosts.” Natalie smokes slowly and with great pleasure. “I don’t have many vices. I think this is the last vice I still cling to these days.” She exhales and looks at me fixedly. “Listen, did you ever think of going home, I mean going back to Russia, just for a visit?” “Yes, but not yet.” “Oh dear, don’t I know those ‘yes, buts.’ Now, how would you translate them into a foreign language? You can’t, you simply can’t.” “It took me so long to forget, and now I am just starting to settle down. It’s not yet time for me to go back. Besides, only a few years ago I would have to travel with the tour group ‘Sputnik,’ or even worse ‘Intourist.’ ” “Oh, aren’t they awful, those tour groups! They don’t let you out of the bus and they pour on you a mountain of statistics—how many Russian people were starving in 1913 and how well-fed they are all now—stuff like that. And when you try looking outside the window, when they tell you to turn left, and you want to turn right, they scold you! They tell you that Leningrad is the most beautiful city in the world. Kha-kha . . . That’s what a friend told me. She went on a package tour with French retired nurses. Oh dear, I’m not that old yet. Well, well. I won’t bother you with my chitchat. I know you didn’t come here to hear me talk about myself. You didn’t come to talk about yourself either, right? You want to know about Nina. Funny, nobody asked about her in all these years, except for that old romantic Leo, God bless his soul. He met her once in the 1930s and was briefly smitten, but then again he was frequently smitten with people. That was his way of being. Yes, I had to sell him the diary, for pennies, really, just to pay my debts. Cruel, but that’s how it was. “It all happened in 1939, and that was quite a year! The end of my youth, of our little pre-war world. When the war was over, most of my friends were gone—to another country, to another world. 30

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Please don’t get me wrong. I loved Ninusha—that’s what my mama used to call her. She was like my older sister. I cried so much when she died. And then my mother died a year later, and my father perished in the war. Am I going to go looking for that nameless German soldier whose bullet killed him? Do I want to know? And say, let bygones be bygones. It was a terrible, awful crime, but now what? What do you expect to find now? An eighty-year-old murderer with trembling hands and a failing heart? You want to hear his family in court repeat over and over again: ‘No, he couldn’t have done it, he was a family man, a kind grandfather. He loved cats.’ Eh?” Natalie pauses here and looks at me with bemusement. “I must say, I am not really a cat lover.” “Me neither,” I interject cautiously.”I have sort of an allergy to cats. Dogs, that’s different.” “Well, my dear, we seem to understand each other with halfwords, as the Russian proverb has it. You know, you remind me of someone. Has anyone ever told you that?” “My mom always tells me that I remind her of her motherin-law. That’s when she gets angry at me.” “Your grandma? She’s still alive? Isn’t that great! But I bet she’s never been to Paris, has she? “Actually, she has. With a tour group. She told us that Paris was vastly overrated and dirty. But I think she liked the Mona Lisa very much.” “Did she? Kha, kha, kha . . . You’re a funny girl. Just like your grandma. It must run in the family. But let me show you something now before we get completely distracted. I promise I won’t disappoint you.” Natalie vanished into the depths of her apartment and then emerged again carrying an old black and white photograph that had turned bleached yellow. It looked like a generic beach photo of the period that one skipped many times in other people’s family albums. The only thing you remember are the bathing suit fashions and a few hats. Émigrés standing on the wet sand looked like any other vacationers enjoying the last days of the summer on a crowded beach. Drenched in the sunshine, their faces washed out by light and time. “This is Nina, the one in the striped bathing suit.” Natalie’s finger points at a blurred face on the old picture. I notice her large 31

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forehead, short haircut, deep-set eyes with dark pupils. No, I am making it up. I can’t really see her eyes, I can’t meet her gaze. And I don’t know why, but I find it very disturbing. I take the photograph in my hands, hoping at least to arrest the moment, to linger a bit in that seaside repose right before the frightening cut. I look at it very attentively as if trying to blow it up with the pupils of my eyes, to X-ray it, to move beyond its unrevealing superficiality. The woman in the striped bathing suit looks different here from the person in the photo in the commissariat, except for the haircut. Her face was rather indistinct. Not too short and not too tall, she seemed just like any other émigré squinting in the sea breeze. I wouldn’t have recognized her if I met her. “You know, Nina was so full of life! She took any job she could find to support herself. She embroidered Russian blouses for rich French ladies, then took classes in Eurasian linguistics and psychology, wrote, went to émigré soirées and then escaped from them. She would grab something to eat while on the go. It seems that she never sat down to eat. My mother used to feed her mashed potatoes and chicken cutlets or sometimes just mashed potatoes with fried onions on top. Nina was often hungry. She was in a rush, always making plans to be in two places at once, and then canceling all the plans and staying alone in her room, doing God knows what. I overheard my father telling my mother that Nina was becoming very un-Russian, doing too much, being too efficient. I don’t really know about that. It seemed that Nina was afraid to be late. She was afraid to miss her chance. She was anxious to live as many lives as she could, that’s what I think. I had a crazy thought when I heard about her death. I thought that maybe she just passed to another life, went back to Russia, took a boat to America, anything, just to start things anew. “It said in the report that you identified the body . . .” “Oh yes. I saw her body. There was blood on her robe, on the blanket, on the morning paper. Her face had a strange expression— of awe and surprise. It’s as if she herself didn’t believe what was happening to her. Only when we put her body to rest, I knew it was true. We all cried the evening of her funeral, drank and cried.” Natalie extinguished her cigarette and for a minute sat in silence. 32

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“Do you think it might have been an accident?” I asked. “Not a chance. In those days accidents were not so accidental. It was a perfect murder. Calculated, in cold blood. There was no sign of forced entry. The murderer must have had a key. And I don’t know how, but he certainly knew our schedules. You see, I usually had my meeting of the Central Committee of Trotskyite Cell No. 18 at 10 a.m. I would never be late for that.” “Excuse me,” I interrupt.”How many Trotskyite cells were there in Paris at the time?” “Eleven cells altogether, and each had its own Central Committee.” “So how come yours was ‘Cell No. 18’?” “Oii-oi-oi, dear. You’re trying to catch me, aren’t you? Do you think I don’t remember the number of my cell? We were good conspirators, that’s all. The numbers didn’t really mean much. Next time, please don’t try to show off. I am telling you something important, I am afraid I’ll get distracted and forget.” “Sorry.” “So I went to the meeting of TC 18. At that time our concierge, Madame Gauthier, gave piano lessons to little Constance. She would go on and on with her bombastic Q, sending poor Madame Gauthier into complete despair. Once she played Tchaikovsky’s ‘Dance of the Little Swans’ so badly that Madame Gauthier burst into tears. In short, this was the time when our dear concierge was at her most vulnerable. Also people went up and down a lot during the morning hours. There was construction work going on the fifth floor. There were mostly immigrant workers, Andalusians, Moroccans, Romanians. Russians, carrying boxes with old books covered with dust up and down, broken furniture, chests of drawers filled with domestic trash—snuffboxes, letters, pipes, debt papers. Many of them didn’t know French, so police didn’t bother interrogating them. Initially they suspected one Romanian Gypsy boy who had blood on his fingers, but three people confirmed that he cut it when he broke a Chinese teapot. It was in the police records. Besides, who would kill Nina for money? She didn’t have any.

“I bet you’d like to know about Nina’s men. First, take another sweet, and then I’ll tell you about Nina’s men. Go ahead, 33

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feel at home. They were called kartoshka in our days, sweet potatoes. Well. I don’t think they grew those potatoes in the Soviet Union. Yes, help yourself . . . good girl! “Look at this photo. Here they are, the two men in Nina’s life standing on both sides of her, as different as they could possibly be. To the right, Boris Vladimirovich Krestovsky, the leader of the Eurasian circle; to the left, our poor poet, Yurik PoltavskyRizhsky. She must have enjoyed having this picture taken, teasing poor Yuri, since he and Boris Vladimirovich Krestovsky didn’t exactly get along. “Did I mention the occasion of this photo? Well, it was Boris’s forty-fifth birthday. A huge party was organized by the Eurasian circle in Juan-les-Pins. You know, I’ve heard that they sell his complete works on the streets of Moscow, and they’re as popular as Coca Cola! Do you think they could come to power over there, I mean the Eurasians? ‘The Third Millennium will see a great rebirth, the rebirth of the Eurasian might’—I remember the dancing embers in Boris’s tired eyes. For his disciples he was a charismatic demigod. It must have been a special honor for Nina to stand right by him. Boris hated to be photographed. He believed each picture took something away from him—stole a piece of his soul. But he knew he had to leave a few images for eternity. Of course, he wasn’t going to take off his shirt or his hat for that matter. As far as I remember, he was always in a hat.” As I look at the picture, I notice something that escaped me at first. Boris is the only one fully dressed, all in white, standing in the midst of young people in their swimsuits. He looks deliberately posed, but strained and uncomfortable, the way people looked in the old daguerreotypes. Boris seems to cling to Nina but she turns her naked shoulder away from him. Or is it the other way around? She wishes him to put his arm around her, and he quietly refuses. “He was away from Paris at the time of her death, visiting an international congress of linguists for Russia,” Natalie continues.” That was before Stalin became interested in linguistics. For a while he was thinking of going back and waited for a Soviet visa. I was surprised that he did not show up for Nina’s funeral.” “Was there anything between them?”

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“Well, yes and no. It’s not what you think. He was a patriot first and foremost. He used to tell me, ‘Natashen’ka, you are losing your Russian. Just make sure you don’t lose it completely. It is your native language.’ And he patted my shoulder. ‘I could give you a lesson or two sometime.’ “Once he said with a strange smile, ‘You’re developing, my dear, into a real young woman. Don’t be shy. There is nothing wrong with becoming a woman. At that moment my mother entered the room. So just make sure you read Dostoyevsky in the original Russian. Dostoyevsky can be read only in Russian. He just cannot be translated into French, n’est-ce-pas, Madame Chernoff ?’ People say that Boris wasn’t really interested in women, only in students. Nina was his disciple of sorts.” “Was she a Eurasianist?” “Not really. She was never admitted to the inner circle. She studied Eurasian linguistics but then her work on exile, bilingualism and paranoia took over. You know when she wrote “In Praise of Exile,” many in the émigré community stopped shaking hands with her. ‘Exile is a double life; an exile is always a double agent’ or something like that. She lectured several times. People took notes. But her original has mysteriously vanished. Yet, I hear they still refer to her work on paranoia in footnotes. Once she told me, ‘Everyone’s looking for origins these days, but it’s not about the past, really, it’s about the present. It’s about the past perfect projected into the future perfect.’ What did I say? I must have rambled ardently about the progress of history and the imminent victory of communism. That’s how I was in those days. Nina didn’t argue with me, only smiled. At the time I thought it was a devastating, condescending smile. Maybe it was a sad smile, I don’t know. I argued more and more and more, even shouted at her. ‘Shh-shh,’ she said. ‘We’ll discuss it later, I promise. Just don’t say anything to Boris.’ ” “And did you?” “No, I don’t believe so. I knew how to keep secrets!” “I am sure you did.” “To tell you the truth, there was something about Nina I didn’t like. She doubted things. She asked too many ‘provocative questions’—that’s what they used to call them. You must understand. All

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we wanted in those prewar days was to believe ardently and to love passionately. We lived between two evils, fascism and Stalinism, surrounded by the disinherited and disempowered. We wanted to believe and love unconditionally. We were young; we needed a great all-consuming belief. Nina was different. She joked too much about things one shouldn’t joke about. They didn’t like her in the émigré community. She was, how should I put it, not unhappy enough. Our people don’t like that. You have to suffer; otherwise, you’re less than human. You’re ‘buried alive.’ All that nonsense our compatriots love to repeat. “ ‘One thing you shouldn’t become, Natashen’ka,’ Nina once told me, is la grande amoureuse. She liked that story about Catherine the Great who at the age of fifteen had a love affair with her Prussian uncle. He looked good in the uniform, but he had no money. A mildly retarded Russian csar seemed like a better match at the time. “ ‘Imagine,’ Nina would say, ‘had Catherine married for love, she would have been a happy Prussian hausfrau instead of an unhappy empress of Russia.” But I think there was a tragic love affair in Nina’s life, it just couldn’t have been otherwise.” “Nina tried to date foreign men, ‘to practice her languages,’ but she was in love with a Russian. I am sure of it. No, he wasn’t a poet. You should have seen the way she treated poor Yuri Poltavsky. “Here he is, on Nina’s right, a slender-looking youth in boxer shorts. Believe me, he was the first Russian émigré to develop muscles. He was neither a Russian nor an émigré. In fact, he was born in Paris. Then briefly during his adolescence he went to St. Petersburg where he attended the French lycée. He was an émigré, not by destiny, but by choice. He partied with Russians in Paris and identified with them. Strange, isn’t it? He could have been a distinguished French writer, a member of several avant-garde groups, but somehow he chose to be Russian. His Russian had a light foreign accent—very charming. His French was impeccable. “He and Nina? Well, they might have been childhood sweethearts or something like that. He had occasional fits of jealousy. Once I was going to my room and saw a crack in Nina’s door. I was a curious girl, just like you, my dear, only a little younger. So I went straight upstairs. Yuri was sitting on Nina’s bed, with a very sad expression in his eyes. He wasn’t crying. He seemed unable to cry. Nina came very close to him, caressed his hair—he had a great forelock—and kissed him in his forehead. He pushed her away. 36

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What do you think, my dear? I don’t think lovers kiss on the forehead, not like that.” “A kiss on the forehead is more of a good-bye kiss.” “Or a kiss of death. Although I must say I find it rather sensuel. Forgive the French expression. How do you say it in Russian? I can’t think of the word. Well, poor Yuri came to Nina’s funeral under the influence and left early without saying good bye. He died only two weeks later.” “Did his death have anything to do with Nina’s?” “Who knows? I don’t think there was much of a funeral for him. Nobody I know saw the body. They say he was cremated. It was written in the papers that he died playing Russian roulette in a bar. There was a rumor that a maniac-friend, a member of a suicide club, poisoned him. The friend, you see, did not wish to die alone. Others claim it was a suicide. His death is even more mysterious than Nina’s. He became a legend of emigration after his death. Everyone thought he might have been our countryman Arthur Rimbaud, and we all missed that fact. He’s been ‘rediscovered’ in Russia now. “They were childhood friends and distant cousins, the three of them, Nina, Yuri and Katia. And somehow they were out of luck, all three of them. See that girl sitting down in the first row, right under Nina. That’s Katia. She was rather ephemeral and frail in real life, but here she came out more vividly than the others. She was Nina’s confidante. I was a bit jealous of their intimacy. They would get together and whisper away all night, so that I could hear their occasional laughter in the corridor. Katia was a psychologist, getting her training at the psychoanalytic institute. Poor Katia, she perished during the war. She was shot when she tried to escape to Switzerland during the occupation. Unfortunately, we know that for sure. She, too, could have become a remarkable woman.

The phone rang and Natalie rushed to answer.

“Nikki, darling, yes I’m still occupied. No, no, it’s all right. I was talking about that party of Boris Krestovsky. Remember, you were all standing there on that beach in Juan-les-Pins. It was a 37

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lovely sunny day. Yes, you drank a lot then, but much less than now. Really, it’s just fine. She is very nice, she brought me wonderful chocolates. Yes, chocolates. Kartoshkas and eclairs. I’ll see you later, Nikki.

“Nikolas, calling again. He’s there in the picture in the third row. He’s a bit in the dark. He, too, studied with Boris Krestovsky. But he was one of those people who never finished his studies. He passed through all stages: he was an anarchist, a Communist Surrealist, a Eurasianist, a believer in the “Russian Idea,” a Socialist once again, a Russian patriot, a French patriot, an atheist, a Christian, a Zen Buddhist (very briefly) and a drunk. Otherwise, he’s really a darling. He used to make his living as a taxi driver in those days, and then he became a public servant, a clerk in a big office. And this man next to him is our detective writer, Vadim Sovin, known also for his immense stamp collection of flying vehicles. He particularly valued stamps with clouds and couldn’t stand a starry sky. Sovin escaped France during the first days of the war and wrote under a pseudonym which escapes me right now. A strange man, a misanthrope, but quite a dandy; it’s too bad his face looks so dim. “Let’s see. Here are the Eurasians, mostly in the second row, and the communists of all stripes in the first row. Eurasianists gravitated to Boris Krestovsky and the communists to Andras Kovac. Oh, I wish it were so simple, my dear. Just look at the photo and tell me who is the most handsome man here? Eh? Look again.” I try my best, ogling the men in the bathing suit. Yes, there is no doubt in my mind. I point to a man with a lot of dark hair. “He reminds me of someone, and he’s quite attractive. “I knew we had similar tastes! He was more than attractive, my dear. Andras Kovac was a dashing man. He had sparks in his eyes, at once smiling and sad. I have to confess, I was in love with him. He didn’t really know Nina well, so he doesn’t have much to do with anything. It’s just that I can’t help talking about him. I was thirteen when I read his manifesto, “We, the Kinopeople.” It was very avant-gardy and poetic. ‘We reject the kino-vodka of bourgeois illusionism’—great things like that. I must say he was more sober then most of my friends. He was not just your average Hungarian Trotskyite. There were plenty of those, believe me. 38

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Well, in fact, he was first an anarchist, then he joined the official Communist party. In the 1930s he thought that the most important thing was to oppose fascism. He wanted to live in the real world, to create change. So he changed his views of the Soviet Union. I guess he must have thought that Stalin was a lesser evil. I wouldn’t know. Well, in his spare time, he was a film producer. I think he knew that Hungarian-American director Lubitsch, the one who made Ninotchka. They might have met in their youth in Berlin or in Lemberg, somewhere there.” “Lemberg?” “They call it Lviv now. It’s on the Ukrainian border. Andras looks so young here, we were all so young. No, there was nothing between us. Only in my dreams. Generally, he preferred the company of men and serious people. I was surprised that he liked Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky. I wouldn’t think that his drunken lyricism would appeal to Andras. But somehow he had a real tenderness towards the poor guy. Well, next to Andras are his friends and followers, Nikki and Lionel.” “The man with whom Nina spent the last night of her life, the American?” “Well, well, don’t make too much of it. He’s right here. A bright sunny face. You can almost see his freckles if you look closely. He had that distinctive American sport shirt that we all admired. I didn’t know him that well. He, too, hung around with Andras, repeating what Andras said a week before, first complaining about Hollywood, then embracing the “people’s culture,” and so on, whatever the wind blows. I don’t know what Nina saw in Lionel. Maybe the fact that he was American. He must have been the total antipode of our embittered Russian men. His mind and soul were not twisted by all these catastrophes. Perhaps that’s why he hung around Russians like a hungry bee, feeding on their life stories. I don’t know if he ever wrote them down. “Whom did we forget? Or yes, our Mr. Kachalsky with his landmark mustache. He was a great admirer of Boris Krestovsky; he dedicated his songs to him. It was his record that was found in Nina’s room, broken. He was also a minor star in low-budget émigré films. He usually played a bitter lover. Once he was supposed to strike his enemy with an ax but he vomited on the set— he couldn’t do it. I think the film was called ‘The Devils and the 39

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Idiots.’ You must have heard some of Kachalsky’s songs. ‘I am a princess without a sou, and I elope with my little Ju Su, Malaysian Baron . . .’ Wait, how does it go . . . ‘I kissed your toes/ on a rocky beach . . .’ There are some good lines at the end: The stranger found you covered in blood. The stranger said, “She’s a princess—slut.” Oh, my poor baby. Ooo you covered in blood, my poor baby.

“What do you mean it’s not in the song? Do you think I’m making it up? You can check it on any record. His voice would get really deep on that last ‘poor ba—y-by.’ A sweet fellow, Andras used to say about Kachalsky, ‘Big on the Zionist conspiracy.’ ” “Oh?” “Well, well, he calmed down with age. I read somewhere that he became extremely popular in the Soviet Union right after the war. The Soviet youth slow-danced to his tunes. They still play his songs in the Bistro Russe, the one on the corner of Rue Vieille du Temple. For some reason, it has been closed lately. I think he was supposed to appear in that film Ninotchka as an extra. At the end, they might have cut his scene out. Have you seen that film, my dear? You’ll laugh at me but I even thought that the film had something to do with the murder. Ninotchka—what a silly title! It should have been Ni' notch ka, the stress on the first syllable. Ni notch' ka sounds very American. Only Americans could have come up with a story of such utter improbability. The Soviet special envoy meets a French count and they live happily ever after. And what about those chummy Bolsheviks? All they do is have fun, flirt with cigarette girls and cook borscht! What nonsense!” “I saw it on TV some time ago,” I say conciliatorily. “A colorized version! They said that the American public is not interested in the black and white oldies. It looks so drab. You have to add some color to it.” “Colorized Bolsheviks! Imagine that!” Natalie giggles wholeheartedly. “Commissars in mint green and soft pink pastels . . . ha ha ha . . . horrible. Well, I can’t say I feel sorry for Greta Garbo.” 40

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“I didn’t think it was a bad movie. It had some funny lines, and then that joke that about three Scotsmen getting together and asking for coffee without milk . . . it has a good sense of timing.” “Exactly. A bit too good to be true, don’t you think? Too many things are left unsaid. How was it possible that the commissar of the NKVD [the old, more impressive name for the KGB] sent Comrade Ninotchka to the West a second time? Bela Lugosi, as the chief commissar, of course, was a gem. But why would he do it, after the lady comrade’s amorous misbehavior? And her French count is equally suspicious. I wonder whose agent Ninotchka was after all. See what I’m saying? It’s not accidental. She was sent the second time. . . . I’ve been around film people long enough. Film people are like bootleggers; they traffic in people’s lives. “Well, maybe it’s just me. I might have missed something. Oh dear, I’m not good with movie plots, you know. They’re just too fast for me, I can’t really follow. Nina, she was different. She loved the movies. But then again, whenever I asked her what happened at a certain point, she would tell me a story and describe how beautiful the scene was, how ominous the clangor of the train engine was, how anxious the departing passengers were. But then I would see the film, and it would have so little to do with what Nina had been telling me. I’d mention that to her and she would laugh. ‘Well, maybe sometimes you shouldn’t believe your eyes.’ “But you are making me talk so much! After all these years. I’m just an old chatterbox now, and you’re a bit too curious. I’m not sure what is it that you want to know. You’re up to something. I know you are. Does this call for a drink? You are a true Russian, aren’t you? We’ll have a shot of vodka. No, not kinovodka—real vodka. I prefer Absolut. It’s much purer than Stolichnaya. You’ll join me, right?” I know that I have no choice. It’s going to be Absolut for me, too. We drink it together in one gulp, as is the Russian custom. We exhale emphatically with the studied air of bitter satisfaction. I feel warm inside. “The hell with all this,” whispers Natalie. “You know what I really think? Lionel had nothing do with it. That night that they spent together, well, how should I put it? I didn’t really hear much happening upstairs. Some walking around the room, the 41

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cracking of the tea kettle, but that’s about it. They were rather quiet. Of course, I wasn’t really listening. I myself hoped to meet André the next day, but he never showed up for our rendezvous. I didn’t eavesdrop intentionally. It was more that you couldn’t help overhearing things. So there. “If you’re thinking a crime of passion, dear, think again. It was all a cover-up, you see, all a cover-up. The year 1939 was not one for crimes of passion. And with us Russians, a love story is usually just a pretext for something else, something of metaphysical proportions and world historical significance. Ha-ha. Nina joked with me but she was always dead serious. She had real stakes in the game, unlike all of us. She had ties to all of them, Eurasianists and Marxists of all kinds, pro-Soviet and anti-Soviet. She might have been some kind of go-between, a part of a conspiratorial plot, only I am not completely certain whose side she was on. Take my word for it, stay away from the Eurasians! They did it . . . sssh . . . don’t say I said that. They’re as dangerous now as they were then. They think that this is their last chance for world domination. Don’t fool with these people, dear girl. If you cross their paths they’ll stop at nothing. “Well, well, my dear. It’s seven-thirty already? Oh, my God! I am afraid I have to leave now. I have a rendezvous. Yes, it may be hard for you to believe, but I have a rendezvous. And don’t get me wrong. I like you. Really. You seem like a nice girl. And I’m not prejudiced. We’re all immigrants after all. Who cares—third wave, fourth wave, let others classify us. It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s not too stormy, don’t you agree?” Madame Chernoff began to walk back and forth between the kitchen and living room, trying on various satin blouses and exotic necklaces before she found what she wanted. I followed her around the apartment. Finally, she emerged from the bedroom, all made up with silver eyeshadow, rouge on her cheeks and with a heavy smell of J’osai perfume. She had a crocodile-skin bag in her hands. She looked elegant, like an aged actress. “I must go now. Au revoir. Think about the men in Nina’s life. Enjoy the Parisian nightlife,” she whispered.”The light in Paris is very special. I bet you will never find light like that in New York.”

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Who’s Who in Nina’s Life Boris Vladimirovich Krestovsky. Charismatic leader of the Eurasian circle, Nina’s mentor, possibly more. Yuri (Yurik) Poltavsky-Rizhsky. Nina’s distant cousin, poet known as “Russian Rimbaud,” occasional drinker. Political sympathies unclear. Died under mysterious circumstances or emigrated to the Soviet Union, or somewhere else. Seems enamoured with Nina, possibly jealous. Andras Kovac. (also goes by André or Andrei). Charismatic Communist of unclear persuasion, cultivates friendships and connections across the border, film lover, writes scripts and manifestoes. Relationship to Nina: none. Lionel Johnson. Aspiring American writer, expatriat, possibly richer than any of the other characters. Interested in script-writing and everything Russian. Clearly Andras’s disciple. Relationship to Nina: romance? Nikolas (Nikki) Kotoff. Andras’s disciple, of volatile political persuasion, from Trotskyism to Zen Buddhism. At the time, in Andras’s camp. Relationship to Nina: none. Valentin Kachalsky. Singer of romances, passionate Eurasianist, conspiracy afficionado, fan of Boris Krestovsky. Author of a song, “I am a Princess Without a Sous.” Relationship to Nina: none. Katia Korf. Nina’s best friend and confidante. Played a childhood game with Nina and Yuri called the “secret society of Fates.” Lived in Switzerland, studied psychoanalysis, died during the war. Skeptical of both Eurasianists and Communists. Vadim Sovin. Detective story writer, stamp collector, changed names. Relationship to Nina: none. Interested in neither Eurasianism nor Communism. Prefers flying vehicles.

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From my Reference Desk: Eurasian Movement Eurasianism is an intellectual and political movement launched by White Russian émigrés in Prague, Belgrade, Paris, Sofia and Berlin in the 1920s and revived in the post-Soviet Russia in the 1990s. It develops turn-of-the-century ideas of Russia’s unique identity based on its geographical situation on the threshold between Europe and Asia. Among the members of the Eurasian movement were historians Shakhmatov and Vernadsky, musicologist Suvchinsky, geographer and economist Savitsky, Efron, the husband of poet Marina Tsvetaeva, and prominent linguist Trubetskoy. Eurasian State

Displaying a keen interest in the Middle Ages, especially in the Byzantine Empire, the Eurasianists imagined a strong state not as a monarchy or democracy, but as an “ideocracy,” a quasi-religious state that restores “the rule of truth,” not the rule of law. Some Eurasianists came to think that the Stalinist Soviet Union in the late 1930s approached that ideal. As for the Western neighbors, they should be intimidated by the Eurasian mystery and authority. Eurasian identity

“Eurasia,” was not regarded as a merely a geographic entity, but “a spiritual self-sufficient continent” peacefully cohabited by Slavic, Mongol and Iranian peoples, living independently from RomanoGermanic and Anglo-Saxon peoples of the West. In this view, Eurasian unity was not forged through colonization but through natural bonds. Eurasianists believed that the “Mongol invasion,” “colonization of Siberia,” “conquest of Central Asian states and the Caucasus,” “unification with the Ukraine,” as well as “occupation of parts of Poland and Finland” are misleading Western definitions that distort the peaceful nature of Eurasian coexistence. All these people are Russia’s little brothers in the Eurasian family. Genghis Khan was a Eurasian hero in the early Middle Ages; in the modern era, Russians are destined to provide guidance to the peoples of Eurasia.

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Eurasianists believed in the existence of a synthetic “Eurasian personality” that is not “egocentric” and “individualistic” but “symphonic and choral.” They dismissed “private property” and a capitalist economy as alien Romano-Germanic ideas and practices. History of Eurasianism 1920s–1990s*

In the late 1920s a major schism developed within the Eurasian movement between those who embraced the Soviet Union and advocated for a political party and those for whom Euranism remained a scholarly and intellectual pursuit. The majority grew more pro-Soviet and even pro-Stalinist. They hoped that the Eurasian Party would gradually supersede the Bolsheviks in the Soviet Union just as the national and empirial ideals would come to replace the Marxists ones. Some Eurasianist sympathizers secretly traveled to the Soviet Union and were recruited by the KGB. This became known as the “Bolshevik-Eurasian rapprochement.” New archival evidence that became available after 1991 shows that many Eurasians, like Sergei Efron, who were recruited by the KGB and returned to the Soviet Union in the late 1930s were promptly arrested, sent to the camps or executed. Yet the movement didn’t stop there. While in the Stalinist camps Eurasianists proselytized among the prisoners and found many sympathizers. One of the most prominent Eurasianists who provided the link between the émigrés and the Soviet intelligentsia was the son of Anna Axmatova, Lev Gumilev. In the 1970s he developed the theory of “super-ethnos” (“native” Eurasians) rooted in the native landscape and soil vs. “ethnos-parasite,” (non-native Eurasians, “rootless cosmopolites,” Jews and others). These ideas found new value with the Eurasian revival of the 1990s. Gumilev’s books as well as all writings on Eurasianism became instant best sellers in the post-Soviet era. The Eurasian ideas stopped

*

Encyclopaedia Humanitatis, Third Revised Edition, Humanities Press: Cambridge, MA, 1996.

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being marginal and entered the mainstream. New, moderate Eurasianism is not opposed to economic reform and connections with the West, provided there is a strong Russian state that would gradually return its international position as a Eurasian superpower.

Nina’s diaries continue 9/12

Paranoia in the émigré community increases every day. After our compatriot, Gorgulov, killed the French president, an already fragile relationship between us and the French Police became explosive. But mostly the problems are amongst ourselves; we suspect each other in anything and everything. It is as if we are held back by our former borders. We create the closed world, of émigré fear within ourselves. Sometimes it seems rather cozy, that closed world. Everyone, except me, is a member of a group. People belong to one group officially and to another secretly. Everyone searches for meaning and ideals. I am the only one who is taking classes. Silly me, I approach things so pedantically. “It must be your Prussian uncle, Nina.” “Who is returning where? Who is going back to the ‘homeland’ and who remains ‘in the alien land’? Is M. D. working for the NKVD? Is Prince V. a newly born Eurasian or a member of the ‘Young Russians’ movement? I heard he is returning to Berlin to search for his Aryan blood. This, ladies and gentlemen, is indeed a sad turn of events. Where do we come from, and where are we going? Our youth turns to the Young Russians, and the Young Russians are nothing more than the old Black Hundreds. Fascism, if I may say so, is a Russian invention.” “Russian Fascism? Don’t use labels, sir.” The frowning man in the corner speaks harshly but without raising his voice. “There is little difference between a ‘fascist’ and a ‘patriot.’ ” Those are all intelligent people. What has happened to them? Boris told me that he carries a handgun to his lectures. “But Boris Vladimirovich, who would dare . . .” “You never know, Ninochka.” 46

Ninochka 11/16

At a gathering at Café de Lilas, Yurik Poltavsky’s poetry reading, the rumor is that he “sold out” and is now working for Hollywood. The other rumor is that he is working for the Soviet Film Studios. Yurik read his poem in his usual undramatic manner. Summer in Terioki In lovely lilting sun I lost my shattered shadow My heart—a loaded gun— went blank in summer meadow. The bullets in my brain The vermouth in my blood washed out in the flood of drizzling Baltic rain.

The audience broke into small groups. The critics (and all of our fellow émigrés consider themselves great connoisseurs of poetry) couldn’t agree on anything. Is this a poem about a return to Russia or about a non-return? Who’s shooting whom? Is it about a poet being killed upon his return to the Soviet Union, or about the poet commiting suicide away from his homeland? It’s about exile. Life in exile is deathlike. Is a poet a kind of a double agent? What do you mean, Your Highness? Why does the poem start with the sun and end with the rain? Does the poet foresee a disaster in the future? The rain washes out the pain—you see, it even rhymes. Baltic rain is the cure. As long as it’s drizzling just a bit, not pouring. “No,” protested the critic Raisky, “you don’t understand, poetry is about music above all other things. We shouldn’t betray that spirit of music. Ladies and gentlemen, our compatriots (or former compatriots) in the Soviet Union, the canned and conformist Soviet writers, have betrayed that—the spirit of music. We have preserved our spiritual home even though we lost our homeland.” A pause, a minute of reflective silence. Someone says, “Thank you, Georgi Franzevich. You make me understand why I will never 47

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go back.” Boris intervenes, “But isn’t it precisely our task to carry the spirit of music back home?” So much for lilting sunshine. Yurik didn’t take part in the discussion. He just sulked in the corner, showed off his revolver— the one in the poem—and drank his free vermouth. Dear sulking friend, will you ever forgive me? I hope you’ll never find out . . . 10/20

My mother came to visit me in Paris. It was a nice day, partly cloudy, and we went for a walk in Passy. We stopped by the candy vending machine hoping to get a bar of Meunier. My mother had never seen one of those machines before. We lost our money, and nothing came out of it. An old Frenchman smirked at us. “It hasn’t been working since the Revolution.” My mother thought that this says everything about life in exile. I thought it just says something about broken chocolate vending machines. We chatted about this and that but it seemed that we really had nothing to say to each other. She told me about Belgrade, and she wants me to leave Paris, but for such a silly reason. “My dear, it makes such a difference to live in a Slavic country; it makes such a difference.” But, Mama, I love Paris. I love Paris, in spite of everything. I argued with Boris about it. He was kind this time, even softspoken. He says that he really wishes me well, he wants to help me. “You’re just childishly cosmopolitan, Ninusha, childishly cosmopolitan. You shouldn’t call France your adopted country. It’s like having an affair with a foreigner. It’s exciting at the beginning, but it usually ends badly. . . .” Undated

A sudden fear. I ran all the way through the courtyard. The concierge wasn’t there. I swear I saw a shadow, or maybe it’s the heat. Too much coffee and too much heat are affecting my mind. I knock at the door of little Natalie. She doesn’t open. She might be at the meeting of her Trotskyite cell or in her own little world. Maybe that’s for the better. My palms feel sweaty, my heart begins to beat fast and I cannot quite catch my breath. I don’t look back at that elongated shadow, I just run ahead. 48

Ninochka 10/21

Is my fear justified? What am I afraid of? Of Germans, Bolsheviks, Eurasians? Of a conspiracy of all of the above? Of a walled émigré existence? Of myself? Of Boris? Of X? Of Andras and his Kinopeople? Of Parisian street crime? “Street violence has grown enormously in the recent years. The number of incidents has doubled,” I read in today’s paper. I no longer know whether I’m projecting my distorted psyche on the outside world or the other way around. I don’t know what it is, but it’s completely irrational. Maybe it’s in our blood, a chronic virus of the exiles, the symptoms of paranoia. 10/25

Early frost. You can see your own breath. It lingers and dissipates. You can breathe on the glass and write obscene words. The air is raw and cold. In this kind of weather people are afraid of colds or even a contagious influenza. I feel the Revolution had happened on an ordinary day like that. My mother was probably more worried about the influenza. She made sure I wore a warm scarf and didn’t get a sore throat. How can I blame her for the fact that I didn’t quite make it for the major historical events? I was born too early or too late. Or I missed them lying in bed with a runny nose or playing at the dacha. No, no, I don’t regret anything. If I ever become a witness to history, I’ll be an involuntary one, a bystander, but not an innocent bystander. 8/24

I went for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne with Galina. We walked around on that lovely lawn surrounded by happy Parisians taking their lunch outdoors—dejeuner sur l’herbe, but, of course, everyone here was dressed. They all carried their baguettes and their chilled paté de la campagne in a very dutiful manner. Even while picknicking on the grass they preserved perfect table manners. So Galina and I were walking on the edge of that manicured lawn, without baguettes and without paté, and I felt the coarseness of the grass against my ankle, and I suddenly saw a drop of blood. “It’s osoka,” said Galina. “You shouldn’t walk on osoka. Stay on the lawn or else you’re going to bleed.” 49

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Osoka—I haven’t heard that Russian word for years. O-so-ka, a furtive grasshopper evading my butterfly net, a twinge of recognition, the hazy sunshine of my childhood, my tears. Osoka, the tall Russian grass with a dangerous edge. In French, which I speak now almost like a native (I am a linguist after all), I don’t know the word for osoka. In foreign languages we don’t know names for plants and birds, slang words, terms of endearment. We lack that local familiarity with things. But that makes us speak much more precisely, doesn’t it? It’s just grass after all, common grass. “Oh,” said Galina, “. . . toska po rodine—longing for the homeland . . .” But she was wrong. She jumped to the conclusion too easily. I was only remembering the osoka of my childhood, the tall grass that grew in that breezy resort town on the Baltic Sea where days are very long and usually overcast. Osoka was a local grass, it has neither beauty, nor medical value (occasionally it could hurt but never cure the injuries); it is not featured on any emblem, badge, flag or any national ornament. It is not a national grass the way the birch is a national tree. It does not grow in the natural setting of the nationalist imagination. Here, in Bois de Boulogne, the grass is exactly the same. The only thing missing is the sea breeze.

5

In which we revisit Nina’s childhood and play hide-and-seek in the Summer Gardens “Shhh . . . shh . . . the girl is sleeping. Shh . . . She is such a nervous sleeper, scared of intruders . . . strangers. . . .” “The Revolution is coming, Madame, and you are afraid to wake up a child,” screamed the radical student Petr Odintsov. “Help yourself to a cabbage pie, Petia, you must be starving. Shh . . .” This conversation must have taken place in Nina’s parents’ house when she was about a year old, in 1905. She didn’t remem50

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ber it. It didn’t wake her up. She was learning to walk during the Bloody Sunday of January 1905. A few years later, her mother remembered how much Nina cried after hurting her knee by falling on newly dried Petersburgian asphalt. She pulled her blankets over her head and tried to hide there, in the warm and dark place. She curled up in bed and put a sheet around her bruised knee, rocked it like a doll, so it wouldn’t hurt. The truth is I know very little about Nina’s childhood. She is very reticent about it. There must have been there a taste of menthol pills that Nina’s mother gave her during her frequent colds, the scent of Baltic wind, the touch of osoka grass, the memory of the first humiliation and a random book illustration representing American Indians in their handsome attire that inspired Nina’s fantasies. It was neither a blissfully happy childhood nor an unhappy one. It would have been perfectly forgettable had it not been forever linked to the lost homeland. There is so little there to hold onto except for a few gestures, period details, family anecdotes in which wars, revolutions, children’s games, worries about money, and illicit romantic escapades are intertwined. She does not dwell on her first beloved toy (probably a white teddy bear in a sailor’s suit) nor on her love for cherry jam with pits prepared by her great aunt, nor on her peculiar olfactory relationship to books (she smelled them in her childhood and read only the ones that smelled good—The Adventures of Little Lord Fauntleroy and The Keys to Happiness, the children’s version). Nina does not tell us how much she secretly enjoyed her frequent laryngitis (occasionally, she even simulated it). The colds allowed her to skip school, drink a lot of herbal tea purchased especially in the new homeopathic apothecary on Nevsky, put hot salt into her socks, and read The Three Musketeers. Colds were responsible for her discovery of self-consciousness, a sickly self-consciousness complete with light fever, runny nose, sore throat. I can just see her, a slim eleven-year old girl with transparent gray eyes and a birthmark on her cheek, an ugly crimson scarf around her neck and a virtual absence of voice. On the photograph in the commissariat she looked a bit plumpish, pale with some smudged color on her smiling lips. It was a very faint smile, though, Nina was never one of those giggling carefree girls in cute white aprons, the pets of the aging governesses. She didn’t have that milk-and-honey 51

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complexion of a healthy country upbringing. She didn’t blush easily and kept to herself. During summer vacations she loved to hide in the high osoka grass with the sharp edge that would leave bloody cuts on your hands. Just like the page of a new book. Her Swiss governess, Mademoiselle de Rubempré . . . (I cannot remember if Nina had a Swiss governess? Maybe her parents could not afford it and instead asked some unmarried relative, Aunt Galina or Cousin Polina, for example, to watch the girl? I am not sure about it. Aunt Galina, a woman of excellent manners, would scream in her shrieky voice, “Don’t even think of lying in high grass, Nina, that’s not what girls should do.” Cousin Polina, also unmarried, but still a very juicy, swarthy petite woman in her forties, who was rumored to have had a raucous youth, would tell her in a deep hearty whisper: “Ninochka, my darling, beware of osoka . . . it leaves ugly wounds that never go away.” Needless to say, Aunt Galina and Cousin Polina could not stand one another! There was also a supple lilac bush by the garden fence where Nina learned everything about love. Nina’s older sister taught her that if the lilac flower has five petals instead of the common four you have to eat it immediately, so that it will make you happy in matters of the heart. Young Nina would devour dozens of flowers a day hoping that cousin Sasha, a pale youth with blond curls and full lips would pay attention to her. There were no vast country estates left in that seaside resort. Capitalist development was in full swing. The Belsky family just rented a dacha in the crowded, lower middle class resort town on the Gulf of Finland known for its shabby tavern, heavy drinking and excellent mushroom trails. Nina’s childhood had a city smell to it. Like everyone else, she watched the first automobiles cross the Nevsky, built sand castles in the playgrounds and sat on top of the stone lions that decorate the entrance to some imperial building in yellow and white. Somewhere in an attic in Belgrade there might be a photo of a young girl in a fur hat with a crimson scarf sitting on top of a stately lion in St. Petersburg. What was her favorite place to walk? The Summer Garden, of course. Here she played with her distant cousin Yurik PoltavskyRizhsky, a year or two her junior. Nina loved to play hide-and-seek around the park statues. Once Nina hid so well behind the statue 52

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of Youth, a very handsome marble young man with a lyre, a fig leaf and dreamy eyes gazing at the inevitable Petersburgian clouds, that nobody could find her. She just sat there behind the statue not knowing that the other kids were no longer looking for her. They gave up, finished the game and were ready to go home. They abandoned her in her victory. She played too well and therefore was forgotten. She felt sad and lonely down there in the yellow autumnal leaves behind the naked back of the Eternal Youth. After that Nina began to hate childish hide-and-seek, a game in which children would hide in order to be found; it was too easy. She tried to establish a secret society among her cousins. They buried pieces of foil and colored glass, the candy wraps of French bonbons and old badges in a distant corner of the park behind the swan pond. Children are rarely secretive in their games of secrets. Secrets exist to be shared—with the select few, of course. Secrets cement childhood friendships. Of course, Nina’s secret games near the swan pond would be of no interest to the historians and sociologists of the future. They would just conclude that Nina belonged to the nondescript ethnically mixed middle class. Only the accidental detective keeps up a dim hope that a round of hide-and-seek might shed some light on a murder mystery. Why did Nina’s parents leave Russia? Her father was close to the Cadets and briefly enlisted in the White Army. Her mother, who used to be utterly apolitical, became a romantic monarchist in 1917 and thought the Reds to be “simply vulgar.” I leave the task of psychobiography to future scholars. They might discover some false memories there, a silhouette of the father, hastily undressing behind the lacy curtain of the master bedroom (he was a charming, slightly balding and somewhat empty-headed bon vivant), the aquiline profile of his occasional mistress, Musya, a dark and spunky tailor’s daughter ten years his junior, who initiated Nina into various harmless erotic games. Mother’s tears brought Musya’s ultimate downfall. Mama, Anna Vladimirovna, shared with Nina her love for music, her tears and gossip. Frankly, the mother always dreamed of having a son whom she could dress in those adorable sailor suits. No, she would never visit that tailor again. She hoped to drive him out of business. Ultimately, the tailor’s daughter left for America, mother and father recon53

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ciled and lived happily ever after. They suffered from migraine and heartburn, but otherwise were relatively healthy and quite normal. By that I mean normally neurotic, mildly hysterical, social-drinking, loving parents. One thing they were really unprepared for was the exile. Like thousands of others, they never thought that their departure would be final, that there might be no way back. In 1919 they didn’t really tell the 14-year-old Nina that they were “leaving.” They promised her a “long trip.” “Oh, it’s so exciting! And how long will the long trip be?” “We don’t know. We don’t have our return tickets yet. It’s high season, tickets are hard to get.” At first she thought this would make a great summer adventure, much more exciting than playing checkers with cousin Polina at that stupid dacha. This would be her revenge on her emaciated cousin Sasha who now declared himself “as red as blood” and spent most of his time with a no less red, and frequently blushing, tall Latvian girl in beige pret-á-porter. That spring she was learning to shoot. So, for young Nina the border crossing might have been a part of a game. She emigrated before she knew the word “emigration.” It hit her later, when the irrevocability of exile became clear. Vacation turned into a fugue, a one-way trip. The border of the Soviet Union became a wall that separated worlds. It’s hard to imagine that in the summers she lived right there on the border, some five kilometers from Finland. She used to play in that pine forest with dark protruding roots. Much blood had been spilled there in that pine forest since then. The Soviet-Finnish border was no playground. In Paris Nina studied, wrote, embroidered blouses, gave lessons and got emotionally entangled with men. She should have known better, but she did. Two men in her life carried guns—Boris Krestovsky and Yurik Poltavsky-Rizhsky. For some reason, she writes about it, maybe she is sending us (me) a clue after all these years. Nina seemed skeptical of both Eurasianists and Marxists, but she also left the most important parts of her life out of the diary. We know that in the 1930s many Russian émigrés began to return to the Soviet Union. The dream of homecoming overcame them. Everyone wanted to return to the land of their happy childhood. It may not have been so happy, 54

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after all, but years and distance gave it a pastel aura of afternoon sunshine, with shadows in the family garden and the sea breeze, of course. Homecoming would bring meaning into their meaningless lives. The family should reunite again in their dacha in Terioki (the name is different now, but it doesn’t matter, it’s just a name), enjoy the pine forest, gather some fresh raspberries, the smiling father in a white hat over his balding head, the mama in her wool shawl—all listening to the funny stories of Uncle Nikita. “He gained some weight, poor fellow, Aunt Nadia should stop feeding him those creamy chocolate cakes from The Red October bakery! He’s a lovely soul, a darling and the director of the best Young Leninist pioneer camp sponsored by the State Sausage Factory. It’s right there in the forest. Isn’t it wonderful! We’ll hear the songs of the young!” Never mind that the home no longer existed, that the place and time had changed. The sweet resorts on the Gulf of Finland would be soon drenched in blood. Recently opened archives show that the Soviet government was actively recruiting among the émigrés, advertising Soviet achievements, granting visas, promising safe haven. Forget purges and famine. It’s just the capitalist propaganda of those fascist sympathizers. So a couple of writers didn’t measure up to the New Age of Grand Social Change. We all know that they died of natural causes anyway, so let’s not dwell on the sad memories. You have to put things into a larger historical perspective. There is no place like home, right? Did Nina share this dream, and did she do something to tamper with it? Is this dream worth killing for? Is it worth rushing up the stairs squeezing in your hands that little key of universal happiness? Or maybe it was the rage of a jealous lover? After all, there she was, a Russian woman in the casual embraces of an American? Chocolate stains on her robe, blood on the morning paper, a broken record. Why do I always think politics first? It’s a bad habit.

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6

In which the detective gets unexpected mail As I am reading other people’s letters, I fail to read my own. I don’t respond quickly. Other people’s lives are so engrossing and take so much time that my own life recedes to the background. From Ninel Markovna Blank, St. Petersburg, Russia Dear Tanechka, I went back to Zelenogorsk (believe it or not they are trying to rename it again and make it Terioki). But whatever they call it, it looks exactly like it did when we spent summers there, only the sea is more polluted than it used to be. Remember, I read you Twelve Feats of Hercules, and you ran around telling everyone that there was another fifteenth feat that was not in the book? You always imagined something! I am glad you are studying to be a historian. It is a noble task. Here in Russia everyone becomes a historian, but finding the documents doesn’t always mean understanding the past. Please tell me more about the kind of research you are doing in Paris. Maybe I can be of any help? Do you recall my postcard of the Eiffel Tower that impressed you so much? I recently came across it while I was cleaning out my room. Remembering how you loved it so much, I decided not to throw it out. You see, I am not young anymore. My health is not what it used to be, but I still believe that Antonov apples and cold showers help keep diseases away. As usual, I wish you good health, happiness and a great success in your work. Kisses, grandma.

I am touched by my grandmother’s card, touched by its different tone, more friendly and light than usual. Since my teenage years, I thought that my grandma was outmodedly Soviet. Born Hannah Blank, somewhere near Chernovitz or Lemberg, she came to Leningrad the year of Lenin’s death and became a Leningrad patriot. Like many Jewish women of her generation, she sovietized her first name and russified her last name. Hannah became Ninel (Lenin, backwards); Blank was translated as Bel’skaya. (She was, of course, no relative of the murdered Nina Belskaya. This is pure coincidence. The matter of the soft sign is crucial. The two last 56

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names don’t come from the same root.) After the camps she took back her maiden name, Blank. As for Ninel, friends and relatives called her Nina or Nelya, but never Hannah. My grandmother was a secondary school teacher of French and math, and I always thought that she taught everyone everything twenty-four hours a day. I never shared with her my childhood secrets when we lived together in Zelenogorsk. She travelled to Paris some time in her youth and declared the city of dreams “vastly overrated.” “Leningrad has much better architecture and the collection of the GDR Picture Gallery can easily compete with the Louvre,” she said it loudly in the middle of our communal apartment kitchen when I was in the ninth grade and at the height of my dreaming of Paris. I guess I always thought that my grandmother didn’t have a sense of humor. Unlike us, she travelled to Paris at least twice, once before the war and then again in the 1970s with a tour group. She particularly loved the tomb of the Communards at Père Lachaise cemetary. My grandmother was one of those idealistic young Communists formed in the late 1920s whose faith somehow survived despite her eight years in Stalin’s camps and sixty years of rather sad communal living experiences. She still believed that the principles of socialism were good and true, even though its practices never managed to live up to her expectations. As far as I could remember, my grandma was in a perpetual civil war with her communal apartment neighbors. Nobody in the family asked her about her heroic Komsomol youth, or life in the camps. We lived in a different era and thought about the future, not about the past. And she did not volunteer much information. She was always a bit too upright. She was on a strict healthy diet. Chocolates made her sick. “You don’t like sweets, you just like the candy wrappers,” she used to say. My grandmother prefered fruits and vegetables. She grated her Antonov apples in a special way and believed they cured all diseases. Apples and cold showers. She didn’t approve of my emigration but she gave me a hug when I was leaving. I was very touched by it. I looked into her big gray eyes. They were dry. At my farewell party she complained about injustices caused to her by the communal apartment neighbors. Someone stole her pink toilet paper, the whole pack of it, that she carried from Estonia. “You know how hard it was to get it in those days. Of course, it’s not the toilet paper itself that’s important. I don’t care one way or the 57

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other if it’s white or pink. We used the newspaper Pravda for these purposes all our lives, and we didn’t complain. But this time, it’s a matter of principle.” Now I picture my grandmother surrounded by souvenirs. This is very uncharacteristic of her; unlike me, she used to keep her room pristinely clean, throwing out everything “that has no use for the present.” I suddenly experience the urge to send her more useless objects, postcards of the Eiffel Tower, Parisian chotchkas, or maybe just share with her one of my secrets? Tell her about my search for Nina? I don’t think she will be sympathetic to Nina’s troubles. To my unflinchingly unsentimental grandma, Nina’s émigré misery would appear as hopeless whining and the result of the weak will. She would have no sympathy to my whining either. Besides letters from Russia, I get electronic mail from Paris. It is from my new Hungarian friend. In the next two days we fire messages to each other, and I begin to acquire an e-mail addiction that would seriously interrupt my work for years to come. From: [email protected] Hello, Tanya: I went to Café Bonaparte again and saw that chow howling under the table. But you were not there. Is it a sign of anything? Does it mean that I missed my chance or the other way around? Please help me out. Are you still lost in the world of our grandparents? Do you need any distractions? A cup of tea, or even a croque monsieur? Like the young pioneers that we both used to be, I am “always ready.” —Miklos

From: [email protected] Hello, Miklos: How did you find my e-mail address? Was it provided by the International Bank? I will probably go to the café around 4:30 tomorrow to read and try to figure out the stories of men in Nina’s life. I am struck by the fact that all of them had guns and Nina knew it. All the best, T.

From: [email protected] Tanya: I will come to Bonaparte at 5:00. Will you be there? Yours, M. 58

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From: [email protected] Miklos: Five o’clock is fine with me. See you then.

From: [email protected] Hello, Tanya: Unfortunately, I will be delayed at work tomorrow, so we’ll have to postpone it till another time. Yours, Miklos

7

In which we finally learn about the men in Nina’s life and meet “the Eurasian genius” Letters from Boris Krestovsky Esteemed Nina Fyodorovna, I am delighted to make your acquiantance. I have a feeling that we have met before, in another life, somewhere on the sea coast in Kuokkola or in Koktebel. I am grateful that fate brought us together again in the lovely Volkov house with their skinny poodle and old-fashioned imperial china, miraculously preserved through all the catastrophes of war and revolution with only a few cracks. I would be honored to see you at my lectures. I have heard about your outstanding linguistic abilities already, and I hope that you will contribute to our Eurasian Seminar. Yours truly, BK Esteemed Nina Fyodorovna, I missed you yesterday at the reading at the Volkovs’ house. It was an illuminating evening of Eurasian culture, with a few Soviet visitors present among us. The discussion would have been rather dull had it not been for Mr. Kachalsky, a talented singer, a true Russian soul but an erring spirit, especially when intoxicated. I don’t believe you know him. I will see you soon. I hope it doesn’t rain as heavily as it did when I walked you home last time. 59

Svetlana Boym I trust you remain in a good health and I hope that you have cured that nasty little cough of yours. Sincerely, BK.

Notes from Boris Krestovsky’s lecture “The Eurasian Culture: Body and Spirit” 1. Romantic love of two individuals as well as on amour propre or egocentrism, the peculiar kind of psychology that considers a single human being the center of the world and the crown of creation, are distinct manifestations of Romano-Germanic and Anglo-Saxon civilization. Romantic love is un-Eurasian. We are a threshold civilization. The spiritual vocabulary of Russian and Eurasian languages comes from Indo-Iranian roots while the material vocabulary is influenced by the Romano-Germanic conquerors. So in spirit the protoRussians sided with the Iranians and Turanians, while their bodies were desperately tempted by the individualist comforts of the Western European civilization. The body lived in exile in the West while the spirit longed for the East. Can we ever return from exile? Is love in exile ever possible? Can we love anything or anyone more than our lost home? 2. If we examine the “rhythmical arts,” which preserve the movements of national spirit better than linguistic ones, we will observe the following. Take, for example, Romano-Germanic and Anglo-Saxon dances, which are dances performed in pairs. The male and the female hold each other’s arms which allows them to perform similar rhythmical movements with their legs. While poor in technique and virtuosity, the dances in male/female pairs have an individualized sexual aspect. We encounter nothing of the kind in the Russian dances. The romantic couple is of no significance. Where there is an element of a dance of a pair, the pair doesn’t have to be of different sexes and they certainly don’t have to hold on to one another. The dance is determined by the collective spirit—khorovod, the chorus movement, the rhythms of the steppes. 60

Ninochka Dear Nina, I am eternally grateful for your note about the dual spelling of Genghis Khan in Arabic and Venetian sources. As for Attila the Hun, I believe his influence on Eurasian development is heavily exaggerated by Hungarian patriots. I will be glad to thank you in person and discuss further Attila’s bloody exploits. Some time after my lecture, peut-etre, if you have a spare half-an-hour for a gratutitous chat? Dear Nina, Don’t be cross with me. I have to tell you the truth. I reread your analysis of the conventions of place names and personal names. It seems that our research follows similar directions, yet our approach or should I say lebensschaung (damn the Germans!) is so entirely different. We take the same line and go in the opposite direction. You ask if we could meet half way, on the Eurasian border. But my dear friend, I am not concerned with borders, as you know. We are dealing here with distinct civilizations. The continent ocean is the spiritual home. “Fortress-Eurasia”—to paraphraze our Anglo-Saxon friends. You might not agree with me now but I am sure, I am convinced, that gradually I will manage to persuade you. Yours, B.K. P.S. Did I forget my umbrella at your place? If so, I shall be grateful if you would bring it to me, or shall I stop by and fetch it? Dear Nina, I worry about you, my dear friend. You live your life as if you’ll get another one. You should start thinking about important things. You know what I mean. B.K. Dear Nina, I am afraid I will not be able to make our appointment due to the urgent circumstances that will keep me outside Paris. I am sure you will understand. I will see you on Friday—with or without an umbrella. Yours, B.K. Dear Nina, Yesterday you reproached me again, Ninochka. You said that you think that I wish to turn you into a convert. I am only your 61

Svetlana Boym teacher, Nina, only your teacher. I am trying to teach you your native language, Nina, for you are already quite proficient in foreign tongues. You sent me the poems of Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky. Frankly, I don’t know what you see in them—a youthful charm perhaps, a certain elegance of the feast before the plague, a smooth, but only skin-deep surface of verse. He describes Russian nature as a vacationer, a mere tourist of the native landscape. Everything in his world is precarious; he has no roots anywhere, he gives you the impression of hopping from word to word, from line to line—as long as it lasts. This is not the way to go, not for you. I worry about you sometimes. I can’t write more now. I have to get back to work. It’s important, more important than usual, you’ll see. But you can join me for my late afternoon walk. I will pass by Metro Passy some time around 5:00. No more of those dreadful cafés with ill-mannered waiters and stained coffee cups. A park bench would be a pleasant relief. Perhaps it will remind you of nature. B.K. P.S. Do come, Ninochka, don’t hold a grudge against me. I am more busy but less grumpy than usual. Tomorrow promises hope. My dear friend, I am sorry to make you wait for me in the merciless Parisian wind. I had a meeting of extreme urgency. An important Soviet guest has already arrived. You should meet her some time. She is not what you think she is. I am begining to reconsider my opinions on the Hungarian question. They, too, have contributed to the Eurasian might. Do accept my sincere apologies. I will explain myself when we meet. B.K.

In trying to piece together the image of Boris Krestovsky, I encounter continuous obstacles. “My life story is not about daily bread—the stale baguette of exile,” writes Boris Krestovsky in the preface to the second edition of his spiritual autobiography, The Eurasian Awakening. “What the Anglo-Saxons call biography explains nothing in my life and thought.” In spite of these numerous protestations made by the philosopher, Who’s Who in Exile, published in Britain, provides us with Boris Krestovsky’s psychobiography. We learn that “the ‘Eurasian genius’ was brought up in the Saratov province in the family of an eccentric provincial land62

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owner who married a young girl from a merchant background.” What follows is a long description of the father’s youthful infatuation with radical politics and subsequent conversion to the Orthodox Church and visits to the Iasnaia Pustyna Monastery to consult with the Elder Zachary. Boris’s mother died in childbirth when her older son was only eleven. Krestovsky’s French governess, Mademoiselle P., published an exuberant memoir in which she claimed that young Boris could never forget the rustle of his mother’s shawls and her soft guttural voice, slightly hoarse from coughing and smoking. Supposedly he begged supple Mademoiselle to read him bedtime stories in the shawl of her deceased mistress, a practice that the governess found revolting, but her tender heart could not refuse the “little sickly orphan.” It was she who had to teach him the “facts of life.” At the age of fifteen the young lad had his first major revelation while in bed with Nietzsche recovering from severe pneumonia. Nietzsche became his guide to life, “which young Boris began to explore with ardour and desperation. He turned into a cautious libertine and an occasional gambler,” writes prudent Mademoiselle P. Yet by twenty, Boris “came to his senses” and decided to dedicate his life to teaching and learning. “He was always a diligent young man, sensible and caring.” It is possible that the aging governess who returned to her native Dijon tried later to make some money on the misfortunes of her celebrated disciple. Her account is hardly credible. Moreover, Boris Krestovsky’s French, in the remembrances of contemporaries, “left much to be desired.” Boris Krestovsky himself writes about his spiritual awakening, putting aside, in his own words, his “sleepy childhood of a spoiled little gentry boy” as well as “the conventional tragedy of exile that has already been described by many.” He writes of the early discovery of his own nomadic soul traveling. “The furtive, but explosive pleasures of a wanderer shaped my solitary existence.” The second revelation came when Boris Krestovsky discovered that his wanderlust was not that of an immoraliste or Romano-Germanic-Anglo-Saxon cosmopolitan. His nomadic soul was deeply rooted in the Eurasian soil. The meaning of his existence was in “saving Eurasia from imminent catastrophe.” Boris Krestovsky never married. “I wondered all my life whether a true love was possible in exile. And I failed to find a 63

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comforting answer.” In his travels Boris never mentions Nina. Her existence might have been for him a mere biographical incident, not a spiritual one. I imagine walking behind Boris Krestovsky on Parisian streets, not as his angel, rather as a devil’s advocate, an eavesdropper and a whisperer. Our shadows cross each other behind a gas lamp. He might have thought I was an irksome figment of his imagination. “Good afternoon, Boris Vladimirovich. A cloudy day, isn’t it?” Boris Krestovsky moves quickly and cautiously, periodically turning around. He’s an emaciated man with a beard and penetrating eyes. Walking with him you experience simultaneously his charismatic intelligence and a great physical discomfort. You suddenly don’t remember what to do with those angular elbows that get in your and everybody’s way, since your arms don’t keep up with your feet. Boris sits down on the garden bench, but those annoying flies are everywhere and so are French children, too playful, too naughty and too well-dressed. He walks to a bistro on the corner and orders tea with lemon. He speaks French with a heavy, undisguised Russian accent. He flaunts it like a war medal. “We don’t have lemon,” says the waiter. “Why not? In a democratic and free country like France where liberté, egalité, et fraternité have long since triumphed you can’t find a piece of lemon for a Russian writer?” he bickers with the waiter in broken French. The waiter is an immigrant too, an Andalusian, and he eagerly bickers back in his own heavily accented French. Boris writes in his notebook, “It is curious that the only kind of human interaction a lonely man in the foreign land can rely on is an argument with the waiter.” The life of the boulevard unfolds in front of him. There are men and women rushing somewhere with or without purpose, furtively window shopping, their reflections superimposed against the sad mannequins in fashionable hats; an old Madame carries bags of groceries, a drunk sings. “What a meaningless human beehive! What are they rushing for? They look for comfort, not meaning. Meaning? Is it too much to ask? Who are those ‘civilized people of the West?’ The French? Just take away that superficial luster, the ‘oui, Monsieur’ and the ‘avec plaisir, Madame,’ and what’s left? A few rhetorical tours de force that sparkle like a well-varnished piece of furniture. They are masters of the everyday, but not of their destiny. 64

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The English, those poor buggers, always sneezing in the drizzle, the civilized petit bourgeois looking good in rain coats. A few charming novels of a rather pedestrian kind, I should say, and a few lovely parks, but let’s be serious now. The Americans? Those happy barbarians, great simplifiers of the world, perpetually infantile with an occasional stroke of talent. Poe and Whitman should be counted among those. But the majority has neither culture nor civilization—only a bit of money and a good smile. The Germans with their linguistic genius, the nation of philosophers and philistines, hopeless indeed. Boris prefers clouds to people. “Clouds are shadow reflections of the lost continents,” he would later write in his notebook. He finishes his cup of tea and begins walking again, nodding in passing to a man in the crowd. “Hello, Boris Vladimirovich.” “Hello Yuri Mikhailovich.” “People,” he thinks, “lovely creatures, but, oh, how they distract one from serious thinking.” But Boris Vladimirovich, what will happen to those fleeing individuals in the future Eurasian State?” “They will be given meaning,” he would respond with some irritation. “Meaning! Do you young people still remember what it means?” He doesn’t expect an answer. He does not wish to speak to the “young people, those self-assured philistines in sport suits.” He is his own favorite addressee. He just wanders around Paris talking to himself. I see Nina on the other side of the street rushing somewhere. She has a distinct way of walking, light on her feet, but moving her arms a bit excessively, taking too much space for herself. She lacks both the purposeful grace of Parisian women and the burdened worried gait of immigrants. Occasionally, she gets lost in her thoughts and just about walks into a pole. She dreams of meeting Boris alone on the street, but then misses him in her wake. I wonder if Boris spotted her in the crowd. All I see is that he doesn’t call her, he lets her miss him. He might be a visionary, but in everyday life he’s rather myopic. Maybe she actually notices him too, but lets him get away with it. She stops for a moment, checks the time. There is a speck or something in her eye. She rubs it intensely and blinks. Her pale face in profile with smudged lipstick and tired eyes appears vulnerable and sad. This is not the face she shows to the world. I try to change the angle, imagine that Nina crosses the street right in front of Boris while he’s sipping his tea without lemon and a shadow of a smile touches his 65

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lips, a flicker of recognition. No, it doesn’t work. Nina and Boris don’t meet. They keep missing each other over and over again. Maybe I chose the wrong time of day? The light of the early evening is simply not right for them. Maybe it was late night or early in the morning. Right around 9:30. Boris had a gun after all, but no motive. And besides this seems out of character. I continue to follow Nina and Boris moving in opposite directions, existing somewhere in the back of each other’s minds, but moving further and further away from one another. Her purse suddenly falls out of her hands. The strap is broken. She squats awkwardly in the middle of a little fenced square gathering her francs, embroidery kit, lipsticks and notes. On the nearby bench, drenched in the sunlight, Yurik Poltavsky-Rizhsky inhales the smoke of his last cigarette. From Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky La Cupole, Table three Chère Ninelle, dorogaia moia Nina, gde zhe vashi apel’siny I wish you could open up like an orange My dull knife is stuck in its thick bitter peel . . . Don’t blame me that the steep stair of my verse goes only down. I am unoriginal, yes, he said. You begged me not to write to you about love, so I’m writing you about oranges. I, a tongue-tied, thin-skinned and semi-literate half-Russian, whose major sin is sloth . . . Lazy days linger in the languor of lavish light. Kuda, kuda vy udalilis. . . . Votre pour toujours. Just saying hello, really, didn’t mean to impose on you—Poltavsky-Rizhsky. Ninka, May I have the special honor of inviting you to the movies? This time it’s a patriotic treat, “The Road to Life.” The crème de 66

Ninochka la crème of progressive youth from both sides of the border, from this world and the other world and even from the new world will be present. So this is not personal. Do come. Yours, Y. P-R.

To N. B. You and I I strolled in sandy dunes of a deserted beach you hummed a foreign tune you lost your perfect pitch You burned your tender skin I risked my healing scars we swam in saline waves under forgotten stars.

to be continued. P.S. Do you think I should change “You lost your perfect pitch” to “you bit a ripened peach?” It would be more like you!

10/29 Dear Mademoiselle Belskaya, I request the pleasure of your company for the gala opening of the film retrospective, Soviet Cinema: From The Battleship Potemkin to The Road to Life. This will be a special opportunity to discuss Soviet achievement in film in an international context. R.S.V.P. Black tie P.S. (written in shorthand) Esteemed Nina, I sincerely hope that you will come to our retrospective. Our paths have crossed many times, and I regret not having had an opportunity to talk to you seriously. I respect your work, and something gives me the feeling that we have more in common that we think. Respectfully, Andras Kovac 67

Svetlana Boym October, Leninville, Kansas Nin, No movies? Not tonight? Here are some pieces from the unfinished cycle. Toujours deja, Poltavsky-Rizhsky The Spy Movie Oh, silver linings of the silver screen that we undid together, seam by seam shot after shot, frame after frame with cooling aftertaste of mint ice cream. My shadow star, my incandescent dream Don’t be afraid of the impudent close up The secret’s buried. There’s nothing to reveal but powdered pimples and a childhood scar The spy is caught, her heart-shaped lips are shut The fiend is thirsty for some extra-virgin blood The sailors?—still on strike, the suffragette?—long dead and cruel countess is forever sad. 10/29 Parigrad Sleepy Nin, I ran into little Natalie the other morning on your street as she was rushing to join the Party (which one is it this time? Forgive me, I forgot.) I asked about you and she said that you were not up yet. I imagined your gentle slumber in the midst of floating sheets of paper—something learned and Eurasian, no doubt—and unwashed tea cups. I still cherish that key that you gave me as a souvenir when I had no place to stay, but, of course, I wouldn’t dare to disturb you. I keep it as a reminder of the good old days. (I would have worn it instead of a cross on my golden chain, but it’s too heavy and will weigh me down.) I don’t really know how I found myself in your courtyard. My God! What a noise! What are they doing there upstairs? Removing skeletons from the closet? With all that immigrant babble your house seems like another Tower 68

Ninochka of Babel that will inevitably fall down. I wonder, my dear, if I should join the movers of the Tower of Babel to make some decent money? I, too, have muscles. Or, if this won’t impress you, maybe I should become a prodigal son and return to Eurasian soil? Sweet dreams, Yours, P.R. P.S. Let’s worship the Three Fates, Ninochka. We might need their help. From Katia Korf Zurich, 3/15/1938 Ninka, my Princess Nesmeiana (The Princess Who Never Laughs), Today is the tenth anniversary of the sacred ménàge à trois— toi, moi et notre petit cheri Poltavsky-Rizhsky on the train to Budapest. The three of us were like three virgin Parcae in the wagon-lit sheets, and our not-so-clean Greek robes revealed more than they covered. Rumor has it that once Apollo made the Parcae drunk to reverse the tragic fate of his beloved. That day the Parcae themselves got a bit tipsy, and alas! they lost their cheap prèt-à-porter together with their sober judgment. Our little boy was ecstatic, if a bit frustrated, and I, I still have that little soft spot for you in my heart. Remember that fearsome bodyguard on the Hungarian border, the Attila-look alike. He interrupted us so brutally. Yurik thought he looked like Count Dracula, the virgin killer. The virgins, though, continued misbehaving all the way to the Blue Danube. Katia-Clotho P.S. How’s our lazy little faun? How is he handling the chaos? Is he at least writing? Don’t be too cruel to him. He doesn’t take it well.

November, Emigrad Hello, Nin, Let’s go see a movie. I suggest Dracula in the Afternoon or the Rules of the Game. You choose. This way we won’t be alone. Don’t say “no,” not just yet. Let me think of something to enchant you. I will bring a friend or two. I will come alone, leaving behind all my whining selves. I will bring you a poem. I will come carrying nothing. I will be silent all the way. I will be a wonderful 69

Svetlana Boym conversationist. I will sing you a Russian song. I promise not to sing you a Russian song. I will tell you a true story about the Masterplot. I will keep my mouth shut. I will work for the future of the Motherland. I will not work for anything and stop kidding myself and others. Can we at least go to the movies? Votre, deja vu—but a long time ago—P.R.

Yurik Poltavsky-Rizhsky has a dancing gait. He looks like a slanting letter i in a school notebook. He is rather glad to find a sympathetic ear after all these years. Yurik is light-hearted, which is at the heart of his problem. We tend to distrust light-hearted people, especially those who have an ease with language. We understand those who wear the heavy load of suffering on their sleeves, and can shed a tear or two in front of a television camera. We don’t quite know what to do with people who don’t. Yurik, too, had a loving mother and a demanding father, but it doesn’t matter at all. His father was half-French, his mother half-German. The other halves were equally split between Russian, Polish, Armenian and Circassian. Who cares? He flunked a few exams in his youth and walked away from many dead ends. He was a good runner. Yurik’s tutor (the only one his parents could afford) happened to be not only an eternal student but also a clandestine socialist revolutionary. He would let the boy run around by himself like a street urchin. Yurik loved to skip school and loiter in the empty streets of St. Petersburg, hanging out with lonely fishermen on the Neva bridges, inhaling the air of the swamps. One of the first entries in Yurik’s school diary was the story of an accident. He might have made it all up, but I don’t think so. There is an immediacy of fear here that is hard to fake. Yurik witnessed something under a river bridge in the dusk. A woman with a pale, delicate complexion took a few shaky steps down the embankment and then it seemed that someone pushed her from behind, someone in a dark trenchcoat. Maybe it was just an apparition. The woman shrieked and fell into the canal. Little Yurik rushed to the embankment, ready to jump into the cold water, but he saw two fishermen already there trying to drag her out. “Go look for a policeman, boy, there was an accident here. Don’t just ogle, run,” shouted the fisherman. He was eager to see the woman’s 70

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face, to remember her, to be able to recognize her later. “We thought it was Aniuta, the girl from Kolomna. But it isn’t her,” whispered the fisherman. At that moment he felt someone’s gaze on his back. He looked left and then right. Nobody. The nearby street lamp wasn’t working. He heard a murmur, as if someone were humming a song very quietly. Without a second’s delay, Yurik broke into a run. He had learned to run fast on his thin, agile legs, barely touching the pavement with his feet. “I wasn’t afraid of murderers,” wrote Yurik, “I was afraid of shadows. Since then, I took many conscious risks but never freed myself from the fear of accidents.” He wrote his first poem about the dark seaweed overtaking the granite stones of the embankment that bears memories of the drowned and the saved. It was published in Apollon and was considered “preciously precocious.” Then he wrote about spots of blood on a woman’s handkerchief and about footsteps disappearing on the wet Baltic sand. At the age of thirteen he helped distribute socialist revolutionary newspapers. He plunged into the crowd on Nevsky Avenue, leaping over people’s feet, placing papers in their hands, moving together with the crowd, electrified by it. He seemed to function as more a messenger, a witness, a wingless Hermes, and it almost didn’t matter what the message was. Yurik escaped the police, in the same way as he escaped the murderer’s shadow, by running fast and turning corners. His mercurial nature was his life preserver. While Boris strolls around Paris stooping under the heavy burden of his thoughts, Yurik wanders around as though he is lacking in some elementary force of gravity. Reckless, delicate and hapless, Yurik is a poet in spite of himself, and he is not really good at anything else. He should be aware that he is becoming an endangered species, a poet without a court, without the Writer’s Union and without a movement. He hovers between worlds and doesn’t seem to land anywhere. Occasionally, he tries to make himself useful, to give language lessons, to get involved in film production, to write scripts, to scout locations, to make something out of his elusive talents. You must be tired of being unattached, Yurik. You cling instinctively to those powerful and charismatic protectors; you, too, would like to be under someone’s wing. Andras might have reminded you of the socialist revolutionary tutor whom you secretely admired. Eurasian soil might have been too much for you, but what about the revolutionary soil? Did Andras blackmail 71

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you? Did he pay your gambling debts and escorted you into the smoky room of political intrigue? Did he threaten you with something? Perhaps he would offer you the ultimate sense of belonging: “You, young man, could be the leading poet of the new Russia, something beautiful like that. The meaning of life, in exchange for a few favors, it’s a bargain. What would Andras demand in return? The keys from Nina’s flat? But why? I see Yurik trip all of a sudden on the Parisian pavement. What did he trip on? Nothing in particular, some random trash. He almost falls down but in the last moment manages to regain his balance, catches himself spreading his arms in the air. I feel like giving him a hand or maybe a kiss on the forehead. “Come on, Yurik. Don’t try so hard.” But he is already up and running ahead of me. He bounces back as if nothing had happened, shrugging his shoulders cheerfully. Once again he averted bad luck. From Madame Krestovsky, B.V. Krestovsky Heritage Foundation Dear Ms. Stern, We approve your request for an appointment. We will be glad to share Boris Vlamirovich Krestovsky’s philosophical heritage with you, and we hope that you will help us popularize his work in American universities. While we don’t have much information about Mlle. Belskaya, we will be glad to discuss issues of Eurasianism. We hope that you can meet with us at 5 p.m. next Tuesday. Sincerely, Madame Krestovsky From: Miklos M. International Bank of Paris (written on the letterhead) Dear Tanya, I am sorry I missed you in the café. I saw your shadow there once. You were leaving and I didn’t dare run after you. Urgent business keeps me out of Paris for now, but I hope you will join me and a bunch of other displaced persons for a PARTY! The reason for a party? The last Soviet soldier is leaving Budapest. You can’t miss it. Best, Miklos

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8

In which we attend the Eurasian tea party and lose all respect for Attila the Hun In the lobby of the Krestovsky Heritage Foundation there is a crimson velvet sofa with claw feet and the inscription Cabaret “Gaucho Bailando.” The cabaret owner had been a supporter of Peron who later returned to his native Argentina and sold the space to Madame Krestovsky, the niece of the great man. Madame is proud to be the guardian of the estate of the late Boris Krestovsky. She escorts me to another room with tall bookshelves, framed awards and honorary degrees received by Boris Vladimirovich, as well as nesting matryoshka dolls representing the Romanovs with Nicholas II on top of unfortunate Alexandra. At the table two middle-aged men with slightly receding hair are drinking tea with jam from a dark blue teapot with golden trim. I recognize the teapot immediately: it is exactly like my grandmother’s. They made the replica of the imperial china at the Leningrad Porcelain Factory named after Nadezhda Krupskaya. No, no, the chocolate factory was named after Krupskaya. The porcelain factory must have been named after Lenin. “This is Alexey Alexandrych and Alexander Alexeich, members of the Neo-Eurasian Circle. Alexey Alexandrych is a founder of the Eurasian boy scout movement that is catching on very quickly in the new Russia. There are already ten thousand Eurasian boy scouts from the Baltic Sea to Kamchatka.” “If only the Japanese were not proselytizing among our youth,” interjected Alexey Alexandrych (he was the one whose hair receded a little less). “Their sects are everywhere—dangerous stuff. The false Messiahs from the East. Alexander Alexeich had the honor to accompany the late Prince Romanoff to Russia on his recent tour.” “Pleased to meet you,” said Alexander Alexeich very pleasantly with a touch of old-fashioned civility. ”You must have a cup of tea with us. This is home-made jam, I bet they don’t have it in America. I hear they only eat canned food.” “Well, there are many specialty stores,” I began to explain. “But there is no place like home. It’s an English proverb, isn’t it? And, of course, there is no jam like homemade.” 73

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“I am pleased to say there are many visitors from Russia,” began Madame Krestovsky. “You know it is nice to see youth coming from distant provinces, from the former greater Russia—we call it that. Soviet Union, you know, to my ear, still sounds a bit vulgar. There were three wonderful young men from Kazakhstan, straight from the steppes, they talked about the difficult position of the Russian minority. People look for a new great idea that will lead them like a bright star into the twenty-first century. We hope that Eurasianism will be the answer. Just wait until the year 2018 . . .” “Where exactly are you from?” asks Alexander Alexeich. “New York.” “Well, we receive visitors from there as well. But what an awful place to live . . .” “It’s not awful, really. It’s actually quite exciting,” I protest timidly. “And there are people from everywhere there—my neighbor is Cambodian and the other one is Chilean.” “But the commercialism,” says Madame Krestovsky, “is everywhere. Those blinking lights of the ads. It hurts me to look at them. It’s so philistine (poshlo, poshlo, poshlo); it pervades your soul. Oh, well, people of the third wave of emigration—for them soul matters very little. It is not the soul that forced them into exile, but material pursuits.” I politely expressed interest in the Eurasian treatises of the late Boris Vladimirovich and switched the conversation to Nina. “Are you a relative of hers?” asked Madame Krestovsky. “No, I’m a graduate student in history.” “She wasn’t much of a scholar, you know. She was one of the minor disciples of my uncle; as a scholar, rather insignificant. Oh yes, I remember his saying that she did show some hope at the beginning, but clearly she did not live up to his expectations. She was a candidate for the Eurasian Linguistic Circle. I saw her name on the early list. But she never made it. Well, Boris had many more talented disciples. Actually, though, they later misrepresented some of his thinking. Belskaya’s death caused some trouble for Boris. Not really trouble but, how should I say it, a terrible nuisance. The police came here to investigate the activities of the Eurasian Linguistic Circle. Boris was not a suspect, of course. That would have been preposterous. He was at the International Congress of Linguists at the time. I have a photograph here to show you.” 74

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The photo looked familiar. The émigrés stood in the foam of the broken waves. They looked like shipwreck survivors. Nina stood next to Boris. But now he was not clinging to her. It was she who respectfully deferred to him. For a moment it seemed that she might have wanted him to put his hand around her, in a friendly photographic gesture. Of course, he wouldn’t. He was her teacher. He looked like a wise philosopher surrounded by faithful disciples. “It was taken at the time when Boris was in his scholarly prime. He was finishing his essay on the role of Genghis Khan and the nomadic conquest for the Eurasian identity, a prelude for his multivolume study of the culture of the steppes. “This is what’s his name—Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky—a minor poet, drug addict and sportsman, heavily overrated after his death. If you want to be famous, just make sure to die a tragic death, and your fame is guaranteed. He wanted to be a Russian Rimbaud, but, you know, rumor has it that he changed his name, went to Hollywood and became a ghost writer. Oh, we’ve gotten so cheap in modern times! Boris never aimed at cheap success. He was truly a noble soul.” “I’ve read somewhere in the émigré journal that he went to Moscow and became a builder of the Metro. He worked on the mosaics of the Pushkin Station.” “Whatever. Yuri was a man of no principles. Neither was Vadim Sovin. I think they like him in your country, but for me he never was a Russian writer. He wrote in French, you know, and even in German. The man who betrays his native tongue and writes, God forbid, in a foreign language is not a writer, but a smuggler in dead souls. Those two must be foreigners. I think this fellow is an American writer. And here is the ubiquitous AndrasAndré-Andrei Kovac. I didn’t recognize him at first. He changed his name, and he changed his looks once a month. You see him with a mustache and long hair one day, and then the next day his hair is cropped short and gelled. You could never tell what was on his mind. He even ingratiated himself to Boris, pretended to take a vivid interest in Eurasianism. I am sure you’ve already spoken with Madame Natalie Chernoff. She’s untrustworthy, completely untrustworthy. She imagines things. We were, you know, the same age in the 1930s but she never played with us girls. She had no 75

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proper governess. She spent her days reading Trotsky and the Manifesto of the Kinopeople. Ha-ha . . . I do find it rather comic, I must say! She was in love with Andras, so she covers up for him. Did she tell you he was a Trotskyite? No way. He became a rather orthodox Communist, had direct contacts with the Soviets. They might have recruited him. He courted Boris and also that silly poet, Poltavsky-Rizhsky, for reasons unknown. Who needs one more lyrical poet in the Soviet Union? Andras, or ‘simply Andrei’— that’s what he called himself to seduce our incredulous compatriots—Andras was a calculating, souless creature . . . I don’t know what was his relationship with Nina, but I wouldn’t be surprised . . . On second thought, I remember hearing that he had another woman, from his hometown, a comrade-in-arms or something. “Miss X” they all call her, just like in a cheap movie. They all had that rootless cosmopolitanism in them that Boris despised so much. Nina, of course, was of Russian blood, so it’s even harder to understand her. Somehow I think Andras Kovac has blood on his fingers. The young American script writer was a friend of his, but he was just a naive accomplice. André was a shadowy figure, a master con artist. Look at this eyes. Do you see anything?” “Not really, he seems to be chuckling a bit or squinting in the wind, that’s all,” I interject cautiously. “No, it’s not that. He had different eyes—the left one was gray and the right one was green. He was a devil, a real devil. Handsome and seductive, he brought me sweets, but I could see through him even then. I was only sixteen but I didn’t like his smooth manners and greenish eye. And that trashy film was directly linked to the murder.” “You mean Ninotchka?” “Oh, no, don’t call it that. It’s Ni' notchka, of course, not Ninotch'ka. It’s a matter of stress, but it’s an important matter. They didn’t even bother to pronounce the heroine’s name properly. It only goes to show you how uneducated all these Americans are. They have no respect for the Russian language. They misrepresent both the Russian immigrants and the Soviet Bolsheviks. They don’t get either of them right. And it certainly wasn’t a comic matter. You know, Hungarians were behind it, Ernst Lubitsch and Billy Wilder, the script writer, both crypto-Hungarians. There is something ciphered there, something to do with that murder.” 76

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“Of course, the film was made before Nina Belskaya’s tragic death, right?” “Sure, don’t think me stupid. But things aren’t so simple. Well, anyway, the only character there that deserves our admiration is that young man Rakonin, the attendant in the Grand Hotel, who ultimately returns the jewels to the Grand Duchess, where they belong. He’s a true Russian patriot, but we know virtually nothing about him. All information is suppressed. The poor fellow suffered so much serving those vulgar Bolsheviks and that—excuse my expression—comrade bitch. And then there is that gray-haired general in the restaurant scene, a noble creature. What do we know about him? Nothing. Greta Garbo was a great actress, no doubt about it. They say she, too, was exploited by those American film magnates. The film was prohibited in many countries. You should find out about it. In any case, our dear Boris hated the movies, and he was right. He said they killed memory. He was afraid of the influence of cinema on the minds of our young people. So, if you want to find out the truth you should check on those ‘film people’—Andras and Lionel.” “Who is the girl in the beret?” “Why are you interested in her? Frankly, I’ve never noticed her before. She’s standing so close to the rim of the picture that the photographer could have easily cut her out. She might have come from the Soviet Union, one of Andras’s friends. Or maybe that’s Annette, one of Boris’s most devoted French students. They accused her of collaborating with the Nazis, and I saw her during the war on the streets of Paris, her hair cropped short. Poor girl! It was so unfair. She just gave French and Russian lessons to a German. He was, in fact, very gracious, a real gentleman, they said he was in the S.S. but she probably didn’t know that. Poor Annette, I’ve lost track of her after thirty years. Then again, it might have been that Miss X after all. She was a very good student, but she came and went before the war. The war, you know, changed things so drastically!” “Or well. The Americans, of course, know very little about the war,” interjected Alexey Alexandrych. “My dear Alexey Alexandrych,” interrupted Alexander Alexeich. “The sad fact is that the peoples of Eurasia also seem to have a short memory. Just look at what is going on now.” He shook in front of him a copy of the Russian émigré journal with a picture of a peaceful 77

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demonstration in Hungary. The caption read: “The residents of Budapest happily bidding their farewell to the Soviet troops. The demonstrators greet the departing Soviet soldiers with the slogan, ‘Bye-bye, Sasha.’ ” “Look,” continued Alexander Alexeich, “the Soviet Union was far from ideal, we all know that, but it helped to preserve the unity of the Eurasian space. This territorial unity was natural, not political. It was one single body. And the body cannot be mutilated, right? It hurts—oh, how it hurts! The great empire is about to be dismembered and all those nonentities—Estonians, Latvians, Hungarians . . . The Hungarian National Alliance, they really go too far exaggerating the importance of Attila the Hun and his nomadic exploits. I say Genghis Khan was far more of a humane and appealing hero. He yielded happily to the Slavic civilizing process and he was virtually re-educated by the indigenous Russian population. And Attila? So he sacked Rome! What vandal didn’t do that? (A kakoj vandal, skazhite etogo ne delal. Podumaesh’ kakoe delo.) What’s there to be proud of? The man who died of nasal hemorrhage on his wedding night does not deserve our respect, what do you say, young lady?” “Khe-khe,” echoes Alexei Alexandrych.”The young lady bride must have been very disappointed. If she was a lady at all, and not merely another teenage vandal in a skirt . . .” “Oh yes,” whispered Alexander Alexeich in a husky voice. “Attila’s wedding bed was not a pretty sight. If I were a Hungarian, I would keep this dirty laundry to myself.” “They’re all acting like teenagers, these young nations. Americans, you see, are busy looking for an ‘inner child’ these days. And Hungarians, oh yes, they are looking for an inner Hun! They question our Eurasian nomadism and claim themselves to be the true heirs to the original European and Asian unity. They assert that Finno-Ugric tribes that came from the Volga region were the first true Eurasians. The ‘mongrels of the steppes’—their expression— Mongols, Tatars, Scythians and Slavs just followed in their steps.” “I couldn’t agree with you more, dear colleague,” exclaimed Alexey Alexandrych. “Moreover, get this, they are not even IndoEuropean; they proclaim themselves pre-Indo-European! And they declare that they would fight against ‘the spread of violent IndoEuropean civilization.’ Of course, the Semites are our common 78

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enemy. There is even a rumor that Attila’s young bride was a blueeyed Jewess, passing for a vandal. That’s exactly what they are good at—passing for someone else. Their women are political nymphomaniacs. They infiltrate Indo-Europeans and nonIndo-Europeans with an equal zeal—to see who’s winning. And many of them are taking refuge in America.” “Well,” said Alexander Alexeich, “I tell you, if you scratch any Hungarian you won’t find a Hun, ha-ha-ha! You’ll find . . . guess what? A Jew. The Elders of Zion are, of course, silent on that matter. Don’t think me anti-Semitic. Some of my best pupils were Jews. Anyway, anti-Semitism has been vastly exaggerated.” “They even go so far as to propose a pan-Hungarian rival to Eurasianism. But tell me, why did these Hungarians write their slogans in English? Why ‘Bye-Bye, Sasha?’ Do you see what I’m driving at? It’s all done for publicity. International media. Media conspiracy. ‘Bye-bye, Sasha’ is really ‘Hello, Fritz.’ They are already counting money in German Marks.” “Wait,” I say politely, “the slogan is in English, not in German.” “So it’s ‘Bye-Bye Sasha, Hello Uncle Sam,’ ” said Alexey Alexeich impatiently. “There is nothing more to it. Let’s just see how Hungarians hold up on their own. The European community is not too eager to extend them a welcome. The Hungarians should have never betrayed their Eurasian allegiances, for the natural border of Eurasia, the continent ocean, passes through the Blue Danube.” “It was such a beautiful waltz, ‘The Blue Danube,’ ” said Alexander Alexeich dreamily.” And it goes so well with our own, ‘Oh the steppes in the snow, your fate is my fate,’ by our unfortunate Kachalsky who died before he could see his Eurasian dream come true. ‘Russia, beloved Russia, I miss your slender birch trees in the rain . . .’ It’s almost a waltz. We have so much in common! Why can’t those Hungarians see that!” “They’re brain-washed, Alexei Alexandrych, simply brainwashed! Have you heard the latest? That pseudo-scholar, Dr. Istvan Kertez, claims that the ancient Japanese are descendants of FinnoUgric tribes as well! Hence, Japanese and Hungarians come from a common birthplace! How clever and how very convenient! I’ve heard they are adopting a new currency: the Hungarian Yen!” 79

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“Your point is well-taken, Alexander Alexeich! Did you see those Japanese tourists photographing the ‘Bye-Bye-Sasha’ slogan? They show them all the time on television. There you are!” “I think I have something for you,” says Madame Krestovsky, interrupting our hot tea discussion. “In my archive there is one note Boris sent to Nina Belskaya; it’s a comment on her paper. I don’t think he ever sent it. Maybe he was going to send it right before her death. The handwriting is shaky but definitely his— look at those reticent loops, the distinctive t. He always used purple ink. No, you can’t take the letter with you. This letter is very precious and fragile, don’t you see? I am afraid these days I cannot trust you to take it out. Photocopy at Bibliothéque National? Oh, those dreadful French assistants, they are so unhelpful. You are a young woman and you might not realize that this letter was not included in the complete works that just came out in the ‘Our Lost National Treasure’ Series in Moscow. Please, wipe your fingers carefully before you touch Boris Vladimirovich’s original writings. You’ve got some jam on your upper lip. Yes, that’s good.” Here is the text of the letter: Dear Nina, Your paper addresses many important issues. Your discussion of the common Indo-European root for matera—mother, materiality material, mat (Russian obscene language), is a good start for a larger project. Your discussion of etymology of the human lot, u-chast, is insubstantial. It seems to me that you are too infatuated with linguistic play for its own sake, art for art’s sake, the word alone and all that garbage. I am looking for depth, Nina, for the soul, or at least a unifying principle, the central idea that is so lacking in this meaningless world. Linguistics is not a thing in itself but a path to truth, a part of an ideocratic worldview, not an accident of fate.” P.S. I am off to the Congress of Linguists where I shall meet with some “distinguished Soviet guests.” I do hope to see you soon. There are too many things we must discuss tête-à-tête, as our damned French compatriots say (kak govoriat nashi prokliatye francuzy). Yours, B. K.

“Why was Boris Vladmirovich meeting with the Soviet delegation? I thought Russian émigré philosophers did not want to 80

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have much to do with the representatives of the Soviet government. Not before the war, at least.” “You clearly didn’t do your homework, my dear. You’re a young researcher. You should develop your research skills.” “Eurasians were less myopic than the rest of the immigrants,” passionately whispered Arkady Anatolievich. “They did not accept the lifetime of humiliation spent in the lines to update our carte d’identité. Paris was not a ‘movable feast’ for us, that’s for sure. That overrated American writer was not always well-fed himself, but he had his dignity. He choose to skip lunch. We had no choice. So for a while there was a reconciliatory mood toward Russia since the ‘Changing Landmarks movement.’ After all, the Soviet Union preserved the natural borders of Eurasia, so our role was simply to accomplish the peaceful transition of power.” “A peaceful transition of power from whom to whom? “From the Bolshevik Party to the Eurasian Party. Don’t you know our emblem: one-headed eagle, half moon, a cross and a star? We integrate all symbols. You might think it’s history, dear Miss, but it isn’t. There is no such thing as history. There is no such a thing as the past. The past returns to haunt us; the past is redeemed in the future. What was meant to happen in the past will happen in the future. The peaceful transition of power will be realized. Don’t fool yourself about the so-called ‘peaceful transition to democracy.’ The people of Eurasia are not idiots; they are ideocrats. They need a more powerful idea to live by. The tacky American freedom adds won’t do. Our wait will soon be over. Time will collapse in the year 2018. It will be Year One of the Eurasian calendar. The dead will be resurrected on the Judgment Day—those who deserve to be resurrected—the true Eurasianists. There is simply not enough room for everyone. This would be our New World Order. American dreams will pale in front of ours.” “Was Boris Vladimirovich supposed to become the head of the Eurasian State, sort of a philosopher-king?” “No, he was to be our founding father, our most potent Eurasian philosopher. He was an ideocrat, not a bureaucrat. But hélas, it was not meant to be. He will be remembered, though, believe me. His monument will decorate the Square of Genghis Khan—that’s what we’ll rename Red Square. And Lubianka Street will be called Krestovsky Perspectiva. And if those Hungarians 81

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calm down a bit, we’ll name a dead-end street Attila’s crossing. We’ll even put an equestrian statue there with that little vandal girl on its tail. And the Moscow Metro will be called the Eurasian Underground. I like the sound of it, don’t you?” “Oh dear, I am shocked and surprised that in the United States they don’t teach the work of the Eurasian Circle. It’s very myopic of the Americans, very myopic! Their so-called scholars study Formalists and Saussureans and their little circles. But they were politically irrelevant—naive internationalists, literary tricksters, masters of device, nothing more. They did not pursue the roots of language, the meaning of our life on earth. They preferred superficial acrobatics. No wonder the French took an interest in them.” “I am sorry, we have another appointment,” interrupted Madame Krestovsky. “The representative of the Cossack and Tartar Eurasian Society is coming at 3:30, and at 5:00 o’clock the famous film director Viacheslav Pulkov from Moscow will be here. He made this wonderful film, The Lilac Sunset, the first cinematic rhapsody to Eurasian space. He’s making a documentary now dedicated to Boris Krestovsky: The Life of a Patriot. It’s a RussianGerman coproduction, of course. The poor devils don’t have much money to make films these days. Hollywood dominates the market. They even suggested that Pulkov shoot the Eurasian steppes in one of their Dakotas. What an insult!” “Well, well. I wish you good luck. If you ever go after that shadowy Hungarian con artist Andras and his acolytes, beware of their cunning. It’s positively dangerous. They have blood on their hands. You seem like a nice girl, but clearly, you need to spend more time in the library. Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be so American. Never, never say, ‘have a nice day.’ That is incorrect Russian.”

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9

Which might make you blush Back in my room I watch on television Soviet tanks roaming in the outskirts of the city where the shabby shop windows are decorated with bright slogans. Then there is nothing but snow. It’s black and white, and it makes a frightening electronic noise. A moment later the tanks are back in the picture. This time we hear a woman’s voice with a light accent over the roar of the tanks: “1990. Something frightening was happening in my country. I had to call my relatives immediately. To my surprise the call came through at once. ‘Oh my dear daughter, don’t worry,’ my mama said, ‘the tanks are not real; it’s just a movie made for television.’ I was so happy I used AT&T.” We dissolve to a happy Russian family watching tanks on television around a cozy table with lots of herring, rye bread and Stolichnaya—all in bright color. After a while, the mother, a plump woman with kind and tired eyes, wearing an embroidered apron, turns off the TV. Prerecorded laughter resounds. The phone rings. It all ends happily with the triumph of AT&T. But I am not convinced that it ends just there. I can see how after turning off the television, the Russians continue toasting away. They beg the American cameraman who was shooting the AT&T commercial to drink with them—the soundman too. After an hour or so the cameraman leaves and so does the soundman, and they hum together, “Ukraine girls they’ll knock you out. They leave the West behind.” They get into their foreign car, high on Stolichnaya. Then the dad gets a little too tipsy, and the mama gets a little too teary. Somebody throws a rock into the window and the phone falls off the hook. It’s snowing again on my TV. “It’s so wintry there, comrades, so wintry.” That’s Greta Garbo’s line. She wanted to open the windows of her royal suite, to let in some spring air. I tap my television gently, then again. Finally, I get the picture back. The image on the screen is verdant with tender colors, sweet pastels and soap bubbles. “It is so sensual,” says a woman’s voice, but I don’t know what it was. At the moment when I am about to find out, my phone rings. It is Madame Chernoff. 83

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“Hello again,” she said. “How are you, my dear, on this beautiful evening?” She was whispering in a deep, guttural voice, and I suspected that she was a bit tipsy. “Well, Madame Krestovsky phoned me and told me about your visit. She thought you were not so bad looking but ‘oh, so Soviet.’ ” She chuckled, imitating Krestovsky’s niece: “ ‘My God, what did they do to language in that dreadful country ? It has degraded deplorably during that philistine Bolshevik rule’—Well, I have something more to say about that celebrated tongue of ours!” She burst into hysterical laughter. “I had a shot of Absolut—forgive me my dear. Of course, I did not tell you everything, as you might have expected. Sometimes I can be old-fashioned and prudent. Oh no, don’t believe me. It’s just that it is boring to tell everything at once, and then you will deny me your pleasant company. I am a lonely woman, you know.” We agree to meet immediately in the neighborhood bar. “We can skip the petty-bourgeois small talk, right? We’re grown-ups, after all. So here is my confession, Miss detective. I did eavesdrop on Nina and Boris—more than once. I did not know any better. I have been addicted to the keyhole since I was fifteen-years-old. Of course, I know what you are thinking. You’re thinking that I’ve made it up. Well, judge for yourself. You wouldn’t believe how much Eurasian thought I had to put up with! It was instructive indeed. He would say, ‘Russia is the feminine nation, the nation that never knew the phase of European virility, the age of knighthood. Forgive me, his exact words escape me. “First they sat on the sofa, drank tea with lemon and talked about the Eurasian destiny. He, of course, did most of the talking, and she kept adding sugar to her tea and cutting lemon in thin slices. He got particularly excited about Genghis Khan. He referred to him as the ‘great misunderstood Emperor of the Nomads.’ Slowly, slowly, he began to unbutton her blouse. ‘When he crossed the borders of Russia he bowed down to her and kissed the wet earth. The Mongols were the first. Now it’s the turn of the Russians.’ No, no, she didn’t mind it at all, she was caressing his fingers, leading them to her body. He touched her breasts timidly, like a boy. He held them in his hands. “Then there was more talk about nomads in the wet Russian steppes. They put a record on. It played the same song over and 84

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over again. But I could still hear them whisper. That record was broken on the day of Nina’s death. He was getting more and more excited. He spoke of proud self-sufficiency of the Eurasian Empire. ‘We Russians must carry it out now; it is hard, I know, but we must.’ “His hand slid over her crêpe-de-chine stockings. They must have cost Nina a fortune at the time. And how I envied those stockings, the ‘black nets,’ as they were called, made by Guy La Rève. She used to buy them from Yakovlev, who befriended that paranoiac murderer of the French president, Gorgulov. He sold them cheaper than the French. And, of course, Ninochka had lovely legs. “He went down on his knees, took off her shoe, touched her toe, kissed it. Slowly. They continued in silence. I couldn’t quite see. They moved beyond my keyhole. She uttered a scream, then another one, as if in pain. I remember, I gasped and almost betrayed myself, by making that inoportune sound. They did things to each other that I had never seen before. It lasted for a long time, touching and talking, touching in silence, sipping drinks. It was all in slow motion. Did I see her face? Yes, her eyes were half-closed. She looked radiant, oblivious to everything. And he, he was simply feverish. His usually pale cheeks were bursting with color. He was devouring her with his eyes, over and over again. “No, no, do not run ahead of yourself, young lady; they never actually ‘had sex.’ Such a vulgar expression, isn’t it? They didn’t need to, and they couldn’t. They appeared insatiable. “What can I add to all this? He had long fingers and a deep soft voice. At the time, I was not taken by the Eurasian dream, I was looking for that specter of Communism haunting Europe. But that’s unimportant now, my dear. I thought about it during the past few days. And you know what? It might have been a crime of passion after all. Two weeks later I saw them in a bar where I worked. They were arguing in a whisper that seemed like a quiet scream. I pretended to clean the nearby counter so I could hear bits of their conversation. Nina kept accusing him of seeing another woman and asking him who she was. He kept saying, ‘It was chaste, absolutely chaste, how dare you?’—something like that. He accused her of not behaving like a Russian. They were quareling, but there was still a lot of passion in their whisper. Then he said 85

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he needed to be alone. Just like Greta Garbo, ha-ha. You see, he had to remain the mystic bachelor, at least in the public eye. “The other day, I got it all wrong about love and politics. You see, with us Russians, most of the crimes are crimes of passion, even the ones that are committed for the sake of patriotism, ideology or religion. That silly film got it right after all. The joke’s on us. It was a love affair, a fatal attraction. Nina compromised her integrity, Boris betrayed his precious image. But could he ever forgive that Nina, his chosen woman, began to see an American? Add to it that in his view, the American had a young body and a mediocre mind—that’s a double blow. Barbarians were at the gate. I suspect that Boris, too, was invited to the special screening of that silly film? After all, Andras paid his respects to the professor, even though he respectfully disagreed with him. Boris would have been outraged at that film. Imagine what he’d think: ‘a cheap celluloid romance, a profanation of everything sacred. A Soviet envoy with a worthless French count, Soviet flirtation with the West, betrayal of the Eurasian dream, Hollywood style.” He sees Nina and Lionel in the movies, they act like lovers, holding hands, feeding each other sweets, stuff like that. Boris wouldn’t take it seriously. This is kids’ stuff. He is sure of his hold on Nina. And then he finds out that Lionel spent a night at Nina’s place. Boris never did it. He saw her only during the day, which I suspect gave him additional titillation. Yet, when he finds out that Lionel stayed over at Nina’s and went to get her breakfast in the morning, he couldn’t believe it. He lost his temper. He broke the record of their love. We know he had a gun. Nina mentions it in her diary, remember? “Wasn’t he at the Congress of Linguists? He was supposed to be. But the congress was in Meudon, just an hour away by car. Galina, our mutual friend, saw Boris Vladimirovich and PoltavskyRizhsky in a café around 11 o’clock. She’s pretty sure it was Boris. She saw him from the back. He was paying for Poltavsky-Rizhsky and chatting with the waiter. Poltavsky-Rizhsky appeared to be in one of his bad moods. “But didn’t they dislike one another? “Precisely. The only thing they could possibly have in common was their jealousy of Nina. “No, you can’t speak to Galina. Unfortunately, it’s not possible. She died three years ago, and her daughter, she knows nothing. She doesn’t even speak Russian. She was a child of Galina’s 86

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second husband, Jean François, a nice man but very thrifty. He was from Bretagne. Their daughter is active in the Breton separatist movement. She lives in Quimpert now. “I know, my dear, that you’re suspicious. Why didn’t the old chatterbox tell it all to the police? Probably because the war was in the air, and we didn’t want to put the great Russian genius under suspicion. Besides, how could I reveal that I eavesdropped on Nina? Nobody would believe me. Of course, you’ll find nothing in the diary, nothing of what I saw. I brought you the second notebook, and you can judge for yourself. Nina seem to have destroyed parts of her diary and notes. There are many missing pages. Also, she sometimes rewrote her diary entries. I have a feeling that she tried to redesign her life in the last month before her death. Don’t ask me why. “What else did I see and didn’t talk about? Good question, Miss detective. Unfortunately, this was the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen. And, believe me, that wasn’t the only time I looked. About Boris, I don’t know if I should say this, but many years later my good friend, Doctor J. from Budapest, told me that Boris suffered from impotentia ordinaris. This condition was common among immigrants, probably caused by stress, malnutrition, smoking. Poor Doctor J., he put things in such prosaic terms.”

Shall we believe Natalie’s half-drunken tale? Did she describe Nina or her own fantasy encounter with the dashing Hungarian Trotskyite, who may have not been a Trotskyite after all? I am suspicious when people volunteer secrets. Blame it on my Soviet upbringing. For me instant intimacy with strangers is always a form of provocation. If those are the secrets they share, what obscene mysteries do they hide? Why did Natalie insist on being drunk, when she was only mildly tipsy, mostly with her own memories? And most importantly, what was there for Nina in those secret rendezvous with her teacher? In the beach photo Boris Vladimirovich has penetrating eyes, slanted and enticing. Once you see his eyes, you don’t want to let them go. You want them to teach you, to hurt you, to heal you, to caress you, to promise happiness. Trust me, it will all make sense on that dim continent-ocean, we will all come together at last. Oh home, sweet home. 87

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He had nimble philosopher’s fingers that supported all his arguments. You know how you always have a crush on professors of foreign languages? And if they instruct you in your native tongue, you just fall head over heels in love, like a blushing school girl. He was vulnerable and irresistible. His desire was misplaced. The more impossible and insatiable it was, the more perfect was his Eurasia. She might have thought that she only embraced the theorist not his theories. Oh, but it’s such a slippery slope. She would make him soft-boiled eggs and a pot of hot tea in her tiny kitchen. He would tell her about those lonesome nomads roaming the diasporic wastelands, dreaming of home. He would burst into coughing. Like her, he suffered from a sore throat. “Boris, you should stop smoking, really.” And then he would touch her all over again. “Ninochka or moia milaia, moia slavnaia, nu chto ty, ny moia malen’kaia. I feel at home now. “Boris Vladmirovich, please.” “Ninochka, yes, let me, yes, yes . . .” His lissome fingers wandered over her body. “Boris Vladimirovich, please, stop it . . . for now.”

10

In which we learn about the “other woman” and read the Manifesto of the Kinopeople From the Diary of Nina Belskaya 8/10 Katia said that exile appears to her like a dream—sometimes you think that you’ll wake up from it and find yourself home. I feel the opposite. Now going back home would seem like a dream. I see myself wanting to wake up from it and sigh with relief finding myself abroad. I don’t quite know what to do about it.

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Ninochka 10/18 A Portrait of a Lady She sits on the opposite side of the lecture hall and diligently takes notes. She has a long neck and proud chiseled features. I don’t know her name, so I’ll call her “X.” Her face looks diaphanous in the light. Her cheeks have virtually no color. I’ve never seen her blush. X might be a foreigner, from Galicia or Poland, or maybe from Silesia or Alsace-Lorraine. Of course, I am only guessing. Her eyes are the color of steel. Why does she fascinate me? I don’t know. She’s so determined and quiet. As I walked past her desk I noticed her handwriting—very proper and tidy, all letters with the same slant. What is she writing? I can’t read a line. She never fidgets in her seat, never draws aimless doodles, never let her eyes wander idly across the room. She doesn’t flirt, she’s above and beyond it. She knows what she’s doing in life. I don’t know what that is, but I know that she does. Hélas, I haven’t found my soulmate yet, but I found my antipode!

A postcard from Katia Korf Dear Ninka, I loved the begining of your essay: “Exile is a double life, an exile is always a double agent. That’s his greatest advantage and the source of his fear.” What happened to the rest of it? Where is your conclusion? You are onto something. You know, even Dr. Freud thought that part of the cure for paranoia is an ability to leave home. He advised his Russian paranoiac patient, the “Wolfman” (whose bilingualism was clearly more than Dr. Freud could have grappled with) not to return to Russia. The year was 1917 or 1918. The Wolfman followed the doctor’s advice and lost his home and fortune. After that his paranoia got much better. Love, Katia 5/13 Lady X is still with me. Or is she comrade X? She’s always there, in the background. No, I’m not trying to meet her. She keeps to herself, doesn’t talk to many people, and positively does not notice

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Svetlana Boym me. She looks straight through me. I am not in her field of vision. She does not take lunches in the émigré cafeteria, but brings her own fresh fruits and vegetables. She is completely self-sufficient. She doesn’t smoke. She is very focused and efficient. She keeps track of time. I look at her, but she never returns my gaze. 5/15 Katia doesn’t believe in X’s existence. She asked me to stop writing her about X. “Better write about yourself, Nina, X is your own projection.” And then she said something even more frightening: “It’s your problem, you know. You want to live many lives at once.” Katia doesn’t believe that X goes to the swimming pool. Would she believe that X gave a presentation at Boris Krestovsky’s seminar? For the life of me, I wouldn’t be able to dream that! X gives a presentation at the seminar about universal language. If most of us are interested in the language of past, she is into the language of the future. I don’t like her voice. I prefer to look at her and not hear her speak. She has some undefinable Slavic accent and the intonation of a quiet visionary. She is not rapturous and hysterical, but calm, reasonable and modern. A new woman. A total believer. She doesn’t mention a single example. She concludes by saying that the “tower of Babel would be completed, and it would be a magnificent monument—a modern tower, built in the international style, glass and concrete. The Eiffel Tower will be obsolete and useless, iron lacework for old-fashioned lovers, a thing of the past. In the future we won’t need to speak in tongues and perpetuate mutual misunderstanding. We will all speak a single language, a language of international communism. Maybe it will no longer be a language, the way we understand it now. We will not need to speak, we would share each other’s silence, that kind of profound silence that comes after satisfying labor.” Then Boris said, “The completion of the Tower of Babel would be the crowning achievement of Eurasia. The languages of Eurasia would return to the fertile ground of common roots.” I was surprised. Usually Boris Vladimirovich did not like Marxist interpretations and criticized them for “self-deluded cosmopolitanism.” Why did he try to embrace it—to subsume it under the Eurasian ideal? Am I missing something very important? After the seminar Boris Vladimirovich congratulates X. No, he didn’t kiss her hand the way he kissed mine. He takes pride in 90

Ninochka actually kissing a woman’s hand with his lips—“not the way French do it.” With her it’s different. He shook her hand and looked her straight in the eye. I’ve never seen him do anything like that. With me he winces, smiles, gets furious or tender, but he never looks me straight in the eye.

X Dream It was a very pleasant dream that at the beginning made me happy. In the dream I finally address X. I have never spoken to her in real life. Oh, it’s such a relief. Everything is so clear now. There is no need to worry or to be afraid. She’s just a little shy. She doesn’t usually speak to strangers. But I am no longer a stranger to her. She is glad to speak with me. She says she has wanted to meet me for a long time but didn’t dare to start a conversation. I don’t remember what we talk about, but we feel very much at ease, and it seems like we are old friends. She doesn’t have the voice of a quiet visionary in everyday life. She is very easy-going. She greets me with a kiss and a smudged red trace remains on the wrinkle above my lips. She removes a troubling speck from my tired eyes with her embroidered handkerchief with a familiar smell of Forget-Me-Nots. They don’t make this perfume in Paris anymore. I suggest we go the swimming pool together. She agrees. We undress and find ourselves in the identical striped bathing suit. We go in to the pool together. I look down and notice that the water is dark and dirty. City refuse is floating there—trash, old newspapers, food scum, garbage, the head of a baby doll with bleach-blond hair, cigarette butts. It’s just like the waters of the Seine, but people are swimming as if it’s fine. A group of athletic women even line up to dive. X jumps into the water and calls to me, “Come on, it’s not cold at all.” There is no way back. I can’t be a coward in front of her. I go into the water trembling and think to myself, “It’s not so bad. It’s actually pretty warm.” 6/12 Today there is a big breakthrough in the story of X. I caught her reflection in the mirror of the women’s changing room, at the public pool. So she is human after all. The truth is she only threw a furtive glance at herself, adjusted her swimming cap and dived into the cool water from the ten-meter tower. Her body is one with 91

Svetlana Boym the water; she makes graceful and energetic strokes. I almost said virile strokes. She swims like a man. X is strong and well-built. She has broad shoulders. I am sure she would be chosen for any athlete parade in any public square in the world. I know what attracts me to her. It doesn’t matter if she’s from Lemberg or Bordeaux. She is a modern woman, a new woman par excellence, whatever they mean by that. She could pose for a statue. If it were up to me, I would sculpt her nude from the waist up. It would be that classical half-nudity that does not inspire desire but admiration, and from the waist down there would be lots of folds, heavy marble folds. I wait for her in the women’s changing room. I would like to watch her as she’s drying herself. I would like to see her stepping into water puddles, letting the pins fall from her tangled wet hair, hooking her bra and pulling on her cotton stockings. But, covered with white towels, X disappears into a cabin and locks the door. Seven minutes later she emerges fully dressed and invigorated, ready to confront the world. The smell of her ForgetMe-Not perfume remains in the air. 12/15/39 I walked on Montparnasse and caught a glimpse of X in a restaurant window. She wore a black gown with open shoulders and low cut. At first I thought it wasn’t really her. Her athletic figure, broad shoulders and boyish little breasts looked awkward in that attire. I stared at her through the window. She looked animated. At that moment a man in a dark suit walked in, and they shook hands. Not quite the way she shook hands with B.V. Boris had held her hand in his for a little too long. I detected nothing amorous about this handshake. It seemed like she was giving him directions, drawing something on the napkin. Was it a plan of the Tower of Babel with a colonnade and a red star? Next to her was Andras Kovac. He, too, was dressed with exceptional taste. Who would have thought that this Hungarian con man would even have a suit? The doorman came up to me. I realized that my dress had seen better days. “Mademoiselle, do you have a reservation?” “No, I don’t. I just thought I saw—khe-khe-khe—excuse my cough—I just thought that I spotted an old friend.” That damn cough, it betrays me wherever I go.

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Tanya’s Napkins

Triangles

Boris

Yuri

Nina

Boris

Nina

Miss X

Yuri

Andras

Miss X

Note from Andras Kovac Esteemed Nina, I take this opportunity to invite you to our new film series, Political Comedy in the Soviet Union and the West. I am sorry that you had to miss our previous Soviet retrospective. I think you might find our selection quite entertaining and instructive. I am

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Svetlana Boym currently engaged in the study of linguistics and its application to film. As you can see, we have many common interests. Yours sincerely, Andras Kovac P.S. Natalie told me that you expressed interest in my Manifesto of the Kinopeople. I am very flattered. I assure you I have long since overcome my youthful idealism. Perhaps I’m still a kinoman at heart, but I am also a man of action who wants to bring about change in the world.

Andras Kovac Manifesto: We, the Kinopeople (1929) We are kinopeople, made of light and shadow, projected on the screen of the world. Shadows of the present, we are memory-free. We have escaped the minefields of bourgeois guilt. There are no German kinomen and no French kinomen, no Hungarian kinomen, no Russian kinomen, no Slovak kinomen, and no Croat kinomen (not even Austro-Hungarian kinomen). We are free citizens of the Reel International. Our angle of vision is more important than our blood. The language of cinema is universal. No, film does not reflect reality, it projects it. Kinomen are the Columbuses of new Utopia. The Reel International will change the world. The kinomen will bring kinopravda into life. Our roots are in the science of light, not in the mire of national soil. We are modern nomads, flat as the infinite screen of our imagination, deep as sea foam in the storm. The kinospace is our frontier, our wildest prairie, our margin of freedom, not conquered yet by the capitalist commodity fetishism. We reject the kino-vodka of bourgeois illusionism. The cozy home of the adulteress with the plush sofa on gilded claw feet is not our refuge. We don’t care about the laughter of the starlet trying on fashionable hats. The fact that he loves her or he loves her not is none of our business. The train chase leaves us cold. We, the kinopeople, can’t go home again. Kinetic lightplay is our hearth. We make love to the whole world with our moist eyes. Psychologism has no place in cinema. We are real94

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ists in the highest sense—real actors in the cave of modernity, not cheap extras with blurred mascara. We don’t seek escape from reality; we confront the inescapability of modern life. And Madame, especially for you, we will create a few kinowomen, as adventurous as kinomen but with a softer angle perhaps and a pair of scissors. You, the kinowomen of the future, will be our best editors. And there will be no black frame with that ridiculous doodle, “The End,” in our film of life. We have abolished bourgeois finitude.

11

In which we all go to a Hungarian party and learn about Soviet missile launchers “Bye-bye, Sasha. Look, there goes another one.” Not-so-young Soviet soldiers, still wearing those military uniforms that are now in surplus in all East European flea markets, are leaving Budapest. Residents of Budapest are celebrating in a quiet, humorous manner, smiling into the foreign TV cameras. It’s all very low key. They try not to insult the pride of the oncepowerful Soviet big brother. A little black and white television is playing in the corner of the room. The room is smoky, stuffy and dark. The air is heavy and intense, due, perhaps, to the smoke and shortage of space. One can barely distinguish the faces of the guests. Most of them are wearing black or off-black turtlenecks and not very worn-out jeans. They seem to have come from a different era. If you met them on the street you would never think that they were immigrants. They have an aura of alienation that is not fully theirs. They look like characters from the 1960s movies of Antonioni and Godard that they saw in the crowded cinemas during the special “closed door” shows in Krakow or Budapest. There is something outdated in their intensity. They can only be easterners, living out the western dreams of their youth. Westerners, of course, would never recognize themselves in this mirror image, the way no “Ukraine girl” would ever see herself in the Beatles’ nostalgic “USSR.” “Comrade Lennon, excuse me, I can’t take you to my ‘daddy’s farm,’ not today . . .” 95

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In short, this is a Hungarian party. I couldn’t refuse Miklos’s invitation and had to see the Soviet soldiers off, at least on TV. Small talk is in full swing. “Don’t start again with the end of history. I want this fucking ‘end of history’ to end! They forgot that there were other wars, not only the cold ones. No, I don’t want another Bloody Mary; it makes me sick.”

“Look, these people don’t even know how to spell! There they go: ‘Buy, Buy Sasha!’ ” “Sasha has already bought what he could.” “Look, those poor Sashas were just doing their job.”

There are a few Americans present here, clearly, some political scientists, but the conversation flows way above my head. “Have you visited our non-tuistic home page? You really should. No, non-tuism. It’s neither egoism, nor altrusim. Atomism. We are all atoms, other people are non-entities to us, rational non-entities. We’ve just been discussing James Goodman’s paper on non-tuism and path dependency in the second world economy.” “Has he been to Budapest?” “No, Goodman doesn’t need to travel. He has links to everyone who matters. He’s the rational choice guy.”

I move away from politics into the kitchen. Miklos seems occupied with serving salads and drinks. It’s the first time I see him among his friends. I barely recognize him; his gray eyes seem brown in a different light and his voice is different when he speaks his native language. I don’t distract him. Instead, I try to cheer up Istvan, exhausted by the discussion of the end of history. “So, how long have you known Miklos?” “I used to work with his wife.” “I see.” It pains me that Miklos is married. But why? He is probably married in that peculiar East-European way: everyone is more or less married, but whenever you pay a visit, the wife or husband happens 96

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to be “at the dacha,” a country home that is a euphemism for almost anything. I take another drink. My non-tuism has its limits.

Miklos comes from behind and touches my shoulder. He does it very gently. It’s not really a touch, just a sign of camaraderie. At a party of total strangers, casual acquaintances exaggerate their intimacy. This is what parties are all about—virtuoso passages from intimacy to estrangement and back—with different partners. “Would you like some Sacher torte?” asks Miklos. “No, thanks,” I answer. “Oh well, maybe just a little piece with a strawberry on top.” “So is it immigrant enough for you?” he says, slowly plunging the knife into the creamy torte. “I myself feel funny here. One forgets we’re in Paris. But this is much better than that reception in New York where we first met. Or did we?” He comes close to me and raises a glass. “This is for the Sashas. Let the Sashas go!” We drink our Bloody Marys. He has little wrinkles around his eyes when he laughs. In the narrow corridor where I escape quietly I notice a familiar face. A woman with pale face and a red gauze scarf around her neck is preparing to leave. I’ve seen her somewhere before. Oh yes, in the Café Bonaparte. “Hello,” she says. “Enjoying the party?” She smiles before hearing my answer. “I know,” she says. “It always feels like that, doesn’t it?” She doesn’t ask me that preposterous question, ‘how are you?’ I know that she is very beautiful but I can’t describe her face. The woman has a translucent complexion and ever-changing features. Only a few freckles on her cheek remain constant. “Are you Hungarian?” I try to make conversation to mask my embarrassment. “No, I’m from here. My name is Caroline, and I’m afraid I am really French. And are you really Russian?” I am glad she doesn’t expect an answer to this question. We both laugh. “Wait, you have lipstick on your cheek—on the left cheek, yes.” She pulls an embroidered handkerchief out of her handbag. Where did she get it? They don’t sell things like that anymore. It has a troubling aroma, a smell of the past. She touches my cheek. 97

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“Is it jasmine?” I ask. “No, it’s forget-me-not. You like it?” She comes close to me and tries to take off the lipstick trace. “Oh, it might be waterproof. Was she a beautiful girl?” “Not really,” I laugh. “It was a middle-aged Russian woman who likes to make things up.” “I see,” she says and touches my cheek with her finger. “Voilà, it’s clean now. You can go back. You must stay for awhile. By the way, he’s cute.” “Who?” “Oh, you know who I mean.”

The rumor that I’m Russian spreads, and several drunk Hungarian intellectuals approach me to show off their knowledge of Russian: “Comrade Teacher, I am on duty today. Nobody is absent in class.” “Comrade Teacher, today the weather is good.” “Comrade Teacher, October will come soon. We will go gather mushrooms.” Oh, those sunny days of fifth-grade Russian! “But seriously,” says the visiting American journalist. “You don’t look Russian.” “Well, I am not really Russian. I’m almost American.” “All right. Welcome to the club! Why did you leave?” “Well, it’s hard to explain it like that. It was in 1979, that most difficult year. It seemed that things would never change. You know, there were so many reasons, political and otherwise.” I’m rambling desperately. “One just had that feeling of claustrophobia and powerlessness, that life was prescribed for you and you just couldn’t take it anymore . . .” “I know exactly what you mean. It’s like growing up in the suburbs of New Jersey.” Istvan tries to save me from my rambling. He has a feeling that I will now try to explain in detail how it is “actually not exactly like New Jersey,” and will go on and on about it boring my party friend. So he intones his favorite Soviet song, “Katiusha.” (He does it with great passion. He had a crush on his Russian teacher and helped her to clean the blackboard after class.)

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Ninochka Apple and pear trees were blossoming And the river was floating in mist Katiusha came out to the shore, to the high and steep shore She came out and sang a song about the eagle of the steppes, about the man that she loved whose letters she lovingly kept. Who doesn’t know this girl? Who didn’t hear her song? Let the soldier defend our motherland and Katiusha will protect his love.

“What does ‘Katiusha’ mean?” asks an American journalist. “It’s a name of a girl and of a tank, a tank with a feminine ending.” “A tank with a feminine ending?” “Yeah, it’s a term of endearment . . . for a tank.” “No, Katiusha is not a tank; she’s a missile launcher,” protests Istvan. “Tank or missile launcher, whatever. She’s quite a girl.” The American journalist remains unconvinced. “Is it a Russian song? Why are they singing a Russian song? Are they proSoviet? Do they believe that the Russian soldiers should not be leaving Hungary now?” “No, it’s not that. It’s what they sang when they were children.” “But I was just told that they hated to study Russian, that it was imposed on them.” “Look, they’re drunk, and the Sashas are leaving. Those Sashas were there all their lives, as long as they could remember. Of course, they were against them. They could hardly believe it could happen in their lifetime. It’s like the end of the era. They were cool at first and now they’re tired of being cool. I mean when you sing ‘Home, sweet home’ you don’t always mean it, right? You see now that it’s better to sing ‘Katiusha’ than ‘Attila was the King of Huns.’ Of course, neither choice is so great. I prefer ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’ myself. No, no White Russian for me. I’m okay, thank you.” Meanwhile the party has disintegrated. In the corner Hungarian immigrants in off-black turtlenecks are singing “Moscow

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Nights” with my help. “If you only knew/ how precious/ how dear to me are those Moscow nights . . .” “No, let’s do another one: ‘What are you dreaming of, Cruiser Auro-oo-ora, when the sun rises over the Neva-a-a’ It’s a Leningrad song. You know the Neva—gray ripples on the water, chained bridge, it’s like the blue Danube only more revolutionary. Aurora is actually a girl’s name now, like Katiusha. They are all girls’ names. Katiusha was a tank, Aurora was a battleship. No, it’s not because I am a militant feminist. It’s just how it is. Katiusha was a tank, sorry, a missile launcher, Aurora was a ship.” “I like the one about the red-wounded Red commissar leaving bloody traces on the wet grass (sled krovavyi steletsia po syroj trave—eh, eh—po syroj trave) . . . The wounded red commander with Katiusha—a woman and a tank—on the banks of the blue Danube. It’s a farewell scene: Bye-bye, Sasha. Can you turn down the TV? It’s all over; he has to leave. The apple trees are in blossom, no, they’re already bearing fruit. The pear trees are not quite there, but they look lovely. And the eagles of the steppes are flying—gorgeous, one-headed eagles. High grass is undulating in the wind. But it can’t be helped. It’s their farewell. He’s got to go.” By accident I pushed the door open and found myself in Miklos’s bedroom. His bed was barely made, books and cigarette butts were all over the place. Over the bed was a portrait of a man with the face of a Jewish comedian with a crooked nose and kind eyes, laughing. In the background a film poster with Greta Garbo in a lovely hat. The inscription was in Hungarian, and it was signed “Ernst Lubitsch.”

12

In which I finally see Ninotchka and wonder about the consequences “Lubitsch used to say that Greta Garbo was a very boring dinner quest. Sitting next to her was really unbearable; she would end100

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lessly prattle about trifles, about how tight her shoes were, how they were hurting her little toe, how annoying the Hollandaise sauce was and how pathetic was the last ballet she saw: ‘Those poor fellows having to lift those big girls. It’s so silly.’ She began her career in pastry advertisement and played a bathing beauty in pratfall films. But it was not so hard to make Greta laugh. Not for Lubitsch. Once he said, smiling, that nobody tried to make her laugh, so she began to take herself very seriously.” Miklos and I are sitting in the semi-dark movie theater. No, we aren’t on a date, we decided at the party to go together to the Lubitsch retrospective. Istvan and Attila, the two “Katiusha” singers from yesterday’s party were supposed to join us, but they couldn’t come: they had hangovers and “too much work to do.” Miklos thought I was unnecessarily paranoid. Yes, he had a Lubitsch poster in his bedroom. And what is wrong with that? Miklos’s grandfather knew Lubitsch from Budapest and from Berlin. He wrote plays in his youth with a cautionary anarchist touch. “Isn’t it strange to imagine your grandparents young?” I interrupt. “We always see them aging, caught up in daily chores. My grandmother was a dedicated communist. “Was her name ‘Katiusha’? “No, ‘Ninel.’ “Oh? “It’s like ‘Lenin,’ only backwards. In any case, she became a great believer in socialism with a human face. And all I remember of her are her recipes for the common cold, breathing over steaming potatoes, using a lamp with blue light, putting bags of hot salt on your nose, things like that. “I know. My grandfather also liked breathing over steaming pots, shots of whiskey and brisk walks. He was a real Budapestian although he wasn’t born there. He never spoke much of where he came from. He was good at telling jokes, but then decided to get serious and became a shopkeeper. He had a souvenir shop with gifts for newlyweds. My Romanian grandmother was very tough on him. “My grandmother was like that, too. She said she was a Leningradian and never remembered Chernovitz or L’viv or wherever she was from. She said she had all Leningradian diseases, including a sultry complexion, sore throats, bleeding gums, bad teeth, which wasn’t really true. She had a beautiful smile.” 101

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“I thought of making a film about my grandfather and Lubitsch reuniting in Budapest. It would be fiction, of course, since both are long dead. “So, how did you know about my interest in Lubitsch?” I ask him directly. “I first saw you in the library a week ago,” says Miklos. “You were holding a pile of books on Lubitsch in your arms, and you were talking to that silly guy.” “Who?” “The one who works on ‘Marxist Approaches to Desire’ and stutters terribly while doing it.” “You’re unkind, Miklos. It’s just Ian Jenkins from NYU. He’s trying to finish his thesis. “Yes, that’s what I thought he was doing.” “And what were you doing eavesdropping on our conversation?” “I was interested in the topic, too. Before that I saw you at the Neo-Barbarian exhibit in New York with another guy who looked like your boyfriend. You were arguing. He clearly hated the show. I thought you had a nice accent, and I wondered where you were from.” “That’s it? This has nothing to do with Lubitsch.” “And then I saw you at the Café Bonaparte. You seemed so serious, and there was that funny white dog playing by your feet. I thought it was a mongrel. I tried to compliment your dog. I called it a chow, but you were not impressed.” “I was, but it wasn’t my dog.” It is not difficult to talk with him. It seems that we speak the same language—broken English. It gives us an illusion of intimacy. We scratch the surfaces of our personal and professional lives with great ease.” It didn’t work out with Rich,” I say, “if you need to know that.” “And I am sort of married,” says Miklos. It is like in Gogol’s Inspector General. “Let me offer you my heart and my hand,” proposes the impostor to the governor’s wife.”Oh, shoot,” she answers. “I am to some extent married.” At this moment the lights go off. Ninotchka has the status of a minor cult movie here. There is a group of twenty-year-olds dressed in vintage clothes giggling in chorus at every repartée. There is also a pompous French guy showing off his English to his 102

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girlfriend, correcting the subtitles. And there is an American couple that keeps bickering: “I’ve told you it wasn’t a foreign film. I’ve told you. But you didn’t believe me. It’s black and white, true. But it isn’t foreign.” Otherwise, the movie theater hall is half-empty. “This picture takes place in Paris in those wonderful days when a siren was a brunette and not an alarm—and when a Frenchman turned out the light it was not on account of an air raid!” The war invades light comedy. Now comedy needs an excuse. At the time of the opening night in New York in November 1939, war had been officially declared for two months. Half a year later Paris had fallen to the Germans. It was no laughing matter. Now when Frenchmen turned off the lights it was not for a romance. Well, Americans know about the fall of Paris from Casablanca, another masterpiece with a different Swedish star with more sensuous lips and less divine allure. Remember, Rick and Ilse were so happy in Paris having their romantic trysts in all those places that soon would be chosen by Hitler as the ideal sets for his European conquests. Hitler, too, wanted to make a movie starring himself in Paris. He wanted a heroic part. So he took the city by storm. This was his first visit to Paris. “Those comrades, Iranoff, Bulianoff, and what’s his name look like the Marx brothers,” whispers Miklos. I hear the siren of the train. The crowds rush to the platform, moving chaotically in all directions, relieved to get off the International Express. Do these people look like refugees? Not, really, not yet. Comrades Bulianoff, Iranoff and Kopalsky come to the train station to meet the Soviet special envoy. They’re visibly nervous. They mistake a Nazi for a comrade, not a good sign. What happened to the special envoy? Does he appear incognito like an ominous Inspector General? Closeup: a woman alone, upright and awesome with unfathomable eyes. Her two bags are filled with gray suits and important instructions. Her handshake is an iron grip. “Don’t make an issue of my womanhood,” she says with a Scandinavian accent. And you know that she means what she says. She knows what she’s doing and does it better than men. Her eyes and her beret are the color of steel, or rather that grainy gray of an old black-and-white movie. “Lubitsch said that Greta Garbo was always on time for work. She never looked at rushes, she never even looked at herself in the mirror during the rehearsals,” whispers Miklos. 103

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Greta’s mythical face: square jaw, broad cheekbones and curvy volatile eyebrows. Maybe she was some kind of Mata Hari herself, masquerading behind all those dark glasses, trench coats and exiles. At a certain point, she was afraid of being shot. Her face became overexposed, burned by Cinemascope. Was there anything left to hide? Some suspected a sexual secret. It was rumored that she was a brilliant Swedish female impersonator, a handsome diplomat who made a bet to fool those hungry seekers of the eternal feminine. The audience giggles. They discuss life in the Soviet Union: “How are things in Moscow?” asks trembling Comrade Bulianoff. “Very good,” answers Comrade Nina Yakushova. “The last mass trials were a great success. There are going to be fewer but better Russians.” And then we fade out. It always happens at those decisive moments, when we would rather keep watching, check out all the outtakes. We’re always fooled by those sweeping cuts. What does it take to transform the Soviet new woman Nina Yakushova into a teary-eyed, bare-shouldered Ninotchka, a romantic heroine? It is as if there were two women there, played by the same actress, one very unlike the other. What is hidden between the lines of Count Leon’s not very funny joke? Mr. McGillicudy and Mrs. McGillicudy “love their coffee black”—it sounds almost sexual. All that is a cover-up. Who is that born-again Ninotchka, the bubbling lover? Do we trust her? In most of her films Greta Garbo plays doubles—her Camille is a saint and a whore, her Mata Hari a cool double agent and the heartbroken lover of a Russian pilot, her Ninotchka is a Soviet new woman and a romantic heroine. Usually Greta’s doubles can’t be reconciled, one has to pay dearly for the other. If a kept woman is saintly, she is ruined, if a spy finds her “Russian soulmate,” she blows her cover. Only Ninotchka gets out safely. She could be a Soviet patriot and a defector, a lover of the motherland and of the counterrevolutionary debonair. She gets along well with commissars in Moscow and the misbehaving comrade ex-Bolsheviks, is good at cooking borscht with sour cream, and perhaps some other things too. What’s the secret? A perennial love that conquers all? A very good conspiracy that succeeded entirely in its mission and remained secret even to the naive Hollywood producers? That 104

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Commissar Razinin, masterfully played by Bela Lugosi, he, too, must have known what he was doing. “You know, Bela Lugosi was heavily on drugs at that time,” Miklos touches my shoulder. “But you can’t really tell. He was quite good at appearing clean.” Comrade Yakushova and Ninotchka cannot live happily ever after, no way. Do we really believe that Comrade Razinin knew nothing about her love interests, especially her love affair with a counterrevolutionary foreigner. That was not a good thing in those days. Why was she allowed to go back? How can she both defect and be a Soviet patriot? All that in 1939? Of course, everything is possible in Hollywood, but . . . “You’re not paying attention,” whispers Miklos. “How do you know?” “You are cuddled too comfortably in your chair.” “So what?” “And your eyes are, at best, half-open.” “Shhh.” He’s right. I’ve got to open my eyes. I’m becoming paranoic. I succumb to the seduction to relate everything to everything else. Am I doing precisely what Nina Belskaya fought against—the persistence of paranoia? It’s a romantic comedy, stupid. Leon and Ninotchka learn to give in and give up. At the end, he even makes his own bed! It’s a trade-off. He begins to read Marx, she starts to buy hats. It’s attraction by difference. Just think, for a gigolo count and a spoiled brat like Leon, what can be more exotic than a Soviet woman? On the other hand, for a workaholic “new woman,” what could be more alien than a bourgeois pleasureseeker? That bourgeois dress with open shoulders that she wore her last night in Paris is quite becoming. The villains are the émigrés who are neither truly Parisian nor truly Russian. Swana always looks at herself in the mirror. That’s a bad sign. Besides she is a real duchess or princess. In Lubitsch’s world fake counts do much better than real ones. As Leon falls out of love with Swana (it wasn’t really love, anyway, just a liaison of convenience), we are supposed to fall out of love with the old Russia with its crown jewels and monarchist pleasantries. Only that monarchist hotel-boy Rakonin remains faithful to Swana. Also that gray-haired general—what’s his name—who leads Swana in a 105

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pathetic dance away from Ninotchka and Leon. We, the viewers have to fall in love with the new Russia, in Ninotchka’s lovely body. Why is this “new Russia” so conveniently located outside the Soviet Union? It’s a Russia of beautiful women commissars and funny comrades, “a Russia of borscht, a Russia of beef Stroganoff and blinis with sour cream,” as the comrade-deserters rhapsodize at the end. In short, Russian soul and Russian food, bittersweet and rich in calories. Forget Soviet agriculture. The price of seven cows is irrelevant. As long as Greta Garbo is in the close-up. “Come on, it’s over,” says Miklos. “You’re taking it all too seriously. It’s only a movie. The fact that the murder you’re so obsessed with happened after this film could just be a mere coincidence.” “Yes, it could. But somehow each of my witnesses talks about the film. They are almost afraid of it. It’s as if they projected something onto the film, something that had to do with Nina’s murder. Maybe it’s not in the film per se but in their fantasies around it. They all know something secret and want to cover up. Maybe the film has an indirect clue, gives a hint or something.” “Remember, there is no murder in the film at all.” “That’s the trick. Something happened behind the scenes, or rather off-camera. Something had to happen to hold the improbable plot together. Otherwise, I don’t see how Comrade Nina Yakushova and Ninotchka could live happily ever after.” “It’s the type of genre, that’s all. Nothing more to it. Ninotchka is a comedy, not a spy thriller. The murder happens the morning after, so to speak. Besides, must films have a direct relationship to life or death?” “It’s in the eye of the beholder. I just wonder if there was something in the making of the film, some secret that Lionel or, maybe that Hungarian character Andras shared.” “Don’t be so hard on Hungarians! Ninotchka was really an international venture. It’s film made by immigrants. They were creating their own fantasies of the countries they came from or the countries they came to. It was a kind of overcompensation for the loss of their own roots. You know, the producer Louis Mayer of the MGM claimed to have forgotten his real birthday and said that he was born on the Fourth of July.” 106

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“How very patriotic! Born on the Fourth of July. Long before Oliver Stone.” “Billy Wilder, the screenwriter, whatever his Hungarian name was, told a story of how once when they were working on the script of Ninotchka he heard loud screams in the yard. They looked out and saw Louis Mayer himself shouting at Mickey Rooney, who might have been somewhat tipsy: You’re Andy Hardy! You’re United States! You’re the Stars and Stripes. Behave yourself. You’re a symbol.” “But Ninotchka is a kind of nostalgia for Europe, Paris, the capital of romance—that kind of stuff. There is not a single American character in the film.” “No Hungarians either.” “I’ve read that Lubitsch was obsessed about the European setting for each of his Hollywood films. His cameraman was a doctor of philosophy from Gottingen who carried a bibelot of Goethe in his pocket. So he took shots of Vienna, and on one of the kiosks there was a poster for the Canadian Pacific Railroad. Lubitsch didn’t like it. It just wasn’t pure enough. So the poor doctor of philosophy had to get up very early in the morning and clip a “local” cocoa poster that said “Made in Austria” to the top of the Canadian Pacific poster. You see, Lubitsch’s Europe had to be more European than the real thing. I wonder what he would have thought if he had come back to Europe after the war.” “Actually, he thought of visiting Europe, but he had a fear of flying. Once they pulled a bad prank on him as he was flying from Los Angeles to San Francisco. They hired stunt actors to play parachutists and staged a forced landing. Lubitsch believed it to the extent that he suffered a minor heart attack. A cruel prank, really.” “What about Leon, Ninotchka’s lover, Melvyn Douglas?” “Well, his real name was Melvyn Hesselberg. Jewish. He flew to the United States in 1936 from England in the company of two Midwestern businessmen who were lavishly praising Hitler throughout the trip. He was amazed how little Americans knew about the war. He became the organizer of the Hollywood anti-Nazi league.” “Who would have thought! He seems so British in the film . . . I mean, French.” “Exactly, he’s more European than the Europeans. Hesselberg was blacklisted after the war among others who conspired ‘to 107

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bring to the Christian people of America the murder and plunder that has taken place in the Communist-dominated countries of Europe.’ I know it by heart.” “You know too much, Miklos. You’ve clearly done your research. Now I’m convinced that you came to the library for the right reasons.” “So whom do you find more attractive—that White Russian aristocrat making his living as a waiter, Rakonin, or Count Leon?” “I don’t know. One is too quiet and the other too talkative. It’s a hard choice.” We begin again our aimless wandering around Paris on one of those long and slippery walks of tantalizing uncertainty, and each of you wonders whether anything will happen at the end. You both know that it would be better if it didn’t. You desperately postpone the moment in which everything will be decided with either a precipitous touch or with a sign of distance. You desire the former but also wish for the latter—for comfortably predictable all-night sleep with no surprises in the morning, no phone calls from significant others, no desperate smoking in bed, no embarrassing exits. We stopped by the carousel right next to the Eiffel Tower. Le Darling, the restaurant on the water, plays eighties music: “Oh, can’t you see. You belong to me. I’ll be watching you.” It must be The Police, right? We are near the Eiffel Tower, but the Tower itself is closed. “What is there to be closed, if there is nothing there?” “Well, there is an elevator that takes you to the top, so you can see things better,” explains the attendant. We give up on the panoramic world view and ride the carousel instead. “This is the last call. We mostly do business with Eiffel Tower customers. They go up first, then ride around and get an ice cream.” The place is almost empty. I ride on a brown horse named Bonanza, and Miklos is left with a white donkey called Platero. “It’s like Budapest, only in Paris they paint their horses too often. They cover up the past with each layer of fresh paint. On Hungarian carousels the horses have many cracks and make squeaky noises every time you try to take a risky move. This one doesn’t even squeak.” We walk towards the Seine and discuss ten reasons why we shouldn’t get involved. One can’t have a crush on someone out of nostalgia. Passion is about forgetting, not about remembering, right? 108

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“You know when I came to the United States ten year ago, I wanted to be American, to belong. I didn’t change my name, but I married an American.” “I tried with Rich, my short-term American boyfriend. But he wanted me to say what I mean. Actually, I often did, but he didn’t recognize that. He wanted me to say what I mean in his way, I guess. Before that, I tried an aging Russian intellectual with a beard and bad smoking habits. That was too much for me.” If only Miklos and I had met some other time, it might have worked. If we met on a train five years ago, we would have definitely had an affair, that’s what you do on the train, right? We’d take the Trans-Siberian Express. Have you heard that now one has to buy a special electric wire in the British Embassy as a protection against theft, which is very common these days on those night trains in Russia? Imagine, you are just getting into the mood when suddenly a couple of teenage wannabe gangsters in Adidas suits open the door of your compartment and spray sleeping gas. You become euphoric, fall asleep and wake up in Siberia with all your personal belongings gone. We’re sitting on the stones by the Seine near the Pont d’Iena where the local pigeons nest in the wings of sculpted eagles. Paris is so jammed with other people’s love stories that you simply have no privacy here. The bateau mouche passes by, exposing us with its wave of bright light. The prerecorded voice explains in three languages that the river Seine is “a functional modern thoroughfare.” A stranger wanders by and smiles at us. He does not really look at us. He imagines what we might be doing and he is titillated by his imagination. We get up and walk around some more. I am sorry to say we reminisce again. It’s a bad sign: when you begin to reminisce your chances for the future diminish. What’s wrong with us? Miklos walks me home and kisses me good-bye (on the cheek, mind you dear reader). I must confess I became so Americanized that after the first air kiss I instinctively move away. “In New York, you know, we kiss good-bye only once, if at all.” He rather clumsily proceeds to blow me another conventional kiss. We are in Paris, after all, we are in Paris. That was it. Sometimes it feels good not to do the obvious.

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13

In which I spend some time in the Bibliothéque Nationale and stumble upon a conspiracy theory ciphered in the script of Ninotchka • “Ninotchka and Her Doubles: History of Cinematic Remakes.” • “Royal Crown and Bourgeois Hat: Commodity Fetishism in Ninotchka” • “Feminist Backlash in Ninotchka” • “From Ninotchka to Natasha (and Boris): Cold War on Film” • “Communal Lingerie: Public and Private in Ninotchka” • “Homosociality Revisited: Iranoff, Bulianoff and Kopalsky” These are some of most interesting titles that I uncover in the catalogue of Bibliotheque Nationale. Otherwise, the scholarship on Ninotchka is rather scant. The film seemed to have fallen into critical oblivion. It is mentioned in The Double Life of Bela by Istvan Meszaros, trans. from the Hungarian by Andras Cohen-Smith, Routledge, 1980, and in Empire of Their Own: How Jews Invented Hollywood by Neal Gabler. I am waiting rather impatiently for the first published version of the script of Ninotchka. I am told it is “not on the shelf” and that they have to call a search for it. Meanwhile, I wander at random through the pages of the Los Angeles Times and New York Times around the time when Lubitsch’s Ninotchka was released. Here is Hedda Hopper reflecting on the plight of a New York script writer in Hollywood: The New York writer who just started his new assignment at MGM got his first initiation yesterday and he was floored. He told us he called the telephone operator and asked if there was a copy of Encyclopaedia Britannica anywhere on the lot. She answered: “What do you want that for? The only thing you can get out of that is facts.”

The advent of the European war began to affect the movies early on. 110

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“John Lodge Feature Stopped by War,” Los Angeles Times, Tuesday, October 10, 1939 Unique situation developed over the final picture that John Lodge was making over in France at the time when the war broke out . . . The title was Mayerling in Sarajevo. The film had only ten days to go when the crisis was reached, and the company had to suspend work because 200 extras who were needed in the final scene had to go to the front and no others were available to take their place.

Los Angeles Times, Wednesday, October 4, 1939 Official German films taken somewhere in Poland and now on view at the News Palace Theater hint at the unfortunate plight of refugees fleeing the war zones during the Nazi advance on Warsaw. Actual battle scenes are shown of the artillery blasting the Polish countryside and the Reich troops crossing the Narew river. Away from war-torn Europe the newsreel cameras over the week-end were focused on the leading American sport centers to bring highlights of the first football games of the season.

Here is another one of Hedda Hopper’s pearls, this time about spies: The Warner Nazi spy story is a pure dynamite. The script is only given out to actors on the set. None of it is allowed to be taken home. Two of our biggest radio announcers turned down parts . . . It’s so inflammable, it may burn up the screen . . .

Ninotchka was indeed prohibited in many countries. In 1940 the Hungarian fascist government censored the film on the grounds that a public showing of a the comedy would “endanger the security of the State.” (New York Times, Sunday, May 26, 1941). The Mexican government also banned the showing of the film because of protests from the Confederation of Mexican Workers who saw in the film a satire on communism. After the war it was blacklisted in the United States as potential “Red propaganda,” but then used as evidence for the House on Un-American Activities Committee, proving that even in Hollywood they know how to poke fun at the Bolsheviks. The film was prohibited in the Soviet Union, and the Soviet government tried to ban it in other 111

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countries as well. In 1948, they asked the Italian government to ban the showing of the film because “it contains insulting references to the Communist regime.” Moreover, the Soviet protest wreaked havoc in the Italian Foreign ministry. The New York Times reports: The protest note was received on Saturday but was not read until yesterday because the only available Russian translator was away for Easter. It created great excitement for the Italian Foreign Ministry for everyone thought it was Russian communication on the tripartite proposal about Trieste. It was something of an anti-climax when its contents were read. (March 31, 1948)

Instead of the Trieste proposal, the Soviets sent an urgent request to prohibit Ninotchka. It seems that Ninotchka was destined to play a key part in many comedies of errors. The Balkan peace was in danger, but the Soviet censors were too busy checking out Greta Garbo’s Parisian lingerie. The Russian translator in Rome, probably another overworked émigré, almost had a heart attack. Upon his arrival in Rome he was greeted by loud insults from the anxious Italian Foreign Ministers and some heavy gesticulations from their secretaries. What did he do wrong this time? He just went away for Easter vacation, visited his distant cousins Maria Alexandrovna and Nastassia Fyodorovna, had a few drinks, a few toasts, remembered the good old days—nothing criminal really. The Soviets can translate their protests themselves next time. The Balkan peace can wait! Finally the script of Ninotchka is in front of me. It’s the first edition of the script (Vintage Press, 1972), covered with dust. I am struck by an unpleasant feeling that somebody has been there before me. The copy is all marked up with penciled marginalia. It distracts me, and instead of reading the script I begin to follow the marginal paths of an unknown reader as I breathe in the library dust. My predecessor paid attention to two things that might appear irrelevant—the names of the characters and parentheses that refer to the text excluded from the film. Do they hint at another story that may be unfolding behind the scenes? First he circles the names of the three unfortunate comrades, Iranoff, Bulianoff and Kopalsky. He’s particularly interested in Kopalsky. The name is 112

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obviously there for the comic effect; it does not rhyme with the other two and brings a funny kind of dissonance. The reader scribbled in French: “Kopalsky from kopat’/zakopat’—to dig, to bury. Somebody must have known Russian.” The reader’s handwriting is accurate, small with repressed lower loops. Seems like a man’s writing. The other Bolshevik is called Bulianoff, a mixture of bully and bouillon. Then there is Iranoff, I-ran-off—get it? (Mind you, the other reader missed that one! English is clearly not one of his languages.) Moreover, the chief commissar who sends Comrade Yakushova to the West and does it twice is called Razinin—a hint at Razin and razinia (in Russian, a scatter-brain.) Indeed, one has to be a very absent-minded NKVD commissar to send Ninotchka back to the West after all her frivolous adventures. Unless, of course, that was all done on purpose, and he was much smarter than he seemed. I continue leafing through the script until I get to the exclamation sign. It’s in the final scene in the restaurant, where Countess Swana confronts the Soviet special envoy Nina Yakushova. The night after that Ninotchka “is forced” to return to the Soviet Union. With whom does Countess Swana dance? General Savitsky. No wonder Madame Krestovsky couldn’t remember his name: it’s omitted in the film. I notice a scribbling in the margins of the script: “Savitsky, leading Eurasian economist. Eurasianists and monarchists? Nina interferes between them. No luck.” The next exclamation sign is in the scene in Ninotchka’s communal apartment in Moscow. She’s chatting with her friendly communal apartment neighbor, a violinist who just played a sour note in the concert and was threatened by the authorities. Ninotchka will give her silk lingerie as a wedding gift. Meanwhile, she is preparing an omelet for Iranoff, Bulianoff and Kopalsky who brought their own eggs. There is a man who crosses the room. As the neighbor remarks, “One is never sure if he’s on his way to the washroom or to the KGB.” His face is the mask of fear; he is the figure of an informer. His role in the film is sheer ritual. He’s like a character in an absurd play who crosses the room from time to time in dead silence. The neighbors stop cooking their collective omelets and interrupt the Parisian recollections. His name is Gurganoff. My predecessor wrote three times with exclamation marks, “Gorguloff ! Gorguloff ! Gorguloff!” Gorguloff, of course, was well-known at the 113

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time, as the murderer of the French president, a paranoiac émigré who was denied his carte d’identité and was suspected to have been a NKVD agent. It’s scribbled, “Gorguloff—NKVD/ Nina’s neighbor.” So it’s not accidental after all. There is a conspiracy, definitely, a conspiracy. But who is conspiring with whom? And the suspicious reader, on whose side is he? Does he think that the Eurasians should not collaborate with the Bolsheviks? That the only ones who collaborated like Gorguloff were paranoiacs, double agents and murderers? And what was that Restaurant Russe that the three Bolsheviks opened in Istanbul? I am sure it was a front for something else, just like that Pizza Hut in Little Italy. Hard to believe that they would make so much profit on their mediocre borscht. They probably followed Lenin’s conspiratorial tactics on how to put food to better use. In case, dear reader, you slept through that history class in which they told you about Lenin’s heroic underground days, I’ll remind you. When Lenin was in prison, he didn’t waste his time having lunch. He would make an inkpot out of bread, pour some milk in there and write his invisible messages to the Bolshevik Central Committee in white milk on white paper. (We studied this useful skill at Leningrad High School.) The fellow conspirators will collect Lenin’s napkins, bring them close to fire and observe the mystic emergence of the leader’s ghostwriting. That’s probably what those supposed ex-Bolsheviks specialized in— snow white napkins covered by milk-writing for the chosen few. I’m not thinking straight. That’s quite clear. I am reading too much between the lines, white spaces on the margins and omitted parentheses. This parenthesis, for instance, is circled twice. It concerns the main character of the drama—Comrade Nina Yakushova. In the script she corrects Leon: “You pronounce it incorrectly. Ni'-notchka.” This line is cut from the film. Was Greta Garbo simply too tired? It struck five o’clock and her work day was over. Maybe she just couldn’t get the accent right? I don’t think so, I really don’t think so. The director must have thought that it made sense to keep a foreign stress in the title; for better or for worse, for personal reasons or for the sake of communal good, Ninotchka stays in the West. Ni-Nó-tchka is a Russian woman turned into a Western one. That’s how she appeared to her foreign lover, and that’s how we learn to love her. Why be so pedan114

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tic? It’s just a stress, a minor irrelevant detail that nobody really cares about, a trifle comparable only to the soft sign. It’s late. All of a sudden I become aware of a someone’s gaze. I turn around abruptly and see a young woman with dark spunky hair. Does she look at me because I look foreign or because I look familiar? Maybe she is not looking at anyone, but merely looking away from her book, staring into space which I happen to occupy? There is something disquieting and attractive in her translucent face. It’s the woman from Miklos’ party, Caroline, only she’s changed her hair color. I smile and she does too. But all that time her body does not move, she does not make any friendly hand gestures, does not mumble anything about where we did or could have met. She continues to stare. I pretend to get back to my work. Five minutes later, or it seems to me that only five minutes have passed, I get up. Not for any special reason, but because I’m starving. I haven’t really had much to eat the whole day. Just one croque madame for breakfast. Caroline has vanished. I rush to the bathroom somehow hoping to see her again. She might be standing there in front of the mirror soaking her handkerchief in the cold water. Is there a speck in her eye? Is she crying? She is in the bathroom sharpening her eyeliner. I linger in front of the mirror for a moment widening my eyes and sucking my cheeks. I forgot my combs and lipstick in the jacket so I’m grimacing pointlessly just to gain time. I blink and feel something scratchy in my eyes. It’s the dust. “It’s so dusty around here, isn’t it?” “Here you go,” she says and offers me a warm handkerchief. I feel better in a second. My tears, warmed up by her kindness, take care of everything. “You should take better care of yourself, really. You get too involved with things past, you know. You have to keep your distance from all that library dust.” “You see, when you study others’ obsessions you can’t stay clear of them. People get killed by paranoiacs or become them. It just can’t be helped.” “Yes, it can,” she says, smiling, “Look, you’ve got something here.” She comes up behind me and touches my neck. Her hands are warm and smooth. “It’s a price tag on your sweater,” she says. “You shouldn’t wear your price tags to the library.” 115

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“Thank you. Don’t worry,” I mumble very quickly and try to tear off the silly tag. I feel like melting that very minute right there in the ladies room. My hands meet hers and my sweater gets desperately entangled with the hooks of my bra. “Let me help you,” she says softly. “Those hooks are a pain, aren’t they. Don’t you wish we could get rid of them altogether? And the straps, they leave marks on your shoulders. They are so uncomfortable. I can put some cream here. Would you like me to?” I am no longer sure of what’s happening, and I let her take care of me. A thought rushes through my mind that I, too, should get the same fragrance of forget-me-not. At that moment a woman enters the lady’s room with the library ID on her jacket. “Hello, Caroline,” she addresses her. “Ça va? Is everything all right?” “Yes, of course,” says Caroline without a shadow of embarrassment. “I’m working too much as usual. And my friend here, she, too, is working too much.” I return to my desk. Caroline waves at me from her seat and smiles. Then she turns back to her books, and her face sinks into a serious withdrawn expression. I can’t pull myself together quite so quickly. I look around, I stare at the script again and the lines dance in front of my yes. Ninotchka meets Swana, in the restaurant where the countess likes to dine in the company of the learned General Savitsky. “You’ve got a nice dress,” says Countess Swana, “a very nice dress. Is this the latest fashion in Moscow? Open shoulders are very becoming to you. And you don’t have to wear a bra. They are a pain, aren’t they? I know you want me to help you. And I will, I said I will. Count or no count. Don’t you worry, my dear, try not to catch a cold. I sense a bit of a draft from the right. Would you like to join the general and me at our table? General Savitsky is the soul of company, a dushechka and a marvelous baritone. . . If only he didn’t work so much on all those nomads.” There is no point in my staying in the reading room, for I can no longer read. Anyway, the library is about to close. I raise my eyes and see no sign of Caroline. Her books are stacked neatly in a pile and the smell of forget-me-not lingers in the hall. She left without saying good-bye. Maybe she’s still in the ladies room? She’s forgotten her notes and will have to come back. We can have a snack or something. A mushroom omelet, perhaps. No, there is no hope. Caroline is gone. 116

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Meanwhile, it’s gotten dark. I walk through long subterranean passages, surrounded by a cacophony of voices in different languages. I hear my name very distinctly, “Tanya,” and then something in street Russian—den’gi davai, den’gi davai, den’gi davai (money, money, money). I turn around and see a group of teenagers speaking Spanish. I really shouldn’t take things so personally. Nobody knows me by name here, nobody calls me. The metro train is brightly lit; people study each other but very indirectly. I catch a reflection of a bearded man in the dark window of the train. He might be Argentinian. Did he catch my reflection too? This time I don’t smile and don’t make eye contact with anybody. I get off and take a very slow elevator all the way up. Do they have an alarm button in there in case something goes terribly wrong? Yes, they do and it’s red. As I walk out I again hear den’gi dvai—den’gi davai. There are two drunks seated on the pavement. One of them laughs at my fear: ooh la la, Madame. He’s glad that I’m easily scared. I must walk without looking around and try not to hear voices. I can’t help it. I feel someone’s gaze on me again. I turn around; there is a man walking behind me. I can’t see his face, only the blurred outline of his body. He’s of medium height. No, I wouldn’t be able to identify him. Oh my God! He’s carrying an umbrella! On a clear day like this! I cross the street. He does too. I slow down pretending to be lost and checking the numbers of the houses. This gives me a realistic motivation to cross the street again or for him to address me with, “Are you lost, Madame.” Anything is better than this strange surveillance. He slows down, too. His long umbrella hangs limply by his side. He is keeping the same distance from me. This is an old trick of the surveyors—they don’t want to attack you, they only wish to survey you. All of a sudden he picks up speed. He fooled me, he might have been a common criminal after all. I make a theatrical gesture after looking at the number of the house in the dark, something like puff—pss—voilà (“it’s the wrong one”) and go back across the street. I no longer try to figure out his motives. I don’t look back; I just run, cowardly, desperately and very fast. I run all the way to my door thinking that he might be already there, laughing at me in the mirror of the hotel lobby. I open the door. “Good evening, miss,” the hotel manager is proud of his British English, “It was a nice day,” and after greeting me, he 117

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goes back to his record keeping. All is well, all is ordinary. No, there are no messages for me. I enter my room and turn on the lights. Everything seems to be in order, or rather in disorder. Just the way I left it. I open the cupboard, look under the bed— nothing unusual. No shadow there, no body. I grab a mop and clean under the bed as if to proof to myself that there is nothing there except the dust and long-lost memorabilia of the previous room guests. And as I put a rag on the mop wandering where to find a basket in this tiny room, I realise that somebody was present by my side all along—the ghost of my grandmother, Ninel Markovna Blank.

14

A digression on common fears and on the importance of dusting, preferably with a wet rag She had fears, too. Once when I was five or six, and my parents left me alone at home, which was not at all uncommon among the communal apartment dwellers in big cities, my grandmother called me to check on how I was doing. Perpetually critical of my parents’ ways of bringing up children, she was not always willing to take the burden upon herself. She had her own life and on that day she had to prepare potato salad for Andrei Mikhailovich’s party and grade French exercises. “Have you checked under your bed?” she whispered in a serious conspiratorial whisper. “Why?” I asked. “Look for the wicked thief—strashnyj vor. That’s where they often hide, and from there they attack little girls and little boys when their parents go away.” I’d had no fear before but her whisper made me scared. She told me to take a long mop and sweep the floors under the bed just to be sure. “Preferably with a wet rag.” I would squat in front of the family bed, then crawl under it, breathe the dust. There I found old five-kopecks, coins with a hammer and sickle spreading all over the globe, candy wrappers from White Bear chocolates that my mother adored and my father must have 118

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bought to spoil her, a piece of old lacy lingerie turned into a dust cloth. Nothing more, nothing incriminating—only a few secret glimpses of my parents’ private life—life that they didn’t share with me. I caught my own shadow by the side of the Yugoslav standing lamp, a 1960s luxury item that my parents were proud of. I was sure that the wicked thief had escaped and would be in the dust of the alcove. The stranger, the brigand, the warlock had outsmarted me, so I had to live in fear until my parents’ return. In fact, the fear stayed with me, that visceral fear of a wicked stranger who lurks in the most intimate places of my dwelling. It followed me into exile. As many homes as I have had, rented hotel rooms, studios, shared one-bedroom apartments, I checked each of them for the wicked thief. He had always escaped me and always had the last laugh. Only the dust remained, a thick layer of dust where you could draw with your index finger anything you wanted—a monster, a princess, a spy or just an endless zigzag. I guess I am not a good housekeeper. Why did my grandmother share her fears with me? Did she want to scare the child? Unlikely. Perhaps she just needed an accomplice for her own secret anxieties. Everyone considered her remarkably fearless. In the summer when she stayed with me in our rented dacha, just one room and a terrace, she would get up at six in the morning and go to the forest alone to gather wild raspberries. She was a walking encyclopedia of wild berries and mushrooms. In August she would begin making preserves for the winter, mixing berries with sugar over a slow fire, bewitching them with some quiet, incomprehensible song. In the city she lived alone and often walked home late at night, took the subway giving everyone free advice, what they should or should not wear and how they should protect themselves from the winter frost. “Miss, you should button your fur coat right. There is a draft here, can’t you feel it? And your scarf, it’s all over the place! No wonder you’re sneezing. Drink some hot tea with honey when you get home. Cure yourself. Three days later you must start cold showers. They do wonders, you’ll see.” Young people would smile at her, sometimes follow her advice in spite of themselves. Then she would walk alone from the subway to her apartment house in the dark. “Walking is good for you. It’s the best exercise. Afraid? You must be joking.” 119

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At home my grandmother would turn on her lamp, a turnof-the-century lamp made of brass with a lampshade of colored glass. It was the only piece of furniture that she kept from her family. She would read and write many pages in her neat schoolgirl handwriting in green notebooks with quotations from Pushkin on the cover. My grandmother studied foreign languages and was quite literate. Once when I illicitly opened one of the notebooks, I realized that this wasn’t her diary, but rather a quotation book. She wrote down Heine’s thoughts on good and bad luck, Beethoven’s ideas on how to cure headaches and Tchaikovsky’s pronouncements on creativity and willpower. She never dreamed of recording her own thoughts and examining her own daily existence. “Do you keep your letters or diaries?” I once asked her. “No,” she answered. “You never know when there will be a house search.” “A house search?” I repeated. “Oh, it’s just an expression.” She chuckled, as if I’d caught her off-guard. “It must be from the late thirties, Stalin’s times, you know. We began to burn our letters and notes. You never knew when they would come with a warrant for a house search. They also came without a warrant. And how were you going to explain then? They were bureaucrats, little people in black cars, cruel as hell. I know that they were just following orders.” When I was twelve she told me that she had been imprisoned in a labor camp “in Stalin’s times.” I think this was the first time that I found out about the other history, the one that wasn’t in our school textbooks. “In the camps,” my grandmother said very matter-of-factly, “I wasn’t the most unfortunate. She would pause for awhile, stare through the window, continue washing dishes or sorting her papers as if there was nothing more to add to this. Then, all of a sudden, she would speak again. “I was lucky to have been put in with the political prisoners. It was much better. If you were placed in the ‘criminal camps,’ it was more dangerous. There were many informers among them, and they did what they wanted, especially during the flood. Then the camp was cut off from the mainland, and the thieves and murderers had the night all to themselves. But, of course, some of those thieves and murderers were good people. And if you gained their respect they would stand behind 120

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you, no matter what. If you didn’t . . . well, it wasn’t so good. I was a substitute librarian in the thieves’ section. They would come to me and ask for my advice. ‘What should I read next, Ninel Markovna? Give me something cheerful with a lot of adventures.’ They liked stories about cowboys and Indians and Crime and Punishment. I assisted the librarian in the thieves’ camp for three months, then I had to return to labor. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Yes, it was awful, but at the time not so bad really, not as bad as it could have been. I was in the best company, you know, among the most educated and cultured people. There was that actress, wonderful actress, Kanevskaya. It was rumored that Beria was in love with her, and Marshal Tito, too. He was a great moviegoer. She used to recite Uncle Vanya for us. ‘We will see the sky in diamonds, my dear, we will live a life of full joy and beauty . . .’ “I was released after the war, then arrested in the anti-cosmopolitan campaign. Was it in 1949? They remembered my study of foreign languages. But then they released me, because I had very good recommendations from school. It was my luck that I wasn’t a medical doctor. Remember the doctor’s plot? I guess they don’t teach it in schools. They should though, they really should. Being a Jewish doctor in 1949 was like having a death sentence. I heard that Kanevskaya died—what a talented woman and a wonderful person! I was lucky to have survived at all. Eventually, we were all ‘rehabilitated.’ Those bureaucrats, you know, they got the orders wrong. I had hopes for Khruschev that he would continue Lenin’s route.” From then on, every time I asked her about the camps she would sigh, but not volunteer any new details, and only reiterate how “lucky she was,” how she shared the room with the great actress Kanevskaya who recited Uncle Vanya by heart. Had I asked her if she had ever been really scared, she probably would have denied it or said something like, “Scared, of course, everyone was scared, but I was more fortunate than many.” Yet once I witnessed an episode that made me think otherwise. A local militiaman whom she knew knocked at her door, and she just wouldn’t let him in. I was in the communal kitchen and I pleaded with her, “Grandma, it’s Stepan Petrovich, the militiaman.” It didn’t help. She pretended not to hear and kept very quiet in her room, as if she 121

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weren’t there at all. Stepan Petrovich knocked at her neighbor’s door and found out what he needed to know about another neighbor, the drunk Uncle Kolya, who defaulted on his alimony for the whole year. When the militiaman left, she opened the door. She was a bit embarrassed when I told her that it really was Stepan Petrovich. “I didn’t recognize his voice,” she said. “It was Stepan, I swear, Grandma.” “Well, he did all right without me. I was busy.” And, at that moment, I noticed a mop standing right by her sofa bed. A wet rag lay next to it. Did she check under the bed looking for a wicked thief? Was she just doing her routine dusting with a wet rag? After all, she believed in the official slogan that decorated all Soviet schools, white letters against the red background: “Cleanliness is a guarantee of good health.” She believed in good health, and unlike me she was always an obsessive cleaner. Yet, we did share something, my grandmother and me, neither intimacy, nor beliefs, but something deeper—common fears.

15

In which the best part happens behind the scenes, so the anxious reader can just skip this chapter altogether I woke up staring into Ernst Lubitsch’s laughing eyes. Did you suspect it all along? You, impertinent and curious reader! You have to ask me “a couple of questions.” The answer is yes and no. Yes, I did stay at Miklos’s place the next evening. No, I didn’t consider the consequences. It’s just that we came up for a drink, and there was really no reason not to stay. I didn’t want to return home late at night, and I was tired of working in the library. Remember in the good old Russian novels the heroine blushed before and cried after, and we never found out what exactly happened in between? As for the hero, he talked with 122

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eloquent bitterness about the meaning of life (before, after and possibly during “the night”). So there. One thing I’ll tell you: memory can be very erotic. Me-mory. It resides in all kinds of places you never knew existed. It gives in and gives away; you remember and you forget and then do it all over again, very slowly. Just don’t go too far, try not to be too deep, or else you’ll only feel pain. It is a different kind of pain, not connected to pleasure—a pain that can forever disconnect you from the outside world. We didn’t do anything painful, we just circled around and around it and enjoyed forgetting and fearing oblivion. We played with memory matches, but took every precaution to avoid the fire. Miklos said that we had nothing to fear, because we were both “well-adjusted immigrants,” and we recognized each other from the very beginning. We could remember losses with laughter. Yet we were scared to lose more. “You know one thing about immigrants: they may make good friends but, I hate to say it, they’re unfaithful lovers. They are in love with the transience itself.” Yes, please, let’s say things that are grossly exaggerated. We can’t prove it at all; we have no statistics. We’re our own focus group. And a very lazy one. We just think that this is how things are, and that’s good enough for us. Tell me, doctor, how are we doing, really? Are we helping the cure or getting more sick? It feels much better now, as if you’ve just taken one of those overthe-counter drugs that make your symptoms disappear but don’t go to the source. It’s that deliberate obliviousness, doctor, only slightly addictive. Sort of like the French goose paté that is bad for your cholesterol and good for your cholesterol at the same time. Believe me, it’s new research. I’ve heard it on television. And if your symptoms return, my dear, I recommend a good night’s sleep and a glass of milk. And if you can’t sleep, eat some tuna fish before going to bed. Of course, we don’t talk “about us.” We don’t plan “to work on our relationship.” Let the natives do it. We celebrate leisure. In our codependency of forgetting, we recall other people’s loves and deaths. “I was thinking about Nina Belskaya,” says Miklos. “You were? When?” “Right now, while you were pretending to be sleeping.” 123

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“And?” “I wonder about her, and mostly about you. Why are you so involved with her story? Do you see yourself in Nina, or something? Are you sure you’re not related?” “That’s the whole point, Miklos, that’s the whole point. I am not her relative. It’s an alternative fate that really interests me, not my origins.” “Don’t be so defensive about it, I just thought I’d ask.” “I guess I am obsessed with the question when is the right time to leave and when to return, when to be intimate and when to be distant. There has to be a proper balance, I haven’t figured it all out.” “Neither have I.” “For me, Nina Belskaya’s story is an alternative biography, a road not taken by any member of my family. You see, my grandmother’s cousins all immigrated after the Kishinev pogroms to the States and to Europe. My great grandparents were the only ones out of the whole family who stayed. And then my grandmother traveled to France in the 1930s but, of course, she came back. She was a dedicated old Bolshevik. So I wanted to imagine another fate. A what-if kind of thing.” “It’s like my Lubitsch project. Only mine is not a detective story. Lubitsch and my grandfather started in the same theater in Budapest, except my grandfather was not as talented, not as funny, not as lucky perhaps. Yet, I now think it was strange that I wanted to return Lubitsch to Budapest. He would ‘come home’ and not really recognize it, and prefer the Budapest film set made in Hollywood to his native city.” “Exile is a kind of double life. You were there, you had your everyday routines in your homeland, and then you have to leave, to uproot yourself. In the new place where you find yourself, you don’t even know how to say ‘hello’ properly, how to talk about the weather without an accent and what to say to the cashier in the supermarket.” “I know, I always do something wrong. But the cashier doesn’t mind.” “You just use your Hungarian charms.” “Yeah, but I don’t think my grocer knows where Hungary is.” (Sorry, if I’m boring you with all this talk. I know in an American film you show as many body parts as you can, but you 124

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talk very little either before or after. It seems simply indecent to talk too much, unless, of course, you’re a villain. Then you get to use such words as “existentialism” and mention the name of a foreign writer, preferably mispronounced. Even the villain doesn’t want to look too pretentious. If you show people talking in bed for more than three minutes, the producer would cut it and demand some action. And the audience would yawn, fidget in their seats and litter the movie theater with buttered popcorn. Intellectual conversation, oh, it’s worse than frontal nudity! What can I do, dear patient reader, if we really did talk in bed—foreigners as we were?) “For foreigners, the States are a good place to live, especially if you’re perched right on the coast. After a while you get addicted to alternative lives. You’ve left one country, arrived in another, but you actually live in some third place, which is neither here nor there.” “That’s exactly where we are. And it’s nice to be here.” “You forget that there is a price tag attached to all this, to use the American expression. One pays dearly for living neither here nor there. Nina died, you know. Someone got away with murder. “Oh, you’re getting pessimistic, my dear, so early in the morning. We haven’t even had our first cup of coffee yet.” “Neither did she. Nina, I mean. She was still in bed, not quite ready to start a new day. You know the feeling. It seemed another one of those gray days, just a bit lighter than usual. She didn’t think she was at the scene of a crime. Not at that hour.” “Maybe it was an accident?” “Maybe, but what does that really mean, ‘an accident’? That’s what I don’t understand. And, also, all my usual suspects had great alibis, not the everyday kind of alibis. ‘I was neither here nor there—walked across the street, took a cab, was in transit, on my way to work’—something like that. How many unaccounted halfhours do we have in our lives? Yet, Natalie, Boris Vladimirovich, Poltavsky-Rizhsky all had proper alibis, too good to be true, as if they fabricated them in advance, as if they thought of their life as an alibi, always prepared for pointless accusations. I wonder about those two anonymous fellows that Lionel met in the coffee shop. And Miss X? Where did she happen to be at that morning hour? Has anyone seen her ‘by accident’?” 125

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“You forgot the Hungarians and the movies.” “No, I didn’t. I’d like to know what that shadowy Hungarian character is doing in the background of my story. I’ve got to check out the Hungarian connection.” “Well, in a way, you already are.” “You, Miklos, are you a part of the plot, too?” “No, I came along by accident, you know that. Besides, it was you who chose to talk with a stranger. You asked me where I was from; you gave me your address. You let me follow you. In fact, you wanted me to follow you. I just followed your desires. Sometimes I think you’ve conjured me up. Or maybe I conjured you up, I don’t know.” At that moment the phone rings. “I’m not going to answer,” says Miklos. The machine is on. “Hello, this is Miklos, I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message.” It’s an energetic American female voice with no accent whatsoever. “Hi, Mikey, it’s me. Where the hell are you, I tried calling and calling. I’m arriving tomorrow.” Miklos rushes to the phone. He does not look at me, he grabs the cordless phone and goes to the kitchen naked, absolutely naked. “Hello, dear. Of course, everything’s fine. I was at Istvan’s last night. He’s still upset about that job at Cornell. Remember, I told you. They hired a British guy, what’s his name, from Sussex. Yeah, of course. It’s just that those people are working outside my window, repairing something or rather drilling holes in the wall. I didn’t hear you.” Miklos lies very convincingly. He does it smoothly and matter-of-factly, providing a wealth of everyday detail. It’s so ordinary, you’d never suspect anything. I get dressed quietly and quickly and slip out to the street. I wave understandingly to Miklos. He is rolling his eyes, pointing to the receiver and then makes a gesture that he will call me later.

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15-A

Hardly a chapter at all, a couple of loose pages from my computer diary Morning. Can’t decide what to have for breakfast. M. didn’t call. I sat at the computer hungry, pouring my heart out to the friendly machine. It’s time that I upgraded my memory. Otherwise, my computer keeps suggesting that I should empty my trash, and I don’t like doing that. I like to save things for as long as I can. It doesn’t matter where—under my bed or in the virtual wastebasket. “Are you sure you want to erase it?” asks the cheerful cartoon character. Oh no, please, not yet. Computer memory is the opposite of the human one. It’s very reliable. There are no ambiguities there. There is nothing to betray or to conceal. It always gives you what you wanted—no more and no less than that. Computer memory is not connected to feeling. The taste of a madeleine is irrelevant here; in fact, the computer thinks I would be better off changing “madeleine” to “medallion.” Sometimes your fingers don’t obey you anymore. You think you’re pushing “return,” but inadvertently your little finger hits “help,” and a black question mark starts dancing on your blinking screen. No, I don’t need help, I just wanted to return, to revisit, to remember, to start a new line, that’s all. Personal memories might erupt suddenly when you hit a wrong button, and other times they remain inaccessible. You follow the right steps and nothing clicks. Worst of all, you realize that nothing is simply stored out there in the virtual comfort of your mind. Your memories come back to you “with interest.” They cunningly adapt themselves to your touch, get dressed up or dressed down for the occasion. My witnesses have unreliable memories. They remember their own unfaithful reconstructions of fifty years ago. By now, they believe in them. So it’s only when you let them chat away, babble, twaddle, patter and jabber that they can stumble upon a genuine remembrance and spill it out by accident. That’s what I hope for, but I won’t bet on it. M. still didn’t call. I am not really waiting for his call. But I know that he knows that I’m home at this hour. So I stay home for another twenty minutes, until half past eleven, I don’t even go out to get a coffee. 127

Svetlana Boym I recovered my old high school diaries from the age of fifteen. My girlfriend brought them from Russia. I used to be very depressed during the spring vacations. I would walk along the river, cross the bridges covered with sleet in wet boots and then at night cover long diary pages with my reflections on Tolstoy’s theory of moral self-improvement and on Captain Mayne Reed’s Headless Horseman. At the end there would be a line: “S. didn’t call. Another day is wasted.” Now, so many years later, I don’t remember exactly who S. was, but I am forever wounded that he didn’t call.

Next day, whatever date it is I had a dream that the past does not exist. But it is a big secret. So we have to fabricate effects of the past as patiently as we can. We take new, plastic-perfect records and then layer upon them the traces of time past. We scratch them with needles so that they acquire the squeaky sound of weariness. We take a brand new book and put an aging powder on the pages to give them that yellowish hue of old age. We diligently stain the corners of the pages, miming the fingerprints of those old-fashioned readers who wished to be permanent residents of fiction. We put ink blotches on the fresh print and blur the lines. We don’t really care if the book is still readable. That’s not the point. They all are digitized and exist on microfilm anyway. These books will only serve as valuable antiques.

I have the symptoms of a common cold. Sore throat, headache and apathy. I drink orange juice from concentrate, and it upsets my stomach. It’s been two days now, and Miklos hasn’t called.

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16

Which tells you how to cure a common cold with roasted salt and potato steam and how to remove stains on your red Pioneer tie Postcard from Ninel Markovna Blank, Leningrad, Russia My dear granddaughter, I haven’t received any letters from you for a while. I know that you are very busy working on your project in Paris. I am very happy and proud of you, for I was never able to finish my projects. I hope you will. Paris is a very beautiful city: I remember Notre Dame, Île Saint Louis, Tour Eiffel, Montparnasse. These are not empty names for me. You know, I recently came across your picture taken on the day you became a Young Pioneer. You wear a newly ironed tie without a single spot on it, but you look rather sad. I also found your stamp album. Remember, you had that great stamp collection, “Flora and Fauna from the Fraternal Socialist Countries” Polish birds, Hungarian flowers, Bulgarian sea shells? I will save them for you, in case you ever come to visit us. I have not been walking much lately. The cough persists. It must be that Leningrad grippe that you used to have as a baby. Good luck to you, health and happiness. Eighteen kisses, your Grandma Ninel

I must have felt closer to my grandmother when I was sick, although she wasn’t very sympathetic to my ailment. “It’s nothing,” she would say. “Nothing, if you think about all those people who have really suffered. Well, if they allow you to skip school you should use your time the best you can. Read. Draw pictures of exotic birds. Learn about the feats of Hercules. Develop will power.” I would often have severe laryngitis and, happily voiceless, I would be allowed to miss school. I would read my Three Musketeers in bed instead of the stories of the Heroes-Pioneers and boring botany lessons. I could never get interested in the structure of a leaf. My grandmother would teach me how to gargle properly, and we’d do it every two hours plus an intensive gargle session before going to bed. “Forget those fancy remedies, just use coarse sea salt and

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warm water. Baking soda will do. Try not to swallow; the water isn’t very clean. Just gargle slowly as deep as you can.” My grandmother was convinced that a cold shower was the best remedy for most diseases. That’s why she was so upset about her untidy communal neighbors who used the shower to clean their army boots and cats. She also believed in the magical curative powers of “hot salt bags.” She roasted salt in the frying pan, placed it into a little bag made of an old shirt and then applied the hot salt bag to your nose or to your feet. Hot salt bags were usually a sure thing. I suspect now it might have been an old camp remedy, but we weren’t quite sure where my grandmother picked it up. In the particularly severe cases one could combine the “hot salt treatment” with the “potato steam breathing.” This is how it’s done: bring the water to boil in a medium size saucepan. (Use your designated gas burner. Do not spill water into the soup pot of your neighbor. This might interrupt the treatment and bring disaster that will cause permanent trauma.) (1) Place four medium size peeled potatoes into the boiling water and add a bit of salt. (2) Put a towel around your head and lean over the pot containing the boiling potatoes. (3) Don’t come too close. Inhale the potato steam for five minutes. (4) Don’t be afraid to sweat. It’s good for you. If the neighbor chooses to remove the chicken fat from her soup pot at the precise moment that you are inhaling the potato steam, stop the treatment and return to the kitchen in five minutes. Do not argue with the neighbor. You will lose the remains of your voice, worsen your laryngitis and prove nothing to anybody. Remember that communal apartment neighbors can be sick, too. My parents laughed at my grandmother’s treatment program and preferred to hot salt bags and potato steam the new and improved “lamp of blue light” that exuded special electric heat. You would place it near your nose, and it provided good relief for the sinuses. They thought that my grandmother was behind the times. I must confess that I liked all of the family treatments, the hot salt bags, the potato steam and the lamp of blue light. They all helped! Of course, this was long time ago, in my unspoiled, pre-Sudafed existence. There was only one treatment that I hated— that was what my grandma dubbed “developing will power.” Working on “will power”—sila voli—was the latest pedagogical fad of the time, and my grandmother was its biggest enthusi130

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ast. She worked in a secondary school. She was trained to teach German and French. She spoke both with a very heavy accent and perfect grammar. Her knowledge didn’t seem to extend far beyond the text book exercises—“Marie is a good student. Marie and her friend Françoise go to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery to put flowers on the Wall of the Communards.” Or “Gretchen and Franz like to walk in the forest. The forest in Bavaria is very beautiful in spring!” But it was hard to find a job teaching the language of the former enemy. So she became a secondary school teacher and taught all subjects in grades 1 to 4. She told me stories about heroic revolutionary struggles. Lenin in her stories acted and sounded like a beardless Fidel Castro, her big hero in the late 1960s. When I was about to join the Young Pioneer Organization at the age of nine, she was very excited. She wanted it to be perfect. She ironed my white apron and explained to me the symbolic meaning of the three angles of the pioneer tie. We listened to the joyful song about Katiusha who guards her motherland and her faithful soldier and about the little pioneer eagle that flies “higher than the sun.” I was very excited. Becoming a young pioneer turned into the story of my first great disillusionment. The ceremony usually took place at the Cruiser Aurora, the revolutionary ship that fired the shot that started the storming of the Winter Palace in 1917. It happened that the Cruiser Aurora was booked in advance for a cocktail party for the visiting sailors from fraternal Eastern Bloc countries. So our Pioneer ceremony was moved to the local House of Culture named after the 50th Anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution, a shabby steel and concrete building with a portrait of Lenin on red gauze. The president of the district Komsomol Organization, Vladimir Ivanych Romanenko, happened to be a chubby man with reddish rabbit eyes. He smelled of cheap alcohol even when he didn’t drink. The drummer, too, had a hangover and beat his drums mercilessly at the most inopportune moments. We were the last event of the day, and we were “just kids” anyway, so the Committee decided to rush through the ritual at an accelerated speed, so that they could all go home early after a long day. “Octobrists! On this special day you’ve been given the special honor of joining the ranks of the Young Pioneers. On behalf of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Petrograd 131

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District of Leningrad, on behalf of the Komsomol Organization of the Petrograd District of Leningrad and the central bureau of the Young Pioneer brigade and from myself personally, let me congratulate you on this special day.” Vladimir Ivanych leaned so closely to my face that I could smell his not so clean breath with a touch of a cheap Hungarian port wine, and he placed the tie on my neck rather awkwardly. He did the same to twenty other people. “Pioneers!” he shouted ferociously. We froze in the line. “For the Struggle of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (meaningful pause and then another shout), be ready!” “Always ready!” we responded in a well-rehearsed chorus and joined our hands in the Young Pioneer salute. When it was over I burst out crying. That’s it? Is it possible? I told my grandmother that the drummer lost the beat and that Vladimir Ivanych smelled of alcohol and read his two-minute speech from a sheet of paper in a trembling voice. She had fallen silent. She was very sad. “They can’t do a damn thing right,” she said. “I’m going to write to the District Committee of the Pioneer organization.” I don’t know if she ever did. She thought that Soviet Communism of the 1970s was a profanation of the dream of her youth. And then I remember how she sighed every time she removed the stains on my Pioneer tie, which included ink splashes, borscht spots, pieces of cutlet from the school cafeteria, chocolate powder from “The White Bear of the North” sweets and what not. My Pioneer tie was a diary of my eating habits. Once I chewed up a left corner of the tie during a particularly tiresome meeting so that even my grandma couldn’t mend it. Surprisingly, she didn’t scold me. She just whispered through her teeth, “They deserved what they got.” “They” presumably referred to Vladimir Ivanych and people like him. I would have liked to tell it all to Miklos, to compare Pioneer stories. I bet he, too, used to suck on his Pioneer tie and leave ink spots all over it. But I don’t really know. Three and a half days have passed and Miklos hasn’t called.

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In which the detective misbehaves in the movie theater while watching a film with Gerard Depardieu Four days later Miklos finally calls me. He speaks very officially, the way people do when they’re not alone: “Hello, this is Miklos, I hope you will come to the meeting of our cinema studies group, 3 o’clock, Utopie Movie Theater in the fifth district.” That must be our new password, “cinema studies group.” All right. After all, we both wanted to continue with the Lubitsch retrospective. As I walk to the Utopie Theater, I think about all the time we have lost. We could have met every day. No, no, I have no illusions about the future. There is no future, no doubt about it. I just care about the present. We could take little Parisian vacations, like that inhibited Humphrey Bogart with the uninhibited Ingrid Bergman. That was before that heroic husband of hers, Viktor Lazslo, supposedly a Czech but with a Hungarian name, makes his miraculous comeback. We could be together just for a week or two, and that’s all I want. It pains me to see Miklos. He looks a little embarrassed. His jacket is suspiciously well-pressed. He doesn’t even smile. He touches my hand and only then chuckles a little: “You’re here. I was beginning to doubt your existence.” “Me too,” I say. “She does exist, though.” “I know,” says Miklos. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.” At least he’s honest, I think. I am happy to see him. “I’m glad to see you,” he says. I don’t know why we are standing in line for movie tickets. Do we really want to see the movie? We needed to come up with something casual, something we both “study.” So here we are— living out our pretense. There is a problem, though. Lubitsch’s To Be or Not to Be is at eight. The four o’clock show is “Too Beautiful for You: Bertrand Blier’s classic romantic comedy, starring Gerard Depardieu” prompts the flier. What should we do? We have to act quickly. “Two tickets for Too Beautiful for You,” says Miklos resolutely. We pretend we’re just casual moviegoers. We buy soft drinks and avoid difficult questions. We seem to have run out of jokes. Fortunately, the light goes off. Miklos takes my hand and begins 133

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to caress it. I respond. But we don’t turn towards each other, we sit very still in our chairs like diligent school children and stare into Gerard Depardieu’s sad eyes. Gerard Depardieu has everything. A beautiful flat with shining parquet floors, polished furniture, a marital bed with designer sheets and a gorgeous wife who looks like the walking cover of a glamour magazine. So what’s his problem? I get it: she is too beautiful for him! When it’s too good to be true, it’s no good! I’m sorry, I know it’s a good film, but we are not really watching it. We are quietly and desperately making out. We try hard to preserve absolute silence. We catch each other betraying a sigh, an inarticulate sound, a rustle of clothes. We cheat and cover up, we do little, little things, we’re being very discreet. The camera artfully glides over the shiny surfaces of Parisian bourgeois interiors. Poor Gerard Depardieu! What a strange life he’s got. Periodically, one of us looks at the screen to check how Gerard Depardieu is doing and to fool the other moviegoers. They seem to be glued to the screen fantasizing about Gerard’s icy-beautiful, unwanted wife, while he dreams about a plain and plump girl in a pink mohair sweater, the girl he works with. Why should anyone be interested in us? So we let our hands wander again. Yes, we both know better. We tried hard to avoid it. No, we don’t want to behave like East European teenagers at the opening night of the popular Western, Chinga-chkuk, The Last of the Mohicans. The Last of the Mohicans was played by a famous Bosnian actor, his face covered with thick make-up the color of wet terracotta. We don’t even discuss Chinga-chkuk, although the other day we would have laughed and remembered him with great fondness. We continue with anxious intensity to caress each other in silence. This is childish, uncomfortable, silly. I know there is not much future to all of this, and “it’s not going to work.” That’s what all of my girlfriends would tell me. “Remember what I told you, it’s not going to work.” We’re not going to do it again, we promise. If someone catches us it will be a terrible embarrassment, a scandal. “I feel like I’m on a first date again,” says Miklos. “Shhh,” a lonely film buff two rows ahead reproaches us harshly. “Grow up!” “We’d better leave,” whispers Miklos, “we’d better leave.” We go down to the Seine near Île St. Louis. There is a little park there with a few young people lying on the grass. There is 134

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a familiar smell of trash, the public toilet and sweat. We continue wandering. We don’t talk about Leningrad and Budapest. We don’t really discuss movies either. We cross the bridges enchanted and very distracted. Paris seduces us on this warm late afternoon of long shadows and soft light. There is another couple on the bridge kissing, some fifteen years younger than we are. She wears bell-bottom jeans and bangs. She looks very 1960s, only cleaner. He’s got long hair and a vintage peace sign. We must look to them like unfashionable oldies. The girl sits on the parapet very gracefully, and the boy stands by her, his hand around her waist. They are neither frenzied nor embarrassed. They kiss in public with great ease and seem wellversed in outdoor romancing. The girl addresses me in English, “Excuse me, do you have the time?” I wish she hadn’t asked. It’s seven. That dreadful time of the day, the “family hour.” I always hated when it was seven thirty, the time in New York when the only people who call you are the telemarketers, because they know you’re home. Miklos squeezes my hand. He’s got to go back. No, he can’t call up and say that he’ll be late. He knows he would betray himself. Besides, it was all planned in advance, a get together of mutual friends. Victoria’s cooking dinner, steak tartare with artichokes. He’s already late. From Nina Belskaya’s archives Paris, 1938 From Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky Parigrad, 12 maibre You don’t write to me anymore, my cruel beloved. You refuse to see me, you refuse to see a movie with me under the flimsy pretense of a common cold. So I take my revenge and write you a long, long letter. It is not really addressed to you, your unwelcoming highness, but to the other one, sprite and hospitable. Nina, the great mistress of the dynasty Nin, Your inheritance is disseminated, your porcelain pink vases are broken to pieces by those European vandals, your library burned by Scythian comrades. All that remains is a pair of worn-out 135

Svetlana Boym Byzantine slippers with beads and embroidery purchased at a Turkish flea market. Oh my soulless Ninushka, I want to give you another life. You should have been called “Lisa.” I can see you falling from the horse, throwing epileptic fits, screaming “Oh maman, je suis perdue pour toujours.” And then with a wry smile, oh, that inevitable wry smile, you’d slap the pale devil V. K. across his face: “That’s what you deserve, Monsieur Anti-Christ!” Or you should have been called “Olga,” who would follow your beloved into Siberian exile in a simple brown dress that takes centuries to unbutton. You would teach the ABCs to the poor children of the native population, make very healthy green cutlets out of local herbs and, of course, study the local dialects. Then you compose the first dictionary of the native language and become the Virgin Mother for the people of Far North. Or let’s call you “Jill.” You will be oh-so-frank with your friend Bill. You will say what you mean, and what you really feel. Earnestly, earnestly, you will earn your money and tell us about injustice in the world and our unhealthy lifestyle in plain language, simple and clear, liberating us, once and for all, from the prison of subordinate clauses, dangling postscripts, infinite infinitives and other perversions. Instead you are called “Nina,” what a plain name. You are the dead end of my imagination. I am not sure that you are on the other end of this ephemeral communication or whether I am on this end of it. I am not sure I will mail this letter. I am not sure you care to receive it. Having said all this, let me tell you a funny story. The other day I had another admirable soirée with our fellow compatriots, the émigré proletariat, good workers from Renault and Citroyen and other poor, destitute, trampled miserable souls without a leg to stand on, singing with the émigré gypsies about cabbies in the snowy steppes, dark eyes and long roads in the moonlight, shedding drunken tears. Mr. Kachalsky was there trying his latest hits and scolding the Soviets. He is hallucinating betrayal, imagining that Soviet barbarians are at the gate with Mata HariAmazon ahead. “She will arrive on the train. She might already be among us.” Then he blurts nonsense about the imminent rapprochement between the Eurasianists and the Stalin’s secret agents. My concierge is on his side and screams “Vive Sainte Russie” after a few shots of vodka. What was I doing? The usual: drinking and gambling and vomiting and losing and losing and winning—and losing again. Thank God for Andras Kovac. I know you aren’t particularly fond of that stunning Hungarian, but let me assure you that occasionally he, too, can be a man of honor and of intelli136

Ninochka gence, albeit a cunning one. In short, he bailed me out of my debt, begged me to take my life seriously and walked me to the taxi. Imagine, the taxi driver is also one of our compatriots, but one of those who drinks less and works more. I spoke French with him at the beginning but in the middle of the trip switched into Russian. Once he realized that I spoke Russian like a native, he stopped the taxi and began to plead, “Oh, no, no dear Monsieur, I love you but I can’t take you around, my brother is penniless and I have to, I have to feed my beautiful daughter and my sick wife and not let my little girl make dirty money in gypsy bars. Oh, it’s so hard to hear my wife coughing at night.” I asked him what was the matter. And what a story he told me! Yesterday, at the same spot and at around the same time, he picked up a young man who sort of looked like me but not quite. This man was more sober, had worse French and no particular expression in his eyes. But he was a genteel young man, polite, very polite. So they were driving and driving around Paris, and he has 30 francs on the meter and the young Russian kept saying, “Go left and go right and then straight and right again.” Finally, the taxi driver stops and asks for an advance. The young man laughed and took out a gun. “I am a coward,” he says. “All this time you were driving a coward. I wanted to shoot myself in the taxi at the first turn, but I didn’t dare. So I kept going and going, turning and turning. And as for francs, I don’t have any, only rubles with Lenin’s picture on top. You see, I am a citizen of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and I am here in the sweet company of the Soviet Special Envoy. You saw her name in the paper—Madame la Grande Bitch. If you don’t believe me, check it out—read, envy me, I am a Soviet citizen,” and he pulls out a red passport. He should have told him, the kind taxi driver: “Well, you’d better walk, comrade, if you wish to kill yourself. We in this rotten bourgeois world, we have to work for living.” But, as a good Russian soul he couldn’t do it, and besides he was so curious. So he began to ask questions about Stalin and the Moscow Metro and so-and-so in his native town and what brings the young man to Paris. And the young man mumbles that what brought him to Paris is precisely the problem, and that actually he is a poet and he is in love and he did not fulfill his duty to the motherland. The taxi driver says that it is indeed very sad that all of that happens to such a nice young man and that he is sure it is still not worth taking his life and that so much still lies ahead of him and as the Russian proverb says: “The morning is wiser than the night.” Then he 137

Svetlana Boym drives the young man to his friends. He lets him off, waits for a moment in the darkness to make sure that the young man gets inside safely. Two minutes later he hears a shot, as if buffered by the noise of another car. It was unclear who shot whom. The poor driver wasted his night and did not bring money home. “He looked a bit like you, that young man,” he says again, “but his eyes were a lighter shade.” Guess what I did? I paid the poor fellow just to show my gratitude and gave him a generous tip. Needless to say, I am not yet shot. And do not worry, my dear, I do not carry a Soviet passport. I am faithful forever to Liberte, Fraternite et Carte d’Identité! Votre pour toujours, with a mild hangover still, but almost sober, Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky

From Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky My dear cruel Ninotchka. You behave like a movie star these days. You keep to yourself and never write to me. You show me your profile from afar and dissolve into the darkness. I’m still writing to you, still hoping to see you and maybe more. Do you want to know what I do with myself these days instead of drinking? You’d be proud of me. I go to the bars and cabarets and no, it’s not what you think at all, I go and take notes! Well, the kind owners offer me a free dry martini with a lovely olive and, of course, I can’t refuse it, but I take no seconds. I am doing a series of sketches on our émigré life at its most cheerful and picturesque, in bright colors, with caviar, song and dance. It’s my guide for Russian Paris. It could be sold to itinerant film makers and rich Hollywood producers who come here to scout locations.

In Maisonette Russe Count Yousupoff, the man who supposedly killed Rasputin, entertains poor Russian artists and singers, offers them free wine and cheese in exchange for nostalgic tales. Monsieur Kachalsky is there, touching his garrulous guitar. He just returned from his trip on the Blue Danube. He composed a tango about it, “Sunset on the Danube.” Count Yousupoff sits there at the wooden table with carved legs, one of those old Russian tables made without nails. The wall is decorated with Russian icons and posters for the Ballet Russe. 138

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His face with almond eyes and slender aristocratic nose looks like a Byzantine fresco. “So tell me,” he whispers to a stranger, “you saw Russia so close, just across the river. What did you hear? The church bells, the sound of tractors? We lost our motherland, but it lives without us. The stream of her rivers is lively as usual, her fields are blossoming, her forests are green. We are corpses for her, no more than corpses, forgotten names, blurred letters on the tombs. Yet we’re still alive, we love her, we want to look her in the eyes.” Count Yousopoff squeezes a slender Italian cigarette between his fingers, looks at his malachite ring with its dark veins. Kachalsky begins singing his tango, and I finish my vodka and draw a sad doodle in my sketchbook. In the cabaret Kazbek, the gorgeous djigit Khalilov swallows fire and melts the hearts of rich American widows. They throw him money, and he pierces every dollar with his thin dagger like a very cultivated bête sauvage. In the cabaret Casanova at the foot of Montmartre cemetery, the mood is that of light tristesse, fragile like Venetian glass. Everything here seems a mere projection of light. The precious Murano vase, the luminous aquarium with golden fish, the tremulous candles on mosaic tables. Here the most handsome officers of the elite White Guard clad in pale blue uniforms with golden lace work as waiters. They arrive at work in their private cars and off duty dress like lords and entertain Parisian beauties. Among the singers here are Madame Plevitskaya, gypsies and occasionally Kachalsky. Here he is sober and lingers on his sussurating consonants with great refinement. The crème de la crème of Parisian society is there, such royals as Gustav of Sweden, Alphonse of Spain, King Zog of Albania, Caroly of Romania, and movie stars that include Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford and Marlene Dietrich. Here I saw Greta Garbo for the first time. She hid herself behind blue glasses and quietly sipped her Veuve Cliquot. They said she was studying for some Russian part. She listened to Kachalsky attentively. That night he was particularly moving: Ten years ago, in my autu-u-mnal orchard . . . you threw away your shawl. Un-ma—a-a-ade your lo—o-vely brai—ds 139

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Greta took off her lavender gloves and brought a little handkerchief to her hidden eyes. Was she touched by a song? Did she conceal an involuntary tear remembering times past? Or was it just a speck in her eyes, an irritation from blurred mascara? She left without a tip. The Action Movie Forbid the close-up—that intimate dissection, Get rid of cuts, machinery and action, And leave us slow motion, idle pan, deep focus and a supple mise-en-scène. Yuri P-R.

From the diaries of Nina Belskaya 11/26 It’s a cloudy morning. The sun isn’t shining. I have nothing to look forward to today. I don’t even have a toothache. I’m bitter, but my liver doesn’t hurt. I just have a minor sore throat. The cough wakes me up. I have no excuse to whine, to give my whining shape or a form, rhyme or reason. Senseless, senseless existence! But I am writing anyway, making pathetic attempts at writing, leaving ink blotches all over the place, dirtying my fingers with cheap French ink. Katia told me a story of a man who suffered a traumatic shock after the battle of Verdun and lost his memory. Before the war he studied history and engineering and was an avid stamp collector. After the war he had no past. His five albums of stamps meant nothing to him. So his doctor recommended that he keep a diary every day, recording his daily activities. The doctor hoped that through writing he would create a new memory for himself, a new past. “Did he?” I asked Katia. “We don’t know. The experiment is in progress.” 12/1 Turkish Bazaar Dream As I was riding home my soul was so full of dim reflections and of secret languor. I am going downhill on a sled in the snow and it feels bitterly cold. The sled goes slowly, but I can’t really stop it. And the music follows after me, “As I was riding ho-oo-ome . . .” Suddenly I feel 140

Ninochka stifling hot and I realize that I’m passing through a Turkish bazaar in Constantinople. “Lace, Monsieur, pure, handmade, original, authentic, exquisite, elaborate Russian lace . . . silverware, silverware, silverware.” Oh, where have all my rubies gone? Counts and countesses selling their jewels to the locals, sobbing, Russian refugees cramming into the tavern, “passport,” “visa” and “those scoundrels” are the only words I could discern from their murmur. “My soul was so fu-uu-ul.” I still cannot stop my sled. I scream, “Help! Help!” I scream, but no sound comes out of my mouth. My sled crashes, and I wake up. What’s strange about this dream is that this isn’t even in my memory. I have never been to Constantinople. I heard my parents’ stories, but I left through Berlin. I have never been to a Turkish bazaar. I really should stop going to the movies before going to bed. 12/5

Ropa Simple dream Another dream of persecution. I have had them since my early childhood. I am pursued by somebody, tenaciously and mercilessly. Not one person but a group of enemies, a gang, a military detachment. I run and hide and run again, hiding behind tree trunks, in the bushes, in dark closets behind the back staircase. I never know who they are: Cossacks, Reds, Whites, Greens, French police, Soviet militia, Fascists. Somehow it doesn’t matter. I know what I should do this time. I shouldn’t hide in dark and empty places, because if they catch me there, that would be it. Nobody would know that they caught me. I should run instead to the main street and hide myself in the crowd. Just run, run, run. But how can I mix with the crowd if I am wearing my pajamas. They might suspect something. No, no, I could just tie the top into a knot in front, and it would look like a very fashionable outfit, a Spanish ropa simple. Yes, if they ask me, I would just say ropa simple. They are after me, but I never ever face them; I always wake up in that very moment when they are about to get me. Here I am in my ropa simple in the middle of the night. I am safe. I don’t have to worry. I know that if things go wrong, all I have to do is wake up. 12/6 To Katia: To conspire means literally to breathe together. Often people “breathe together” only because of their common enemy, not 141

Svetlana Boym because of inner ties. It is sad that the only way to “belong” is through conspiracy. You can’t prove conspiracy wrong. For a conspiracy theorist the whole world is made in his own image. It’s a vicious cycle. The theorists have projected their paranoias onto the outside world, and they can’t see it anymore as their own projection. “Who is not with us is against us”—Marx said it, I know, but isn’t Boris Vladimirovich teaching something similar? I am afraid to be against him, I want to be with him. That’s the problem. 12/8 Hangover, apathy mixed with despair. No, I will not let it take over. I will redirect my attention. That’s what Katia taught me. Redirect your attention, mobilize your will, she said. I will work. I will work, I will write. I don’t think I even drank much. It must be somebody else’s hangover. Suddenly I remember something from last night— toasts and more toasts, zakuski and more zakuski. Then I went to the ladies room and for a moment walked outside to get some fresh air. Two men were coughing and drinking in the front bar. They hugged and kissed each other in drunken passion. The third man was sitting with his back to them scribbling something on a sheet of paper. When I walked out, one of the men looked at me and screamed, “Die, miserable woman.” Then he burst into drunken laughter. I looked the other way, he’s drunk, what can you do. But a few minutes later he jumped in front of me again, grimaced and shouted the same words, “Die, miserable woman.” It was getting unpleasant. The man had a sour smell coming from his mouth. I turned around, about to enter the other hall. The man who was scribbling on a sheet of paper was André Kovac. He waved at me and whispered something to the two men. A friend of the drunk, not entirely sober himself, ran after me and began to apologize profusely. “I’m so very sorry for the poor drunken friend of mine, so very sorry. He didn’t mean it, you know. ‘Dear young lady, don’t be cross.’ It’s Chekhov’s quote, you know, Anton Pavlych, our great Russian genius. My drunk friend here used to be a great actor, with applause, flowers, late night champagne, women at his feet. It’s all over now. He sings, the poor man, and then he drinks. Will you find it in your heart to forgive him?” “Die, miserable woman,” screamed the drunk for the third time and burst into mad laughter. And now I’ve got to get to work. I really have to get to work . . . 142

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Note from Andras Kovac Esteemed Nina (sorry, I don’t know your last name), Please allow me to send my sincere apologies for the behavior of my acquaintances. Unfortunately, as you well know, your compatriots love to drink their lives away and insult everyone else while doing it. I do hope our paths will cross in more agreeable circumstances. Yours sincerely, Andras Kovac 11/26 10 A.M. I slept badly again, coughing, scaring away bad dreams, doubts and questions. My throat is sore. But enough whining and moaning. Our Russian whining alleviates the thirst but poisons the soul. I am going to the movies with Lionel. Lionel who? My American friend. He is everyone’s friend actually, Yurik’s, Natalie’s and all the rest. Nice, sweet, uncomplicated, a “movie buff.” It’s a phrase I’ve learned from him—movie buff. He loves everything Russian, from Dostoevsky to Kachalsky (“I am a princess without a sou, but I am in love with my baby Jou su.”) Maybe I should go to America one day to teach foreign languages, live in a new world, translate on movie sets. Today we are going to see Greta Garbo play a Soviet commissar who comes to Paris to find romance. (What else!) “For the first time in history, Greta Garbo laughs in Ninotchka”—I read it on a poster somewhere. It will be amusing, may be even “fun.” Lionel taught me this very short untranslatable American word. God knows, what I need is something light, something that has no relationship to anything else, something gratuitous and funny—sovsem neobiazatel’noe.

Tanya’s napkin Nina

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Nino(t)chka

Miss X

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In which we finally meet Nina’s last lover Lionel, learn of his desire to become a great American writer and read his sketch about Russian roulette Nina and Lionel did not make out at the movies. I didn’t detect any urgency in their attraction to each other. She was a bit tired, and he was to anxious to see himself on the screen. (He makes a brief cameo appearance as a lunch-time drinker in the workingclass bar.) Of course, I wouldn’t pretend that I saw them in the darkness of the movie theater on that fateful evening. I can only imagine what happened. With Lionel, I followed Miklos’s lead. I’d like to follow Miklos himself but I know that’s unreasonable. He is unavailable. All I’ve got is Nina’s one-night stand. The first thing I discovered about Lionel was an unpublished fragment from The Autobiography of Alice B Toklas. He appears in Gertrude Stein’s house somewhat under the influence, talks about the movies and incessantly name drops. (Actually, he comes with two Russians or Hungarians—who can tell the difference? They were introduced as two “great bards of our century,” but they spent most of the time in Gertrude Stein’s bathroom and therefore remained underappreciated. Alice is “awfully sorry she didn’t quite catch their names: “Was it Kovalsky and Kotovsky or Kotic and Kovac? Something comic like that; they didn’t sound like real names.”) The following fragment describing Lionel’s visit was discarded from the final text: “Miss Stein did not want to dislike him; she wanted to give him another look, and, he was not really to her liking. ‘He is not a sober young man,’ she said, ‘not interesting enough to be a drunk and not drunk enough to be interesting. Not great enough to be tolerated for his boring company and not so miserably bored to contemplate his own unpleasantness. And then he drops names— Picasso, Whitman, Nietzsche, Szapas, Picasso, Whitman, Dostoevsky, Szapas, Whitman, Nietzsche, Picasso, Dostoevsky, Lubitsch, Szapas, Nietzsche, Whitman, and so on. This is where loving repetition has its limits.’ ”

Like everyone else Lionel wanted to be a writer. He believed it was all a matter of discipline and hard work. So he always 144

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planned how many sentences he had to write the following day. And then he didn’t write and planned to write twice as much the next day and then go see the boxing match. He was never hungry. There was a trust in his name in the hometown People’s Bank, back in Kansas. He preferred not to talk about it. He quit journalism to become a writer and eventually quit that to become a journalist again. He was very interested in the movies. He wanted to make a one-man film of which he would be the director, the scriptwriter and the actor. (Let others produce it.) It was Lionel who scouted the location for the Père Matthieu Bar where Count Leon and Comrade Yakushova would meet. Here he would tell his ethnic joke about Scotsmen who drink coffee without cream and Greta Garbo would have her first and longest laugh. Nina might have slept through this scene. The problem with Lionel was that he wanted to live in the real world. He occasionally helped out on the farm in his hometown in Kansas, but that just didn’t seem enough like a real life. He went to New York and became a journalist to travel the world. Then he found himself in Paris because that’s where real life was in those days, or so he was told. Perhaps, secretly, he always knew that there was “no place like home,” but then he was a bit ashamed of his beliefs. He was fascinated by la vie de bohème, especially with its lowest strata. The French bohème, he thought, were already inauthentic. The Russians were much more real. They might have been drunk and poor but they never stopped talking about Art in those long florid sentences with subordinate clauses, the kind that American editors love to delete (“Where have you heard this? People just don’t talk this way”). “And their women were so lovely and sad. They always gave in, not like those naughty French girls,” Lionel wrote to his friend James R. Rutherford Jr. He wrote that he was not in Paris “merely to waste the family money”; he wanted his family to be proud of him. One day he would write a great book, an American classic that would depict the Parisian lower depths in one part and the lower depths of New York in another. It would be a beautifully crafted epic story written in short, pointed sentences, ready-made for the New Yorker. He went back to the States when the war in Europe broke out; he continued writing journalism, passionately appealing for the opening of the second front as soon as possible. After being briefly blacklisted during the McCarthy era, he resumed his writing on art and life. 145

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It was at that time that the Ernst Lubitsch film Ninotchka was brought in for the Senate Committee hearing to demonstrate that Hollywood was not entirely pro-Bolshevik. In fact, the film “shows convincingly” that Soviet agents and “the prettiest of them too” can be seduced by capitalism. In Ninotchka “our producers converted a poor, dead-shy Swedish girl into the world-class star.” Lionel was soon released; he returned to Kansas, only to find his uncles and aunts dead. He would later write a story of moving understatement entitled “Homes for Sale” in which he would depict the selling of the family home, the cutting of the apple trees and the dry wind on the Kansas border. He enjoyed brief success after the publication of his Parisian sketches in the early 1960s. They were praised for their “unique combination of true story with high drama.” The critics, however, might have been unfair towards his writings on modern art that were deemed “derivative and pretentious.” Lionel’s lifelong work “Loner’s Life” (an experiment in rhythmical prose) remains unfinished. He ended his days in St. Petersburg, Florida. In 1967, the Saint Petersburg Herald published a long obituary on Lionel Adams in which local literati expressed their heartfelt appreciation for the old master. They gave voluminous praise to his keen understanding of the human heart and tempestuous Floridian nature. One sketch that I found in the first edition of Parisian Sketches (clearly influenced by Baudelaire and Poltavsky-Rizhsky) seems of direct relevance to our story. It is entitled “Russian Roulette,” and the meticulous editor of the sketches suggests in the note that the names indicated by the initials should read: P-R.—PoltavskyRizhsky, K-ky—Kachalsky, K-ff—Kotoff and K-c—Kovac. I offer it here with slight edits. Russian Roulette: A True Story by Lionel Adams In Paris Russians appear most miserable and reckless. They breathe the lovely Parisian air with the smell of chestnuts, they drink cheap wine or café crème—and all the same they are unhappy. They are bad boxers but excellent conspirators. Some of them are poets; others pretend to be. What I offer you is a true story in the highest sense of the word. It gives you an insight into the Russian physiognomy, if not the Russian soul. 146

Ninochka The night was raw and foggy, with gusts of cold autumnal air. I went to the Russian bar, White Nights, with two recent acquaintances of mine, Nikolas K(otoff), a timid and pleasant Russian student (what he studied remained a mystery) and Andras Kovac, a rootless Hungarian, a handsome and spirited man with a Garibaldian mustache and the body of a Greek lancer. Kotov and Kovac were inseparable, although you couldn’t find two friends more different in temperament. Popular singer Kachalsky had just begun his favorite song: Russia, beloved Russia, I miss your slender birch trees in the rain/ Alien tribes invaded you, my maiden Russia your morning snow’s dark with bloody stains. P(oltavsky) R(izhsky), a young and not all together untalented émigré poet with a rather pale complexion, which looked even paler in the dim light, screamed at K-ky. “Stop that fucking dark shadows stuff. I know what are you driving at, Mr. Bard, the Tartars and the Jews and the Americans. Poor fucking virgin doesn’t need it.” It was clear that he was drunk. Kachalsky wanted to appease him and moved to safer tunes about jealous gypsy lovers in the starry night, wine spilled all over the white tablecloth, cabbies frozen in the snow of the steppes and purple mulattos in the boutiques of San Fernando. “What happens in that song?” I asked Kovac, for my Russian at that time was not so good. “Oh, nothing much. The purple mulatto blows her a kiss in the dreamy town of San Fernando, but she is only a prostitute; wine and men are her life.” “So? Why is it so sad?” “Well, she used to be a countess. That’s not in the song, that’s implied,” he said. “Kachalsky,” I shouted, “Let’s hear the one about the Malaysian Prince.” Kachalsky touched his guitar and began singing languorously I am princess without a sou, but I elope with my baby Ju Su-oh-oh, my baby Ju-su, Malaysian ba—a-a-ron . . . P-R. liked the melody: “Oh-oh—Malaysian baron,” he followed the beat, “oh-oh, Malaysian ba-aron . . .” Kachalsky continued with ferocious sadness 147

Svetlana Boym The stranger found your body in blood. The stranger said: “she’s a princess—slut” oh my poor baby o-o your body in blood my poor baby “O-O, my poor baby,” hummed P-R. “My poor baby.” He seemed tipsy and reconciled to existence. “Like my new ending, poetik?” Kachalsky interrupted abruptly. “No more singing for today, generous ladies and gentlemen.” He looked around and saw that the bar was almost empty and there were a couple of Russian émigrés and drunk foreigners, hardly a paying clientele. Kachalsky got angry. “Get me some vodka, brother. And you, poetik-boy, what’s your deal? Loved the song about the Malaysian ba-aron? You are no fucking Malaysian ba-a-ron yourself, and you’re no purple mulatto either. Don’t kid yourself. And forgive me, what kind of Russian poet are you if you are afraid of Russian roulette?” “I am not,” said P-R. quietly. “Not afraid, and maybe not a poet either.” “Oh yes you are, my little poetik, yes you are. What the hell! Let’s play Russian roulette, Monsieur poetik. I will give you my gun, my most cherished possession. But for God’s sake, let us bet high, very high.” Kovac tried to distract Kachalsky, pointing at a middle-aged American lady who just walked in. “Here is your chance, Kachalsky. Here is a not-so-bad-looking and not-yet bankrupt American widow, a great admirer of yours,” he whispered. “She loved that song about the cabby frozen in the steppes.” I have a lovely wife, a lovely faithful wife, she’s awaiting me; she’s awaiting me, . . . Please, go tell my wife, I’m frozen in the steppes, I’m frozen in the steppes, oh with her in my thoughts. But by this point Kachalsky was distracted. “My dear poetik, the problem is not the Malaysian baron, not the purple gypsy. 148

Ninochka Those dark shadows over virgin Russia-Eurasia are much more crooked than that, much more crooked. They have crooked noses and crooked minds.” Then he began to whisper something. Kovac translated it to me: “He is referring to the Jews. He’s drunk.” “The Bolsheviks and the Jews,” continued Kachalsky with a wry smile, “are corrupting everything sacred. The dream of the great Eurasia is in jeopardy! Bolshevik-Eurasian compromise is the most hideous thing of all. They send their woman commissar, the Jewess . . .” “You bloody judophobe,” screamed P-R. He hit Kachalsky in the arm. But Kachalsky wouldn’t stop: “Come on, poetik, write for them, for our Eurasian brothers trusting the bloody Soviets.” Yurik tried to hit him again but Kovac pulled them apart. “Come on, don’t fight. You both love her so . . . Russia I mean,” Kovac mumbled diplomatically. I tried not to interfere. Kotoff seemed scared and hopelessly drunk. The American lady was amused. “This is how they are, those wild Russians. They know how to fight, they know how to suffer, they’re the real thing.” Kachalsky continued rambling. It was clear he couldn’t be stopped. “And their fucking woman commissar just attempted to seduce our leader, the great thinker, the lucid mind of Eurasia. They try to lure him to the Soviet Union away from Eurasia. But the hour of Eurasia has not struck yet. No deals with the Soviets. This is the Khaimi Plot.” “Monsieur Kachalsky,” shouted the American lady, exasperated by so much incomprehensible Russian. “Will you sing for me?” “Moonlight,” screamed Kachalsky, “you can’t buy yourself a moonlight, lady. I am a singer without a sou . . . I drink, but I don’t sell. You, Americans, are behind it all. The film magnates invested money into the greatest script after The Birth of a Nation— The Death of Eurasia. They want it to be a comedy with a happy ending—ha-ha-ha. They will hire you, poetik-boy, to play a hotel boy. You’re so damn photogenic! It will be a comedy with many good lines and drunk Poles and Hungarians playing Russians! They would use those ham actors to make fun of my people! “And you know what? That brave fellow Gorgulov, executed by the French state, was right. But Gorgulov shot the wrong man—he shot the wrong man. Who cares about that puppet of a French president! One should aim higher and higher to get the conspirators, murderers of our children, the evil-mongers of Zion. The special envoy, the messenger extraordinaire, that Soviet Judas has to be stopped. ‘Must die, must die, must die, the traitor must 149

Svetlana Boym die.’ It’s not my song, it’s from the opera. ‘The steppes in the snow, your fate is my fate.’ ” At that moment we heard a shot. P-R. had put a revolver to his temple and fired. The room drowned in smoke. The American lady screamed, “Oh my God!” There was a moment of silence. When the smoke dissipated we saw P-R. sipping his vodka. The shot had been a blank. He was lucky. Someone called the police. Must have been the concierge. After the Gorgulov case they seem to watch over the Russians. Kovac and Kotoff left promptly, vanished in the fog. I knew that night I would not be able to fall asleep. So I went wandering around the marvelous city of Paris looking at its closed windows where the most incredible dark shadows began to come to life. The poet playing Russian roulette, a singer touching the guitar, a working girl unbuttoning her blouse, an aging concierge patching those silk stockings once again, a lovely dream of her youth.

I think this is Lionel’s most striking sketch. We see that mixture of realism and fantasy that Lionel particularly excelled in. He was a “student of old masters” as the reviewer put it, but he “saw them in a modern light.” Was it a “true story”? Perhaps. Lionel might have gotten carried away by his sense of drama, all this business of Russian roulette, fist fights, screams and wry smiles is suspicious. Yet, as a writer, Lionel clearly showed promise and was “not altogether untalented” himself. Most importantly, we now know the names of Lionel’s companions—Kovac and Kotoff. Lionel, Kovac and Kotoff—appeared together like the three Bolsheviks in Ninotchka, and had many comic adventures. Kovac, the one with the Garibaldi’s mustache, is attractive. Lionel had a thing for him—he compared his body to that of a Greek lancer. This must be why he stayed a bit too long speaking with him on that fateful morning in the patisserie. As for Kotoff, he seems to be virtually absent from his description. I remember hearing the name before. Were they in that group photo that Natalie and Madame Krestovsky showed me? Are they the three unnamed guys in the third row? I had been trying too hard to look Boris Vladimirovich straight in the eyes, I must have 150

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missed their sidelong glances. I’ve learned that Kovac disappeared soon after Nina’s death. The rumors emerged: some said that he took a boat for the United States, others hinted that he might have taken a train to the Soviet Union. And what about Mr. Nikolas Kotoff, the timid witness of so many scandals?

19

Which tells you what to do when you run into your lover’s wife in the supermarket I am tired of wasting my time and money in cafés. I am tired of drawing on napkins. I should really get myself a proper notebook or maybe even a Powerbook. I have to call Natalie and ask her in the most direct way about Nikolas Kotoff. I shouldn’t let her off the hook this time. I wander down Boulevard Montparnasse and try her number from every telephone booth. Her line is constantly busy. I resist the temptation of another rich café crème and go down the boulevard straight to the Montparnasse Cemetery. I always wanted to visit it. It’s a good place to kill time. I was lucky to get the last copy of the map to the illustrious Parisian underworld. It was a blurred photocopy with numbers and an index of famous names. I became an instantaneous guide and advisor to all those who stood in line after me but who weren’t fortunate enough to get a copy. A cemetery is a city within a city and a much more manageable one. The graveyard wanderers develop instant intimacies and share brief communions with their favorite dead. Have you found Guy de Maupassant? Oh, not yet, not yet. And you smile at each other understandingly, for only you know how much de Maupassant means to both of you. I myself have to confess a moment of sentimental attachment to a young man speaking with an indefinable Mediterranean accent who looked for Julio Cortázar. We played hide-and-seek, pretending not to pay any attention to each other and stepping on each other’s shadows. Then I found the grave of Julio Cortázar. There is a cheerful creature carved on his gravestone, a laughing embodiment of the spirit of his stories, nothing solemn, nothing angelic. For a moment I’m happy, I’m glad I came. 151

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Before leaving I make an obligatory stop by Sartre and de Beauvoir. Their tombstone is covered with hippie bracelets and messages from American college girls. “Dear Simone, thank you for staying with him.” What do people talk about in the graveyards? They speak about other graveyards. “Oh, but this is nothing compared to Père Lachaise. Jim Morrison attracts bigger crowds than Sartre and de Beauvoir; it’s because he is believed to still be alive. I saw teenage hippie imitators gathering at his grave not knowing quite what to do. They did not remember Jim Morrison himself, but they remembered that their parents worshipped him. I spent my time hanging around the grave of medieval lovers Abelard and Heloise trying to keep away from Jim Morrison fans, so I missed the Wall of the Communards. What is most surprising is that even the dead have their official “waking hours.” At sunset they are left in peace. Only a fleeing memory remains from their daily visitors— a few fresh flowers, empty Evian bottles and white sheets of paper, blurred copies of the map, that at a distance resemble sacrificial birds of some ancient funeral rites. I am back in the world of the living, strolling along the boulevard and making my phone calls. All I get are prerecorded voices. Natalie will return my call “as soon as she can,” and so will Miklos. I know I shouldn’t be calling him. But I do. I call and then hang up very quietly. I go into the supermarket because I am hungry, and I don’t feel like dealing with waiters. Here, too, people wander around with sheets of paper that guide them through the enormous food exhibits. They seem to be in their own world, busy deciding which part of chicken they’re going to sauté in a deep skillet overflowing with red wine. It is at that moment that I notice a nice couple. They are in the vegetable aisle, checking whether the avocado is sufficiently ripe, wondering if the Belgian endive will be too bitter. It’s Miklos and Victoria. I watch her choosing her avocado. “Oh yes, this one is not too soft, not too dark. Just right.” She really cares about things. She knows right from wrong. There is nothing tentative about her. She is good-looking, athletic and cheerful. She looks good in shorts. Even her shopping cart is well-organized—vegetables on one side, meats on the other, all in plastic bags. In my cart there is only a solitary corn on the cob and a chocolate bar. Dear reader, have you ever run into your lover while he’s shopping for groceries with his wife? Well, then you know what a 152

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devastating experience that is. Married couples are very exhibitionistic. They like to flaunt their happy domesticity and good nutrition. You, “the other woman,” can make love to him, wander around Paris with him as long as you wish, but he always has to “come home” for dinner. You’ll never buy groceries with him, you’ll never be at home together. And after all that movie-magic stuff has passed, there is no place like home. And that’s that. I try to open one of those damned plastic bags and I fail miserably again and again. Should I get something green too? How about broccoli or string beans? No, all I want is fois gras, very greasy fois gras. I need something to look forward to. This is not my lucky day. I rush to the deli department and then to the cashier and come face to face with Miklos. He is in shock. Well, this doesn’t really help under the circumstances. He must either act like I’m an old friend or a perfect stranger, but not anything in between. Anything in between arouses suspicion. Miklos is not a good liar after all. He already missed his chance to act the perfect stranger scenario, since he stared at me for too long. He can’t even smile and say, “Oh, nice to see you,” for Victoria is right here with two fresh zucchini and no-fat milk in her hands. Too late. Now he’s got to introduce me. “Very pleased to meet you,” she said very pleasantly. “Miklos told me about your work. We political scientists don’t get to do fun stuff like that. We have no time to study the movies. My field is statistical analysis of public opinion polls. By the way, would you like to come for dinner? I must say, Miklos was not eating well in my absence.” “Thank you very much,” I said. “Nice to meet you, too. Miklos has spoken a lot about you. I’d love to have dinner, I’ve been quite hungry myself. Maybe some other time. Today I’ve got another engagement.” “Too bad,” she chuckles politely. “Mikey, could you bring me another zucchini? No, not the green one. Thanks, honey.”

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In which we learn how Ninotchka was conceived and what made Greta Garbo laugh Dear Tanya, Here is an article I came across in The New York Times, June 29, 1940. I copied most of it for you. How Garbo Laughed: Writer of Ninotchka Tells of His Feat Melchior Lengyel of Beverly Hills, California, erstwhile of Budapest, Hungary, and occasionally of London and New York, has a niche all to himself in Hollywood’s mnemonic hall of fame. He is the man “who made Garbo laugh.” In 1939 the assignment to make great Garbo laugh was indeed an assignment! It turned out so well that he was nominated by the Academy of Motion Pictures for his efforts. The Hungarian scenarist recalls now how it all came about and, incidentally, how the picture Ninotchka was born in a reminiscing session at his home. In 1930 MGM had used the now famous advertisement slogan, “Garbo Talks,” for the Swedish actress, first talking picture, Anna Christie. Then, nine years and many dramatic pictures later, the studio and Miss Garbo were looking for a new vehicle for her— a comedy. MGM had a slogan all set for the film. It was to be “Garbo Laughs.” But the story, her first comedy, in which the star would be heard amid sundry snickers and enthusiastic guffaws, was yet to be found. That’s when Lengyel came into the picture. While he was lunching at Hollywood’s Brown Derby one day, Salka Viertel, a friend of Miss Garbo, whom he had known in London, came into the restaurant. After the exchange of greetings, Miss Viertel asked casually, “You don’t happen to have a story up your sleeve that could be advertised with the slogan ‘Garbo Laughs,’ do you?” Lengyel said: “I told her that I would have to consult my notebook, and if I found one, I would call her up. Over the years I have jotted down rambling thoughts for possible later stories and plays, but at that time I could not recall that I had any ideas along the comedy line that would fit Miss Garbo. A few days later, looking through several years’ entries in one of my notebooks, I came across a memo I made two years before in Europe that I thought might satisfy the ‘Garbo Laughs’ desire. 154

Ninochka I called up Miss Viertel and she invited me to her house. ‘Greta is here now,’ she told me. When I arrived Miss Garbo was in the swimming pool. I was introduced to her at the edge of the pool. ‘You have a comedy for me?’ she asked. I told her that it was yet but an idea and I read the memo from my notebook. She was highly amused. In fact, she laughed out loud at the possibilities the idea offered. ‘I like it. I will do it.’ Then she turned and dived back in the pool.” The memo that Lengyel read to enigmatic Garbo, and on which Ninotchka was based was three sentences in length. As recalled by the playwright-scenarist, it read: “Russian girl saturated with Bolshevist ideals goes to fearful, capitalistic, monopolistic Paris. She meets romance and has an uproarious good time. Capitalism not so bad, after all.” P.S. So it was an accident after all. There is nothing to the making of Ninotchka. At the beginning was just a slogan. Then it came true. “Garbo Laughs”—that’s all Ninotchka was about! If Lengyel didn’t go to the Brown Derby in Hollywood, and if Greta wasn’t enjoying her swim that afternoon, nothing would have happened. Ninotchka would not have come to life. She wouldn’t even have a name. There would remain an unrealized potentiality, a forgotten “rambling thought” among many other equally suggestive jottings in one of Lengyel’s many notebooks. I am sure that this jet-setting playwright would eventually forget about it sooner or later, or he would look for the notebook one day and wouldn’t be able to find it. It has happened so many times before. But sometimes accidents turn into chance encounters. I’m dying to see you. Yours, Miklos

21

In which a mysterious character from the third row packs his bags and makes a confession I call Natalie first thing in the morning. “Oh it’s you dear,” she says. “Could you call me later? I’m in the shower.” 155

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“I’ll wait,” I say firmly. “This is very urgent.” “Good lord, what could possibly be so urgent at this stage of the game . . . OK, if you say so. I’m going to get a towel.” “It’s Nikki,” I said. “I know his real name.” “Oh, my dear, it’s not so urgent, believe me. Nikki knows nothing. I told you more important things. I shared with you my erotic fantasy. Have you dreamed of it ever since? His hands wandering over her silk stockings, and so on. Boris was a genius of seduction. You have to understand one thing: people would do anything for him. Men and women. I rebelled, of course, I was fifteen years old, but I too, was not immune to his attraction. He had power over you, and you wanted to be overpowered. Even when you disagreed, the way Nina did. But that’s not all. I would imagine he was capable of doing anything—not for himself, for the Great Eurasia, of course. He wouldn’t do the dirty work himself, he needed to keep his hands clean, so very clean with polished nails and the aroma of lavender. But there were always the disciples.” “I’m calling you to find out the number for Nikolas Kotoff.” “You’re not playing the game, are you? How about a little patience and politeness, dear, sweetened by a few truffles that you kindly brought me the first time? You think you’re so smart, don’t you? An erotic fantasy is not enough? And what about that sweet Hungarian fellow. I haven’t seen the two of you together lately.” I shudder. I had no idea she knew about Miklos. “Wasn’t it fun, that Hungarian party. A little drinking, a little singing, a little touching. ‘The apple trees are all in blossom . . . And Katiusha’s on the river bank.’ I didn’t know you had a patriotic streak in you. I knew you had a Soviet accent, but naive as I am, I thought it stopped there.” “Listen, that’s besides the point. I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said getting more and more upset myself. “You’ve been a great help. Would you kindly give me Nikki’s phone number. If you don’t, I’ll find it anyway.” “All right. Well, well, let me tell you bluntly, yes, Nikki was there with Andras Kovac—but no, he does not know who the murderer was. I care about him. He is a sweet, sick man, a drinker and a paranoiac—no, not a ‘normal’ Russian paranoiac, like you and I, my dear. He’s a clinical case. You’re young; you wouldn’t understand. 156

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“The problem is Nikki would admit to any guilt. He’d love to confess. He would feel freer if he were really guilty. He is not more guilty than you or I. He says he’s guilty because he didn’t save anyone. He could have and he didn’t.” “What was his relationship with Nina?” “He didn’t like her. She laughed at his beliefs. She was a strong woman and he was a weak man who liked other strong men who liked strong women. Get it? Here is Nikolas’s number: 42.23.56.66. And, by the way, don’t worry about Miklos. I know about him from his American friend, that woman who takes Russian classes with me. That’s it, no mystery there. And now, do try to be nice to me, Okay?” “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that I, too, feel responsible for Nina. I’d love to come and visit you when it’s all over, when I know. I will bring you more chocolate. We’ll have a ball.” “Nu-nu,” said Natalie, “kak zhe-kak zhe.” (It means something like “Well-well-well, that’s life, here we are, what more can I say, sure I believe you, but you know that I don’t, but maybe all will end well after all, not because you say so, and not because I doubt it, but because sometimes life is stranger than fiction, and who are we to judge—that’s that.”)

I reach Nikolas Kotoff in the afternoon. It seems that he was right there by the phone awaiting my call. “I knew it was you,” he says in a resigned tone. “Come when you need to come. I’ll pack my things.” “Listen,” I said, “I don’t know what Natalie told you. I am not a detective, I’m a historian. I’d just like to talk to you. If there is something you don’t wish to talk about, I promise I will respect your wishes.” “No, no, you shouldn’t. Please don’t respect anything. Ask me anything you want. You have the right.” I feel that Nikolas K. has already found himself guilty. Oh God, maybe I should not see him? No, I can’t disappoint him. Now he will be more afraid if I don’t show up. A thin and gracious man greets me at the door. He has sad bloodshot gray eyes and the exquisitely curved lips of a spoiled child. He has a small apartment in Passy with Russian icons in one 157

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room and a portrait of Jean Genet in the other. In spite of Natalie’s warnings, he is absolutely sober. He smells of fresh soap. He seems to have dressed up for the occasion. “Oh you’re so young,” he says. “I didn’t expect my interrogator to be so young and speak with a light American accent. Well, that might be fate too. Are you a relative of Nina’s?” “No. I came across her writings.” “I bet you found her in a footnote, didn’t you? One of those fateful footnotes you couldn’t get out of your mind.” “You’re right. I found a reference to her pioneering work on paranoia and exile in one long footnote.” “Yes, of course. Well, she is more deserving of a footnote than most of us.” “It said there that she died under strange circumstances.” “Just call it murder. You see she would be incapable of suicide. She wasn’t the type. She loved herself in a calm egoistic fashion. People like her don’t commit suicide . . . She was not a prey to passions. Please don’t get me wrong. All of that doesn’t mean she deserved to die. Don’t look at me like that. I do believe that. I might have not been her best friend, but she didn’t deserve to die. Not at all. Please, ask me anything you wish. I promise I will tell you everything. I waited for this moment for fifty years. He moves from subtle aggression to desperate resignation. I try to deflate it: “Do you have pictures? Some photos of the time?” “Pictures, yes, sure.” He takes the album from the shelf in the right corner. He knows exactly where it is. He opens a page with a series of pictures of two attractive and happy young men in 1930s dress, one with a mustache, the other without. They look serious in one of the photos, smile in the other, sit on the beach in their period swimsuits, stand on the bridge embracing in the snow. “It’s Andras and me. He was an amazing character. Handsome, brave, explosive. His beliefs were contagious. And, at that time, we were all looking for beliefs. We wanted to be passionately engaged, to change the world, to change ourselves, to act, to save our people, whoever they were. You have to understand what the thirties were like. We were caught between evils, Fascism, Stalinism and many more “isms.” My father, you know, was the chief criminologist of his Majesty the Czar, an enlightened man, a great 158

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believer in reason and the power of observation, a Russian Sherlock Holmes. He was miserable in Paris. As for me, I never knew Russia. I was born in Kharbin. Russia for me was a dreamland no more. But as my father continued his nostalgic lament, I began to rebel. He was anti-Bolshevik. I got interested in Marxism, in more of a Trotskyist branch, I must confess. I became a taxi driver and a permanent revolutionary. Revolution of society, revolution of conscience—that was my slogan: “Change the man, change the world.” Andras and I became inseparable. He was a Marxist. I think he decided to move from leftist anarchism to the party discipline. He was born in Galicia or Transylvania, somewhere on the border between Russian and the Austro-Hungarian empire. It was never clear where exactly he came from. But he seemed to know where he was going. I admired him, he was a true believer. He was a Bohemian, but not a miserable drinker like myself. He had integrity. In those days we all loved the movies—Andras, Lionel and I. ‘Cinema will be a universal language,’ Andras used to say and then quote Lenin: ‘For us Bolsheviks, cinema will be the most important art.’ We crashed the parties of the artistic elite where Lionel and I got dead drunk. Lionel was a nice fellow, starry-eyed and very pragmatic at the same time. As a writer, I don’t know, I can’t really judge. Both of us were more like Andras’s neophytes. He liked to show off his new converts. (Oh yes, I keep running ahead of myself, please forgive me. I know I have to tell you everything step by step, just how it happened, at least what I knew had happened. But I can’t help it. I’m still angry at Andras for abandoning me, for disappearing, for leaving me alone in the dark.) “So what year is this? Must be 1936 or maybe 1937. Yes, this picture was taken on the occasion of Boris’s fortieth birthday.” This photograph had a different hue—yellowish-brown, the color of age-old envy. The cast of characters is the same. They look a bit tense, as if tired of constant scrutiny. “I began to frequent Boris’s lectures that year. I studied philology, but really there wasn’t very much to my studies. I was an eternal student, you know the type. But after a year I turned into a dedicated Eurasianist. Yes to a permanent revolution, but no to the universal man. Where have you ever seen a universal man? I saw Russians, French, Germans, but a universal man—never. Eurasia was a great magnet, a continent-ocean in which past and 159

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future are forever united. All your troubles are buried on the bottom of the ocean, all your hopes are resurrected by the will of the waves. Genghis Khan kissing the wet earth of the steppes, Scythian dances . . . I wasn’t a serious linguist. I didn’t have the patience for that. I loved poetic images, general ideas, beautiful dreams. I was ready to die for Russia-Eurasia, for Boris Vladimirovich. Russia, beloved Russia, I miss your slender birch trees in the rain—la-la-la., la, la-la-la-la . . . dark snow with bloody stains. That was a song of the time. Kachalsky, poor drunken Russian soul. He, too, vanished during the war and found himself in the Soviet Union. Now it all sounds like a broken record. but then, then I could have easily sacrificed myself for my country. “Nina was the opposite. She was the only one at our seminar who actually knew what she was talking about. She knew languages but she was not a convinced Eurasian, yet she enjoyed a special relationship with Boris. He allowed her to be impossible.” “What do you mean by that?” “He allowed her to ask questions during the lecture, to contradict him. You must understand, it wasn’t then like it is now. Boris was like our God, saint, prophet and savior. And what questions can you ask a savior? “Then I met her at Natalie’s. Natalie was charmed by her. Every other sentence was ‘Nina thinks that,’ or ‘Nina doesn’t think so.’ Nina, Nina, Nina. Oh, how I hated seeing her right here by Boris Vladmirovich’s side. It was he who invited her stand by him. In a kind of false modesty, she tried to give her place to Poltavsky-Rizhsky. He, after all, was our genius poet and who was she? But Boris Vladimirovich pulled her closer to him. Oh yes, that’s Andras and me in the third row here in the shade. We weren’t treated as big players here, clearly not. We aren’t in the celebrity row. But Nina, she’s right here. She had no respect for any of them, neither for Boris Vladimirovich nor for Andras. He kept inviting her to his retrospectives and she never condescended to attend. And then Poltavsky-Rizhsky. For some reasons Andras rather liked him, but poor Yuri was another one of Nina’s devotees. It’s hard to see her face on this picture. There was something masculine in her. Something of a Valkyrie, a Brunhilde type with a dark drop of Jewish blood. I know what you’re thinking. You have a right to think what 160

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you’re thinking. But you wanted the truth, didn’t you? I’m just trying to tell you what I felt then. Not to diminish my guilt, not at all. Maybe in my heart of hearts I dreamed of Nina’s death. Maybe I did. I am guilty of murderous thoughts. But still, I didn’t pull the trigger.” “What was it in her that put you off so much?” “How should I put it? She laughed at everything and everybody. Nothing was sacred for her. She was never homesick.” “How do you know? “I don’t but I thought I knew. She gave a talk about homesickness and linguistic theory. It was a great talk, a masterpiece, but I hated every moment of it. Boris Vladimirovich was red with anger. I could see that. But he looked at her in a certain way, I don’t know how to say it. He looked at her with lust . . .” “That paper, I’ve heard so much about that paper. Did you happen to take notes?” “Oh, I was trembling with rage, I couldn’t have possibly taken notes. I was so angry that I stole it, yes, don’t look at me this way, I stole one of her drafts. Mind you it wasn’t the final one. It was an early version, a sketch. Yes I did, I am guilty of theft. I am guilty of stealing her ideas. I had no use for them, I just wanted to protect others from them. Do I still have it? Yes, here it is. I’ll show you a copy of it. I hid the original . . . Here it is. Read it, you might understand me better. I don’t ask for forgiveness, only for your understanding.” 10/26 On the Dark Side of Nostalgia: Notes for “Paranoia and Exile” The disasters and political upheavals of the twentieth century turned millions of people into refugees and exiles. We, Russians, are not the only ones to succumb to this fate, even if we deem ourselves to be exceptional. The nostalgic imagines home as a utopia. (Eu-topia—a good place and a no place.) It is a place where everyone understands you, where you belong, where your roots are, where you are not merely a drunken taxi driver or a tipsy waiter with a funny accent, but a native. It is easier to cultivate those dreams in the 161

Svetlana Boym greenhouse of exile, far away from the actual motherland. This way one doesn’t have to confront political and everyday realities. Nostalgia is not the same as remembrance. Our remembrances are scattered and fragmented, unique and singular—they cannot be housed properly in the four walls of the mythical collective home. The nostalgic forgets his own forgetting. He doesn’t remember that the utopian home exists only on the plateau of his dream; he wants to find it on an actual map. When he fails, he begins to cherish the fantasies of persecution and conspiratorial plots by the “foreigners” who hate the Eurasia of his dream. Let me demonstrate how it works. Let’s suppose that our poor compatriot Alexander V. dislikes his landlady (“she is too clean,” “a stickler for the rules,” “soulless,” and, worst of all, “she asks me to pay rent on time”). He manages to “forget” or suppress the fact of his dislike, and through inverse projection he begins to believe that it is the landlady who hates him. This type of nostalgic doesn’t love his neighbor, that half Silesian German, quarter Hungarian Jew and quarter Catalan who lives on his narrow staircase, a neighbor who talks with a lisp and makes a great garlic soup whose smell lingers in the hallway late into the night. The nostalgic loves his pure ideal—a much less demanding neighbor, who makes no noise and leave no smell. Oh, the borders of the motherland of our dreams! Aren’t they worth killing for? Well, as for me, I don’t want my lisping neighbor to be sacrificed because he makes garlic soup instead of borscht and because I don’t know his songs. [“I am a princess without a sou and I elope with my baby Jou Sou”—even our beloved émigré singer is somewhat of an internationalist, at least in his songs.] Maybe he just likes the exotic touch. At the end the baby Jou Sou might have to go. And the princess, too. Up and down on the rocky beach somewhere in the Black sea, near Odessa. Stop! If you look back, you might forever freeze, overcome by tears and bitterness. Your lot would be that of Lot’s wife, the pillar of salt. If you look back, you die. Well, isn’t it better to die gloriously with the fires of the homeland forever reflected in your eyes than to turn into a twoheaded monster, the bilingual apatride who sold her soul for francs, marks and dollars? No, Monsieur, let’s think again. Exile is always a double life. Exiles are doomed to be double agents. It’s not our choice, it’s our fate. 162

Ninochka Bilingual people are intrinsically different from the monolingual. Bilingualism is not a sum of languages; it’s an alternative condition of existence. The worldview of the bilinguals is more perspectival, more flexible. We, the double agents in spite of ourselves, the international exiles, have to examine ourselves and understand why our bilingual throats get so sore. Perhaps, in this impossible age, we are best equipped to make difficult choices here and now, in this imperfect world where we found ourselves. The painful vertigo of a double life can offer us a kind of lucidity, albeit a transcient one.”

“Now, do you see that she was a non-believer? Well, here she is more emotional than usual. Actually, she was a skeptic. She always presented things from various points of view. She had a kind of experimental attitude toward life itself. No, she said we are not bound by memory: if we truly wish to remember, we’ll have to remember our forgetting and shortcomings first. We have to learn to forget. She did experiments on herself. I saw that. For her belief was equivalent to paranoia. She thought that all true believers, Trotskyists and Eurasianists alike, were conspiracists, and that one had to live in the world, confront the world. Boris Vladimirovich was under her spell, and she was under his. Only Kovac truly resisted her. He was a bit of a skeptic himself. If he wanted to meet a true believer, he most certainly met one. And that’s how I would be left—alone, abandoned, forgotten. I’m not even in a footnote.” I look for my cup of tea to alleviate the tension a bit, to take a deep breath, to justify the pause in conversation. My cup is empty, and Nikki is not about to offer me more to drink. And there is no homemade jam in this house, just some very salted nuts. No, he wouldn’t try to smooth the conversation. I didn’t come here to chew on salted nuts. “You seem to be taken by Nina’s style, aren’t you?” he says, ignoring my thirst. “That’s what happens, you see. All these things that for us were matters of life and death become just a style for you. You probably look for nice lines to embellish your prose, right? Well, who am I to blame you? Listen, I have a present for you. I photocopied the file from Krestovsky’s foundation, the 163

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correspondence between Boris Vladimirovich Krestovsky and Nina Belskaya. As a man who never underestimated his greatness, Boris kept copies of everything he wrote. There is nothing there, though, to help with the murder. The file contains familiar passages on Eurasia that Boris Vladimirovich polished for his books, apologies for missed appointments. That’s it. Read it after you leave, please, but not now. I want your undivided attention. I waited for this moment for so long. So where was I?” “You said that you had committed a crime of thought.” “Yes, and how I blamed myself for those thoughts! Nina’s death was a watershed. After that came the war, and our world of the 1930s, our dreams and nightmares all came to an end. Nina’s death was a premonition, a sign. For me, it was the first crime I committed in my thoughts. I was there, I had a bad feeling but I did not do anything to correct it, I went on and on and on and then she was dead.” “Do you remember the morning of her murder?’ “Do I remember? Oh yes. I relived it many times. I tried to understand what happened, and I am still not sure. It was the first betrayal and then came the war. Well, you know the rest. That morning something possessed me. I felt invigorated, almost happy. There was a feeling of fall in the air, but I felt new life was just beginning. I knew what I wanted from life, I knew what was worth fighting for. It was the last sunny Sunday morning before the war. That’s how I remember it. I went out with my friend Andras, we planned to meet in the coffee shop and there we ran into Lionel. He, too, was in good spirits, maybe feeling a little guilty, but generally being his usual easy-going, light-hearted self. Well, I’m not usually talkative, but that morning, something possessed me, and I was going on and on about Trotskyism and Eurasia. I was rambling, as if under the influence. And Kovac seemed to encourage me to go on talking. How did he do that? Well, it’s hard to say. I had a feeling he wanted to kill time. And, as we were killing time, the murder happened. Do I blame myself? Yes, yes, yes. And you know this was the last time all three of us were together, like in those photos, three friends in the happy delusions of our youth. Andras and Lionel vanished. Andras went to Russia or America (there are different rumors about him), Lionel went straight to the States. The war had started. I was the only 164

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one with no place to go. I didn’t even volunteer to go to the front. I was severely myopic and not a hero. “This was not my only crime of thoughts. I have committed another one, a crime by proxy. My wartime friend, the great poet Lazinsky, was foolish enough to stay in Paris during the occupation. Everyone advised him to go south or to the Swiss Alps, but he stayed. He thought he was a European and not particularly political. He was surprised and shocked when the Gestapo found him ‘not racially pure.’ (His mother was Jewish, but he seemed to forget about that.) So he had to wear a yellow star and observe curfew, which he chose to defy. So that night we were meeting in a coffee shop, he brought for me his favorite books, some rare editions. He thought it would be safer to keep them at my place, and in the meantime I could enjoy them. It was a lovely night in 1942. We hung around in the café a bit longer, chatting about nothing. He was late. He was shot point blank on the way home. Now you know. After the war I turned myself in to the French courts. I said I did not collaborate directly, but I didn’t stop the crimes. I am guilty by proxy. I said that I was already serving time, my own time. They didn’t even arrest me, they laughed at me. “And you, Miss, do you ever think of the past? You left Russia, Natalie told me, some fifteen years ago. Did you ever think of revisiting at all? The time hasn’t come yet? I see. You might discover that you have nothing to hide; you know, that happens, too. To some people, not to me. I am sorry, it’s you who are asking questions. Please forgive me.” “How did you first find out about Nina’s murder?” “Well, as the three of us parted, Lionel went back to Nina’s apartment and discovered her dead. Natalie also came back around that time. She was shocked. I saw her later in the afternoon and she kept saying that Nina had that strange expression on her face of amazement or amusement, as if she didn’t believe it was for real. She wasn’t prepared to die. Lionel was called in to the police, and so was kind Mr. Bonacieux who reported the exact time of the purchase of two pain au chocolat and an almond croissant. Kovac could not be found. What did I do? I spent two days in a drunken stupor. Then I summoned my courage and went to the police. I was ready to confess. I wanted to tell them about my guilt. I was 165

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guilty of killing time. I was guilty. But there was nobody in the commissariat willing to talk to me. Mr. Renard informed me that the case was closed. Nobody wanted to listen to me. That’s the story of my life. Of course, I would have spared Lionel. I would have never told them about the bet.” “What bet? “The bet that Lionel had with Kovac.” “What were they betting on?” “How many movies would it take to seduce Nina.” “Oh? “Well, I remember we were all sitting in La Cupole, and Lionel bragged that it would take only one film plus his American charms. Then he decided to play it safe and bet on three. I thought it was silly, but Andras appeared amused. I remember he took upon himself to be a film adviser. He wrote the names of the films of the napkin: Philadelphia Story? He scratched it out and wrote: Ninotchka!” “So how many films did it take?” “Three. Ninotchka did it. It was a romantic comedy, and that’s what he bargained on. He liked Nina but he loved Andras. He couldn’t admit that he had a liking for Nina, that heretic. So he said it was a matter of proving an abstract principle—the power of cinema, its universal language. Lionel tried very hard. Nina wasn’t the end, but the means. He just wanted to prove a point. Andras laughed and gave him his approval. ‘Let’s bet. Why not? What do we have to lose but your money,’ he said. “You know, I have never been able to stand that film. The three bears of the Bolsheviks and that countess Swana always looking into the mirror and Greta Garbo laughing. What a creepy, inhibited, unnatural laugh. I have never seen anything like it. When I have my nightmares I see Greta Garbo laughing over and over again, never stopping in that chillingly manner, laughing and choking, choking herself to death. “I see there is a copy of Ninotchka on your shelf.” “I became obsessed with the film. I wondered to myself, what was its impact? Was there a message coded in the script? I used all my linguistic knowledge to analyze the names of the characters. But then I told myself that the film was made before her tragic death. It had nothing to do with Eurasians and Soviets. I felt much better, that is, until I opened the script and one name 166

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jumped out at me—General Savitsky, the name of a prominent Eurasian. No, this was not an accident—as we say in Russian, this happened ‘not by accident.’ Of course, General Savitsky is on the side of the White Russians, so the ciphered message was ‘the divorce between the Eurasians and the Reds.’ “I began to believe in fate. At that time I discovered Nina’s and Katia’s correspondence. Coincidences began to overwhelm me, or rather, nothing seemed a coincidence anymore. I wanted to investigate the case, to determine the degree of my guilt and then to convict myself. You see, I did your job. You, Miss, should grant me a footnote. I fulfilled my guilt plan, as they say in your former country. But if you think I didn’t serve enough, I’m ready. Sentence me, confine me, take away my freedom, torture me with endless interrogations. There is still so much left unsaid, so much left unsaid.” He seemed intoxicated by his own voice. He pronounced another long, pleading sentence into my face. I don’t know what reaction he expected from me. I knew he expected a reaction. He wanted me to be either condemning or compassionate. He thought I would become indignant, scream at him, accuse him of cowardliness, immorality, take him for another discounted guilt trip that he seemed to enjoy. Or else I would be compassionate, absolve his sins, pronounce a not guilty verdict, embrace him with my hands or words, get him out of his icy isolation and out of repetitive repentances, and we’d drink to many happy returns. We would finally drink, for we sat the whole evening without a beverage. He confessed to me without even a cup of tea. But I wasn’t thinking about him. I was too upset about Nina, I was mad about the bet. Just as he was all warmed up by his confession, by the thought that he had finally done it and now he deserved a box of chocolate or at least a moment of heartiness, I turned icy. “Oh my God! I’m sorry I have another appointment,” I said in English in a tone of chilling efficiency. “I must go now.” That was cruel, I know. I teased him and left his sentence dangling. At that moment I couldn’t do otherwise.

So the joke was on Nina. The great joker fell victim to a joke, and a fateful one, as it turned out. But I am sure it had nothing to do with the powers of cinema. No, no, Nina was bored watch167

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ing the romantic comedy. Of course, it’s a good film, and nobody argues with that, but Nina was deaf to the Lubitsch touch. Maybe she wasn’t so lighthearted after all. She kept being distracted, dozing off, switching to her own movie of anxious farewells and romantic break-ups. No, it definitely was not the movie. Nor was it Lionel’s special charm. He was nice, good-looking and everything, but it wasn’t just him. She might have been hungry, a little lonely. It might have been a sheer coincidence—the wrong time and wrong place, the wrong film with the wrong actors. She wanted to be a writer, and he wanted to be a writer and they competed for experiences—who would describe it first. That’s fair game. I just wish it hadn’t been a bet. Andras Kovac, another charismatic demigod, and X, that elusive Miss X, the unflinching one, the one without weakness, the always right, the true believer, might have had something to do with it. I wandered and wandered around aimlessly crossing streets and cutting corners. Before going to bed I read the last poem of Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky. It didn’t have a title, so it might have been unfinished. To N. B. I will protect you from the drizzling rain and from that ever-rushing movie train There is no death, my dear, no death The movie ends and then begins again. I will protect you from the drizzling rain

Poetry, after all, is only wishful thinking. “The movie ends and then begins again.” Train and rain, train and rain, train and rain. That night I couldn’t fall asleep. No, I didn’t call Miklos and hang up the moment his wife answered the phone. I was angry, angry, angry. Fragments of conversation rushed through my brain. “And then she choked with laughter . . . she was a Valkyrie with a touch of Jewish blood, a double agent, an exile is a double agent. . . . I am guilty, of course, I am not denying my guilt . . . I am guilty, will you help me?” Darling, is that Greta Garbo? She laughs in the swimming pool and swims away. No it’s Miss X, Nina’s conspiring ghost. She is wet, and she smiles. Nina has blood on her robe and on the morning paper. Dark, dry blood 168

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stains. It’s hard to find a detergent to remove them. Try Mr. Clean, or Mr. Right. The stranger found/your body in blood. The stranger said, ‘She’s a princess slut, my poor baby.’ No, no, not that one, not again. In the twilight shimmer of the lilac sunset, you were alone on the rocky beach. you’ve taken off your shawl, unma—a-a-a-ade your lo-o-ovely braid. Bring two zucchini, please, right there on your left, thank you honey.” I finally doze off at the crack of dawn, at the time when only a few tired factory workers and tireless joggers rush through Parisian streets. In my dream Victoria is jogging in pink leotards. She is so well-coordinated! Her Walkman matches her socks. They are just the right hue of gray and her sneakers are pink and gray. No, she didn’t buy them on a special two-day sale. She isn’t that cheap. She knows what she is doing. She breathes well, she moves her legs and hands with a rhythmic precision. She has a pleasant blank expression on her face. No, she doesn’t grimace, she doesn’t look exhausted. The drops of sweat do not spoil her natural complexion. She’s in fine shape. She’s one of those bicycle riders who shout “right” behind your back as you take your walk on a nice path around the river and ponder a thought or two. She doesn’t do it rudely, not at all. You just obey the force of her conviction. The world belongs to joggers and bikers, skaters and hikers—not walkers. Walkers will soon be extinct. Walkers of the world, unite! Victoria jogs past me and doesn’t even turn my way. I’m just an idle passerby. I don’t jog; therefore, I am not. I try to get away from her but I can’t. She’s jogging in circles. She’s jogging on my brain. Not too quick and not too slow. “One-two, one-two! Who will win it, me or you?” “Threefour, three-four! We are jogging more and more.” I remembered the Pioneer slogans. We used to shout them out loudly when we marched. And the Pioneer leader would say, “Left, Left, Left!” and then, “Detachment . . . to the right!” I was never sure which way was right and which way was left, so I kept my right hand in a fist so I would turn the right way when I heard the command. “One-two, one-two—I’m a Pioneer and who are you?”

Someone is knocking at my door. I wake up abruptly and suddenly. Who could it be at this early morning hour? The knocking is strong and persistent. 169

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“Who is it?” I ask, hectically putting on my robe. God, I forgot to close the door chain yesterday. Usually I do it. Last night I was just too distraught. “Madame,” says the male voice in a strongly accented English. “The manager sent me. There is a telegram for you. It appears urgent.” I put my chain on, just the way I was taught in my childhood, and the messenger gives me a sheet of paper through the crack in the door. I open it immediately. It’s from my mother in New York. “Your grandma is dead. You must go to Russia for the funeral. It’s imperative that you be there. It would’ve meant a lot to your granny.”

22

Up in the air “Miklos, I am calling to let you know that we will have to delay the meeting of our wartime comedy study group because I have to leave for Russia immediately. My grandmother is dead. So there. Be well.

“Dear Caroline: I am so sorry I can’t meet you for coffee. I could really use some now. I will miss your kind words and warm handkerchief. I will come back to Paris some day soon and I will call you. I promise. Be well. Don’t work too hard. Un baiser, T.” I had hoped until the very last moment that my Russian visa wasn’t the right one, that the stamp was in the wrong place, in the upper right corner instead of the lower left one, that my passport was out of date. I tried to lose my ticket by accident, but I kept finding it over and over again in the most inconspicuous places. I packed everything—toothpaste, toilet paper, sanitary napkins, orange juice, vitamins, presents for everyone, blue and silver mascara 170

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and lots of aspirin. “You’re crazy,” a Russian friend in Paris told me over the phone, “the times have changed. You can even get toilet paper over there now.” But I had already done it. Maybe I overdid it. Better safe than sorry. What can I say, I really dreaded it, this homecoming, and I found myself very unprepared for it. It came out of the blue. I spent two days burying my things at the bottom of my suitcase and saying good-bye to Paris. I walked around the city as if for the last time. Seine, Île St. Louis, Passy, Marais, and other familiar places—Washington Square, West 10th Street, Roosevelt Avenue, Queens—all these words cannot be rendered in Cyrillic. Will I ever come back from Russia? Can one emigrate twice? Irrational, I’m becoming completely irrational. I feel like a prematurely dead soul. Miklos is out of town. Or pretends to be. Well, maybe it’s better this way. On the plane it’s business as usual. Everyone behaves naturally, takes the cherry sweets from the tray, fastens the seat belts. The flight attendant spreads her arms pointing at imaginary exits with a studied indifference and blank expression. I know, I understand. She has had to do it so many times. She no longer believes in emergency. But I am reassured to learn that there are safety flotation cushions under our seats and that the oxygen masks will come down automatically, so I am relieved. To distract myself I leaf through the journal American Way and check out the dutyfree merchandise. Oh, how beautiful are those silk Hermes scarves with the Parisian skyline! Should I order a flaçon of Poison or of Poesie, a collection of seven lipsticks for all occasions or a gift bottle of Stolichnaya? I would have liked to be duty free myself, but I never could be. The flight attendant usually passes me by with the drinks. I can see that she would like to forget me and serve an extra drink with a full-mouth smile to that middle-aged businessman, her preferred customer. So I plan ahead to order tomato juice without ice and grab my mini-pretzels. I try hard not to splash my tomato juice. I wouldn’t want to arrive in Russia with red spots on my shirt. This is such a short flight that it is hard to collect your thoughts. There is no transition at all, no passing provincial towns, no casual train conversations. They don’t even show a movie, only a preview, so you know what the program is in case you had a flight across the Atlantic. It’s a film about two girls, a fairy tale of sorts. The girls are not twins, but they happen to be identical. 171

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One is a cheerful and spunky orphan, another is a poor little rich girl. (The poor little rich girl speaks with a British accent. The spunky orphan wears her baseball cap backwards, so you don’t have a problem figuring out who’s who.) The poor little rich girl doesn’t have a mother, and her darling father plans to marry a wicked rich woman. The spunky orphan has neither mother nor father but she has a beautiful but poor (yet also spunky) young camp instructor played by that well-known actress from “Cheers.” Suddenly the plane begins to jerk up and down. “We are experiencing turbulence,” says the pilot, “as a result of the unusual air pressure.” We stay obediently in our places, captives of our seatbelts. The clouds outside look dark and ominous. It must be raining down there, wherever we are, over Poland or over Iceland. I feel nauseated. I have dreadful thoughts, too, and it doesn’t help. I remember what they taught me in my stress management class. “Concentrate on breathing. These are my thoughts, but I am mo-o-ore than my thoughts. Don’t judge, just label them,” or, if it doesn’t help, imagine yourself in some peaceful place—on a northern beach, for example, with sand dunes and gray waves where the water is transparent. Oops, I’ve just stepped on a piece of colored glass. No, it doesn’t hurt. It has been polished by waves and time. I swim against the current and turn back to wave to you but you have virtually vanished. You turned into a distant bright spot on the deserted beach. So I swim ahead, slowly and peacefully, rocked by the sea breeze. It would be a romantic death of sorts. “She died on her way home.” You can see the headline. It is the perfect novelistic death, the ultimate homecoming. It would be so stupid, so meaningless to die like that. Thank God for the movie preview. Now you understand the meaning of popular culture. It can be life-saving in moments like that. At least it would distract you. If worse comes to worst, you have a chance to miss it. Here she is, that spunky orphan girl, she is up to something. She runs fast across the aisle in the church. No, that wedding is not to take place. No, your dad doesn’t love her, that rich woman, in spite of her expensive hairdo and designer bridal veil. He couldn’t love her! Two girls, not birth twins but romantic doubles, want the rich father to marry a poor but kind and spunky camp instructor, the ideal mother figure. It’s a romance, after all. I don’t know how it ends, but I have a feeling that the evil stepmother will get hers. 172

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Now I can breathe peacefully. The worst seems to be over. But the “fasten seat belts” sign is still on, in red. I take out Nina’s letters to Boris Vladimirovich and glance at one of them, randomly, without any chronological order. Dear Boris Vladimirovich, Our conversation last night left me dispirited and unsatisfied. I am not sure that I expressed myself well, that you understood me. There was so much more that I wanted to say but it seemed to me that the moment wasn’t right, that we were short of time, in a hurry. I felt tongue-tied under your disapproving gaze. You said that you dreamed of returning, of touching again the Russian soil, looking at the grayish Russian sky with supple clouds, speaking the native tongue. I am sorry I was so hot-tempered. All I could imagine were those Soviet babushki in the red scarves—the ones that are everywhere—reminding you to behave yourself. I know it was in bad taste. You see, all we know about Soviet Russia is from the movies. I had a dream that the two of us went to the movies together—out in the open, hand in hand, laughing in line, buying frozen chocolate parfaits at the counter. Forgive the frivolous details. And then we watched that Soviet movie, in which an orphan kid becomes an exemplary Komsomol girl in a white silk blouse with a red scarf. The film is full of laughter, marches and happy songs. Perhaps Comrade X likes them, but you know me. Happy songs make me nervous. As for you—in my dream that is—you look calm and very attentive. You don’t turn your eyes away from the screen. Desperately, I search for your hand in the dark.”

“Passengers, return to your seats and prepare for landing.” My ears are clogged. I try to concentrate on breathing and swallowing. That cherry candy has the unpleasant aftertaste of artificial sweetener. “Welcome to Russia. Thank you for flying American. Have a pleasant afternoon.”

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In which we travel to Russia and watch a musical dedicated to the Soviet Constitution Moscow, 1939 A spring wind blows over our country Life’s merrier, more joyful everyday! We know how to laugh and love in our country Like nobody in the whole wide world

The frosted window, shimmering in the winter sun, melts gleamingly. Kremlin towers and stars are in plain view. Welcome to Moscow, dear friends, welcome to the spring! The sun-drenched room is spacious and airy. There is a vase of tall flowers on the table. A beautiful blond woman with desperate gray eyes is reflected in the shining surface of a grand piano. She practices singing: A spring wind blows over our country Life’s merrier, more joyful every day.

The woman has an accent in Russian. She can’t roll her r’s properly, but she loves Soviet songs. Where did she come from? “From the United States. Did you miss the beginning?” “No, I didn’t, but there were those two comrades walking in front of me. I saw their hats on the screen for the first three minutes.” In the beginning was the train, that rustling and bustling train of the wild West, bathing in smoke and steam, not the kind of train you’d board casually to go for a weekend in the country. You have no time to take off your silk gloves and show your second-class ticket to a polite ticket collector. This is a train you have to jump on the run. It’s restricted for adventurers only, escapists, strangers and robbers from the heroic days of silent cinema. Here is Marion Dixon escaping the raging mob, her disheveled blond hair blowing in the wind. (The Soviet star of the 1930s, Liubov’ Orlova, plays the part of the desperate American woman with great mastery. No, she doesn’t look like Greta Garbo, but rather more like Marlene Dietrich.) 174

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Why did Marion Dixon come to the Soviet Union? She was persecuted in the United States, because she had a black child. Now she is exploited by the Nazi-looking “entrepreneur” who took her on a circus tour around the world. He makes her do the most dangerous number, unsurpassed anywhere in the world— “the flight to the Moon.” The audience gasps when the cannon shoots and Marion performs her salto mortale. “Why are they showing those American comedies here, Grisha? They used to make such great documentaries,” whispered Ninel Markovna. “Oh, relax, my dear, relax. It’s very funny.” “I’m just not a fan of the circus. Too much acrobatics. And her accent is so fake.” “Shhh . . . quiet comrades. You’re in a public place.”

The audience seems to know all the jokes by heart. They explode into laughter a moment before the punchline. And sometimes they anticipate the action with a suggestive whisper: “And now he’s going to fall, you’ll see, he’s going to fall. First she’s going to slap him, and then he’s going to fall. Didn’t I tell you?” Clearly this is not the first time they’re seeing the film. “We should leave the West behind. The Americans flew to the Moon, we’ll go to stratosphere,” says a handsome engineer, the Soviet new man. Of course, the circus director is skeptical about new achievements. He doesn’t have much imagination. He is only a comic bureaucrat who gets to fall a lot, to slap and be slapped in all appropriate places. Ninel Markovna doesn’t laugh. “I must be behind the times, Grisha, I’ve been away too long.” “It’s nice to have you home, Nina. There were rumors . . .” “Comrades, shhh. Watch the movie now, talk later!”

After the usual comedy of errors, the evil American entrepreneur gets his. The unhappy American circus performer finds true love in the land of the Soviets. (Did Ninel Markovna close her eyes for a moment, distract herself from the American-Russian star and her predictably safe salto mortale and wander somewhere much 175

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more dangerous in her dreams? Did she cross a border or two and find herself sitting on a free-standing chair somewhere in the Jardin de Luxembourg? I honestly don’t know. She was too exhausted to dream, too cautious to let her mind wander. Or maybe it’s my fault that I can’t imagine my grandmother’s dreams. I only know that she was tired and had that nagging pain at the back of her swanlike neck.) Meanwhile the American circus performer has become a Soviet star. She married that engineer, the new Soviet man with the lovely dimple in his square chin. And of course, the story is much more than a romance. The American woman falls in love with the Soviet Union, the land of beauty, freedom and happiness. She and her adorable child decide to emigrate to the Soviet Union. The Soviet people sing him an internationalist lullaby in many languages, Russian, Ukrainian, Georgian, Tadjik and Yiddish. The circus stage opens right into Red Square. The lovers sing and march happily ever after . . . And all the comic characters of the film, the bureaucrats, the administrators, their vain daughters and amateur engineers, all march and sing as well. “The lullaby was beautiful,” says Ninel Markovna, “but otherwise the movie is too slapstick.” “What, Comrade, you didn’t like the film? Did you know that it’s one of Comrade Stalin’s favorites? Did you know that it’s dedicated to the Soviet Constitution of 1936, and Liubov’ Orlova is the People’s Actress? There, there, cheer up, Comrade. And you, Comrade husband, should treat your Comrade wife to our new ice cream.” “Let’s go, Ninel. It’s a good idea. Thanks, for the advice, Comrade . . .”

“Watch out. It’s very slippery. Look at that icicle—it’s dripping in the sun.” They walk around on the streets covered with sleet and try a new brand of ice cream called Aurora. In the line someone hums the tune, “The Spring Wind Blows Over Our Country.” It’s a catchy tune, isn’t it? They seem to be a bit tense, Ninel Markovna and her husband, Grigory Isaich. “You haven’t talked much about Paris, Ninelya. We all waited for your stories. We envied you a little.” 176

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“You know that I worked twenty-four hours a day there. Linguistic practice first, then educational tours, visits to the factories and construction sites, meetings with workers and activists. What can I say, Grisha, Paris looks a bit like Leningrad, only the chimneys on the roofs are different. And the Seine, it’s much dirtier than the Neva.” They went home to the spacious room near the kitchen in their communal flat. They celebrated her return home, drank tea with “Moscow” biscuit cake and chatted quietly (“Your grandmother was not very talkative. She was a woman of few words. She was a good neighbor, though.”) Grigory Isaich went to bed, read for ten minutes and fell asleep. Ninel Markovna went to the kitchen, washed dishes, cleaned the oven—it was her turn that day to do the communal duties. Then she sat for a while staring at the window, brooding. Not really brooding about anything in particular, but just letting her thoughts rush by. Then she went to bed. Grisha was tossing and turning, with an occasional snore. He should go to the doctor, just for a checkup. Ninel Markovna thought and then she, too, dozed off. She must have been very tired. At 3:00 A.M. the door bell rang. You could hear the cautious rustle of neighbors’ slippers. They peeped anxiously through the cracks in their doors leading to the long narrow corridor. They all knew what it meant when the bell rang in the middle of the night and the black Maria (“that’s what we used to call their cars”) stopped by your front door. It happened only a few months ago. Three people with tired blank faces came in wearing gray suits. One was smoking a Belomor Canal cigarette, the other smiled awkwardly showing a gold tooth and the third one was just doing his job with dutiful efficiency. He had an anchor tattooed on his arm and the inscription, “Glory to the Baltic Fleet!” (“I remember it very clearly. I went out to the corridor sometime around 1 a.m. and saw how Anna Vasilievna, my next door neighbor, was checking out Ninel Markovna’s drying silk stockings, the ones she got in Paris. I could see they were still wet! Of course, I said nothing. I retreated to my room very quietly, but couldn’t fell asleep.”) The bell rang twice. It was for Grigory Isaich and Ninel Markovna. She came out to the corridor in her robe and went straight to the front door. “Ninel, wait, this can’t be right, Ninel,” 177

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mumbled Grisha, “maybe you should walk out through the back door. We will say you’re in the country . . . or out of the country.” “It’s too late, Grisha, the neighbors saw me come home last night. It’s OK. Take care of Mashka. She’s crying.” (“She was very stubborn, your grandma, brave and stubborn, you know that.”) She walked through the corridor very upright, ignoring the whisper of frightened neighbors. “Oh, Ninochka Markovna, God help you.” “Ninel Markovna Bel’skaya?” “Yes, that’s me.” “We have to take you in for a few questions. Here is the order for a house search. You have fifteen minutes to gather your things.” “I have nothing to hide, Comrades. This must be a mistake, a terrible mistake.” The awakened neighbors retreated to the kitchen. (“I worried about Ninel Markovna. Last month, when the same three comrades came after Lidochka, another neighbor who lived in a little room next to Anna Vasilievna, Lidochka tried to slash her wrists. She ran to the bathroom and sat there for ten minutes as they were searching her things. I need to go to the bathroom, too. I knocked at the door and said that I left my Pravda there and my cartoons. She didn’t open and then I pushed the door and saw that her arms were bloody. They bandaged her arms and took her away. They ordered us all to remain in our rooms and mind our own business. That’s another story, of course, I’m sorry I always talk too much when I get nervous.”) Little Mashka stopped crying. Grigory Isaich had tears in his eyes: “You can’t arrest her, you can’t, she is a prominent communist, a member of the City Committee! You must have gotten the wrong address.” “Calm down, Comrade, we’re just following orders,” said the man with an anchor on his arm. “Comrades, I’m trying to help you. What name did you get on your order? Bel’skaya? With or without the soft sign? You see, this is not her name, her name is Blank. That’s on her Party card.” “Nice try, Comrade. (“Poor Grigory Isaich! He was on the edge, he was afraid they were going to take her away again.”) Meanwhile, the man with gold tooth was looking through Ninel Markovna’s French language manuals and linguistics books. “What is this,” he asked, taking out a French book and a guide to Paris from the shelf. 178

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“These books weren’t printed in the Soviet Union?” “No, but it’s a classic of French literature, Madame Bovary, a critical portrayal of bourgeois society. And this is a guide to Paris. You see here is Place Bastille, the great landmark of the French Revolution.” “Sure. And what are these? “Oh, just ticket stubs. We saw that film yesterday. Grisha, what was it called? The Circus.” “It’s funny, isn’t it?” added the man with the Belomor Canal cigarette. “Liubov’ Orlova is just amazing. She is the People’s Actress now.” “Any diaries, letters, personal notes?” interrupted his efficient companion, the one who was only doing his job. “Where did you hide those?” “She doesn’t have a diary, Comrades,” said Grisha. “She has no time to write in it. She works twenty-four hours a day.” “I don’t keep letters either. They serve their function, I answer them and them throw them out. I don’t like to accumulate trash. As you can see we don’t have much space here,” said Ninel Markovna. “All right, you may follow us now. And you,” he said to the neighbors, “just mind your own business, did you hear me? Be happy it’s not your turn.” Grisha rushed to embrace Ninel. He had tears in his eyes. He wouldn’t let her go. Ninel freed herself from his embrace and said gently, “I will see you soon. This has been a terrible mistake.”

“They never saw each other again, you know. Grisha, I mean your grandfather, died in the battle for Stalingrad. Ninel Markovna came back in 1947 and then was arrested again in the cosmopolitan campaign. Here’s a photo of her in 1947 when she was just back from the camps. Doesn’t she look beautiful! She kept a good figure in the camps. I guess they didn’t eat much fat there.” I sit in my grandmother’s room, with her old friend Dina Grigorievna and a former neighbor, Galya, who was a teenager at the time of the arrest. (“We stopped being kids that year,” she said. “We were scared to go to bed every night—scared to open 179

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our eyes. Every morning seemed like a miracle. They never arrested people in the morning.” ) The room is stuffed with souvenirs, postcards from Kislovodsk, views of Yalta and the Chekhov museum, family pictures and colored reproductions of the monuments of Paris—Place de Concorde, Eiffel Tower, Champs d’Elysee, and the Louvre.” “Your grandma hated cluttered rooms. She used to say: ‘Why do I need all this domestic trash? I like clean and airy rooms, it’s more hygienic!’ We laughed at her. She even accused me of materialism once. But, you know, something happened during the last five years of her life. She started to collect things. She found some old tchotchkes and put them all on the bookshelves. ‘They have a story, each of them,’ she said. ‘They remind me of things and people. Why do I need all this empty space at my age? Empty space reminds me of things too!’ ” Every card she got from you from New York or Paris she would put up there. You wouldn’t believe how much she loved those snapshots of you on the bridge with eagles and horsemen. Sort of like our Anichkov Bridge by the Palace of Pioneers. Taniusha, do you still remember where it is? “Oh yeah, I used to go to the literary club ‘We Dare!’ in the Palace of Pioneers. But I wasn’t very good at descriptions of nature. I could do ‘Autumn in the City’ all right, but then that assignment ‘Spring in the Country’ really did me in. This stuff about the thaw, flowers in the spring rain, birds returning home, I thought it was very stupid.” Nature descriptions for me was a form of propaganda. “You were a stubborn little girl, Tanya, just like your grandmother. You see, you were like a daughter to her. Your mother was just three years old when your grandmother was arrested the first time. Your mother grew distant from her. Aunt Bertha brought Masha up, and with Aunt Bertha you never knew what she was telling her about Grandma. They look awkward together in this photo, your grandma and your mama. See, they wouldn’t even touch each other. I remember how Ninel Markovna would try to embrace Mashka, but she didn’t like that. Mashka wanted to show that she was independent and grown up.” “Look at Ninel’s eyes! So serious and sad! This must have been taken before her second arrest. She didn’t have many wrinkles then.” “You know,” interrupts Galya, “I once asked what facial cream she used to keep her skin so fresh. When was it—in 1956 I think. 180

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She laughed at me and said that when she was young she didn’t worry about things like that. She would just use a cucumber peel and some fresh sour cream, take cold showers everyday and then just stop thinking about it. That’s the way your grandma was, a woman of principles! It’s too bad she had to deal with those vicious neighbors. Anna Petrovna tried to expropriate the room she occupied with Grigory Isaich after he died at the front. Can you imagine? She was campaigning to be allowed to move into the room of the ‘enemy of the people’ as a reward for her achievements in labor. It didn’t work. And then when Ninel Markovna came back she eavesdropped on her. She heard her listen to the French record once—I think they were language exercises—Jean aime Pauline. Pauline ne l’aime pas. Jeanette aime Paul. Paul ne l’aime pas. Somebody didn’t love someone else. This was a lesson in negation. Anna listened to those tapes in the communal corridor and then complained that Ninel Markovna was a rootless cosmopolitan. And ten years later she teamed up with that old drunk, Uncle Kolia. You must remember him—he wore that white tank top and smelled of triple eau de cologne. I think he drank it when he couldn’t get vodka. Anna Vasilievna would get him his bottle, and then Uncle Kolia would tease poor Ninel Markovna, steal that toilet paper she brought from Estonia, open her mail, whistle under her door when she was trying to go sleep and scream, ‘They will come after you! I hear the footsteps!’ He wasn’t an evil man; he just needed his drink. He had a sadistic streak, too. He liked when she took him seriously. She was terrified that he would steal your pictures from abroad. “They had a special smell to them, those pictures. We would all gather to read your letters. And then Ninel Markovna would tell us her stories about Paris. Paris, Paris, Paris . . . like in that joke about Rabinovich and Anka, the machine gunner. We all wanted to go to Paris again. Ninel was all giggly and blushing when she talked about Paris. She seemed to be twenty-three again! She said that she just loved walking around there, crossing the bridges, sitting in the cafes watching the people go by.” “That doesn’t sound like my grandmother at all. She was a workaholic, as far as I remember.” “Your grandmother really loosened up in recent years. She liked to chat about her youth. She was an idealist in her youth, and she remained one. Only she no longer thought the new world was 181

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around the corner. I never understood what she did in Paris. She must have been doing something besides looking at the smiling Mona Lisa and practicing French verbs of motion! There was a special radiance about her when she came back. It doesn’t happen when you visit factories and speak with French workers everyday. She must have been in love! Grigory Isaich was jealous of Paris. But he was a very sweet man. It wasn’t a great passion or anything, but a nice relationship. Not everyone can boast of having had even that.” “I am sure she was in love,” said Galya with conviction. “With a handsome Frenchman, a count, who loved Russia very much.” “Why a count, Galya? You must be watching too many costume dramas on TV.” “I just think so. He might have looked like Gerard Phillippes. Wasn’t he great in Crime and Punishment?” “Ninel Markovna looked like a foreign actress herself. How should I put it? She didn’t look very Jewish. That beret was very becoming to her. Andrei Mikhalych always admired it.” “Who’s this Andrei Mikhalych?” “Ask Galya. She knows all about her neighbors, don’t you? Oh, I didn’t mean it this way, I’m just joking. Yes, Ninel Markovna met Andrei Mikhalych in Paris. But you know, they actually were born in the same town—in Chernovitz, on the border of Russia, Romania, Ukraine and Hungary. Andrei Mikhalych’s family went to live in Budapest when he was six or seven, and Nina’s went to Petrograd. He was a communist, too. You know that rumor has it that in Paris he was a Trotskyite, or even an anarchist. He was a dashing young man. There is a rumor that he was . . . oh, no I shouldn’t say this . . . he was dedicated to Ninel Markovna. They saw each other regularly after their return from the camps. But they never married. Andrei Mikhalych became a screenwriter in the 1960s. Have you seen his films, Tanechka?” “Which ones?” “He wrote a script for a romantic comedy based on Chekhov’s stories. Was it called The Duel?” “No, Dina Grigorievna, The Duel was the one where Vysotsky played the German guy. It’s a movie where he didn’t sing.” “You’re right Galya. It wasn’t The Duel. It was called The Sea Breeze and then also Your Lovely Braid with Valentin Kachalsky. Andrei Mikhalych became rather well known as a member of the 182

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Union of Cinematographers of the USSR and got all kinds of perks. He spent his summers in the Sanatorium for Cinematographers in the Crimea. He got to buy food in the special stores, too. He would bring Ninel Markovna canned salmon and caviar, a box of White Bear chocolates and a bag of special seedless grapes called “ladyfingers”—damskie pal’chiki. Remember those damskie pal’chiki, Tanechka? They were such a delicacy. You loved them as a child. You called them mamskie pal’chiki when you were three.” “He was always a gentleman, Andrei Mikhalych! He courted her all these years.” “Our Ninelya, of course, was always proud. She would say that she didn’t care for his gifts but she would take them, for her granddaughter. But you know, Dina Grigorievna, once Andrei Mikhalych came to visit Ninel Markovna from Moscow very, very tipsy. He was accompanied by that young actor, Grenadsky, blond and angelic looking, also very tipsy. And Andrei Mikhalych demanded that Ninel Markovna put them both up, in her room, on her sofa, under her only blanket. ‘You understand, Ninel, you must understand,’ he pleaded. Anna Petrovna eavesdropped on them in the corridor, and I was checking up on Anna Petrovna, just to make sure nothing bad would happen. It was a bit of a scandal though. The young Grenadsky blushed and apologized.” “There, there, Galya. That’s life. Nobody’s perfect.” “Here you go, that’s the picture of your grandmother in Paris. She had it taken at the Atelier de Photographie ‘Trois Parapluies.’ I wouldn’t know how to pronounce that.” There she was, the girl in the red beret, Miss X, la fille de la revolution, the new woman with the long neck, broad shoulders and luminous gray eyes, the girl who inspired so much awe from that tired insomniac and would-be scholar émigré woman. The one who was murdered right before the war. From the Archive of Boris Krestovsky Paris, 6/12 Dear Boris Vladimirovich, I am sorry I rushed out of class so hastily without saying good bye or leaving you with a friendly smile, “a fleeing stretch of 183

Svetlana Boym lips,” as you once called it. No, of course, I am not angry with you. I am a little ashamed of myself, that’s all. It’s Comrade X, you see, that diligent student of yours that gives me the creeps. She highlights my imperfections. Everything about her is just so picture perfect. She is beautiful (despite her beret), but dear Herr Doctor Professor, since when has a Marxist, class-based theory of language won your approval? The great Eurasia is supposed to be classless, isn’t it? It’s the belonging that matters, not your social status, right? How on earth can the two be reconciled? Continuing the next day—I am not upset any more. Dear Boris Vladimirovich, please forgive my wicked words written in haste. I will not erase them though, I don’t believe in rewriting letters. It’s been a week since we saw each other last, but I suddenly remembered your voice that night. You spoke very beautifully about your country house in Russia, the lilacs and the Cossack songs. My Nordic imagination was captivated by your southern landscapes. Last night I dreamed that I went to Leningrad (I must say it is still hard for me to write that strange name) with a false passport. I am on the official tour as a labor organizer from Marseilles, or something like that. I walk around the Neva, the Fontanka, the canals with their little chain bridges and gilded winged creatures. It looks the same as it used to look only more dusty and shabby, and the gold is all cracked. And then I notice something strange. I notice that the few people that I meet on the street constantly bump into me, step on my toes, push me with their elbows, cough and spit on me, speak into my face. They don’t really see me. I am invisible to them. I walk around like a ghost with an updated passport. Forgive an untimely confession. Yours, N.B. To Nina Belskaya, Nina, my friend, you are really unfair to Ninel Markovna Bel’skaya (Blank). You know her name. Why persist in this game of hide and seek? “Comrade X”—what an unkind nickname! It’s not becoming to your loving, if somewhat tortured, nature. I will introduce you to her one of those days. I have a feeling that the two of you have something in common. I know it, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. I can’t write you a long letter at the moment, as might be my wish. I do agree that Marxist and Eurasian conceptions of language are incompatible. I always held the belief, and I believe I still do, that language is about roots, not about class. And yet, that utopian vision, that hope for the future, 184

Ninochka the joy of a new world is what we share. I will try to explain it more eloquently next time. I have hope for you too. Yours, forgiving and hopefully forgiven, Boris Vladimirovich P.S. Have I left my umbrella somewhere in your friendly house? It must be in little Natalie’s room or was it, dare I say, upstairs chez toi? I should most certainly come to pick it up, especially if it continues to pour like today. My cough is bothering me again and I seemed to have run out of honey. Oh, Ninusha, how tired I am of this émigré drivel that we call life.

24

In which my beautiful grandmother takes her last stroll in Paris She walks around Paris in her white shirt with unbuttoned collar. It’s a bright and cloudless day in late spring. She is in her twenties and engaged to the world. Why is it so hard for me to dream her dreams? No, her Paris is not mine. She is not wasting her time reading other people’s postcards and getting lost in the labyrinths of the Marais. She likes the Arc de Triomphe. She walks on the boulevards biting her Antonov apple. Yes, she washed it. (She doesn’t forget important things.) She walks with great confidence, she believes that every step she takes really matters. She has the broad shoulders of an excellent swimmer, and she carries herself very uprightly, yet with ease. I envy her. I would have liked to inherit her gait. Mine betrays insecurity and distrust. I am always too early or too late, never quite on time. She is punctual. She doesn’t rush things, she anticipates them meaningfully. Her steps are light, yet grounded. The weather conditions are excellent. The visibility is perfect. I can see her very clearly, and she bears no resemblance to that tired older woman in the communal flat who bickered about Estonian toilet paper. As I watch her crossing the Champs d’Elysee on her way to the Obelisk of Concorde, I am reminded of Greta Garbo. I realize that Greta Garbo had been overacting all along. Remember when she gets off the train and insists on carrying her luggage? She is 185

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a bit too stern there, her blouse is too buttoned and her face so unsmiling that it hurts her muscles. “Don’t make an issue of my womanhood,” she utters in a thick accent. And at the end she gets too soft, all babbling and sentimental, trying on too many hats and being too much in love, laughing for too long. Ninel Markovna doesn’t strain her muscles. Of course, she can smile. Hers is not the photogenic smile designed to promote fresh breath mints, nor the smile of politeness that accompanies “have a nice day” in an encounter with a stranger. She smiles because she enjoys the sunlight, and she feels good about the future. She doesn’t see life in quotes. There comes a point when you can’t say anything without a little help from your index finger making winking quotation marks in the air. She feels at home in the world. That’s why she is so comfortable with planning some home repairs, on a large scale, starting with the foundation. Does she ever have frivolous thoughts? Yes, but she doesn’t make much of them. Occasionally, she glances at the shop windows and catches her reflection against the display of fashionable hats and stockings. She likes them, but she knows that she can do without them. Is she a happy person? It’s hard to tell. She believes in happiness and justice for all. “People here are so self-involved. That’s why they are unhappy. How much time can you spend in your own exclusive company? They care more about grooming their dogs than about humanity!” She walks to the Seine and looks at the Eiffel Tower. “How strange—a monument to technological progress turned out so useless. What is this tower for? It has no center, no core. You can just see through it as if it were a lace curtain. Empty grace, so very Parisian. Perhaps you don’t find such grace in the Soviet Union, but you don’t find such emptiness either.” I look at the Eiffel Tower with her and furtively remember that shabby carousel and the ups and downs of a wooden pony. Watch it! Don’t let her slip away. She nods to someone, quietly without an effusive “how are you.” It’s a comrade, not a lover. A delicate handshake follows, and then they continue walking side by side. I knew from the very beginning. She wouldn’t stroll around the city without a purpose, looking for adventures and chance encounters. She isn’t that type. Her entire life is one big adventure to save humanity from itself. Ninel and the stranger 186

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don’t accelerate their steps, don’t get closer to each other as they walk. They discuss something quietly. She tries to persuade him with her powerful hand gestures. He remains hesitant. “But on the other hand, what if . . .” “It’s all or nothing.” she says firmly. This is the only phrase I manage to catch. “It’s all or nothing.” She convinces him with her unflinching body language, with her whole being. Take it or leave it. If you leave it, you’re on your own. It’s a big scary world out there, and we can’t protect you. There is only so much we can do. I lag behind her a little as she and her companion abruptly turn the corner. I accompany her noiselessly, like a shadow. Onetwo, one-two. I was never good at walking step in step with someone. I failed marching in step in my Pioneer camp training. One-two, one-two. I have to follow the rhythm of her steps and of her breath. One-two, one-two. Just walk and don’t think about walking. Breathe and don’t think about breathing. I don’t want her to notice me, to turn around. That spring in Paris was her happiest time. She was looking forward then, radically forward. She felt that she was on the front line. This was before she was forced to look back. One-two, one-two, don’t rush ahead of yourself. Your time will come. One-two, one-two. “Oh shit!” I trip on a large rock on the asphalt and curse in English. “No, no never mind, I don’t need help. I am fine. It’s my shoes, they’re a problem. They have bad soles.” I realize that the pun no longer makes sense. Where am I ? I must have been dreaming of going to Paris again. But these laughing masks on the familiar cracked facades wouldn’t let me delude myself any longer. I am back in the Leningrad drizzle. I have returned home.

25

In which I invite you to come home with me but Tram No. 30 runs very slowly “Rain walks.” That’s the Russian expression. In Leningrad you always feel that the rain walks after you, follows your shadow in 187

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the puddles. It’s not that teasing Parisian storm that comes and goes as it pleases, but that eternal Leningradian drizzle. It never leaves you alone. People shoot their bleak umbrellas open with a quiet resignation. So it’s raining again—what else is new? I walk like everyone else. It’s raining, so what? Complaining about the weather is a bourgeois luxury! I look down from the bridge at the dark ripples of the river that devour the dancing raindrops. I look out from under my umbrella to see if everything is going as usual, if I “pass” for a native. Nobody pays any attention to me. People return from work, rush through the rainy streets. They have their own problems. My immigrant worries are not theirs. It’s another ordinary day. Everyday life in one’s native city is what seems the strangest. Once it included you in its rhythms of daily obligations and compromises, now it excludes you with the same glaring indifference. The street names have changed. Kirov Avenue is now Kamenoostrovsky, Kuibyshev street is Big Gentry Street although there are no big gentry living there anymore, rather there are mostly impoverished pensioners, Soviet civil servants and once-prosperous dentists. I don’t check the street signs at all. My feet remember the way. The old graffiti on the shabby wall (Kolya + Olya=love,) the whining of the homeless cats in the alleys, the smell of the swamps and of cod liver oil assure you that you’re on the right track. There is a certain memory of the body that brings you back to your native city. You remember the pace of your walking—not too fast, not too slow, always running a little late but secure that you will be waited for. Your arms don’t move much (this is not a “power walk,” your muscles can relax now). You know just the right distance to keep between you and the others. You return to a slower time without appointment books when you could have long conversations about nothing, exchange foggy remarks in double speak, understanding and misunderstanding each other with half-words. “Did she say anything. No. What’s there to say? He? Of course not. He sat and smoked. His mistress knew. She was at the dacha at that time, making mushroom soup. I guess they needed money, I don’t know. It could have been worse.” I am trying to recover that rhythm of life in my native city that must have determined my own inner rhythms. But I feel I am not doing it right. In the bus, people come too close to me, the 188

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men breathe their fatigue into my face, the women look at me with suspicion and whisper something to each other. I take too much space, that’s what it is. I don’t lean on anything. I have a foreigner’s smile on my face. The voices of my grandmother’s friends follow me in the rain. “So she was in the camps for ten years; it could have been worse . . . She came out gray, but looking quite in shape . . . That guy with the anchor on his arm was just following orders. The other one, with the gold tooth, was scum . . . . She giggled and blushed, that seventy-five-year-old woman, as if she were twentythree again. Oh, and don’t forget the cucumber peel and a cold shower at the end.” There is something very intimate in the timbre of Russian voices, in all those suffixes of endearment, “And then he brought her those special seedless grapes called ladyfingers— damskie pal’chiki—mamskie pal’chiki.” It’s been fifteen years or so since I last heard this word, damskie pal’chiki. They smelled of that bittersweet perfume, Red Moscow, that my grandmother’s pupils brought her as a gift for International Women’s Day, the 8th of March. I was skipping school that day with a cold and a light fever. My grandma came to visit me bringing with her those hard-to-get seedless grapes. She was in a special mood. No, she didn’t read me Gianni Rodari’s stories about the capitalist exploiter Signore Pomidoro—I was too old for that. She told me about her camp life, maybe not really what it was like, but what she wanted to remember. She told me how she was in the cell with an informer who tried to provoke her, but she pretended to be very stupid and naive. And then, when that didn’t help, she said that she had lost her voice, and believe it or not, the informer ordered someone to bring her hot milk. Speaking of the kindness of strangers! Then she went on and on about how fortunate she was to be in the same barrack with that great actress Kanevskaya who recited Chekhov’s monologues about the cherry orchard. Everybody laughed and cried. I remember my grandmother’s animated face with very few wrinkles and her short gray hair, but I can’t quite recall the details of her story. I wish I had recorded it then in my diary, instead of covering pages with endless reflections on the meaninglessness of my teenage existence, my impressions from Crime and Punishment and my despair that S. didn’t call. But you can’t go back and correct your past. 189

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I remember those Soviet postcards with ten precisely fixed views of the city—Peter and Paul Fortress, Winter Palace, Lenin’s Monument near the Finland Station, Bronze Horseman, the Summer Gardens, Lenin’s Monument on Moscow Avenue, Piskarev Memorial Cemetery, Pushkin’s monument by the Russian Museum, and last but not least, the legendary Cruiser Aurora. There were virtually no people on the those postcards. The official Soviet photographer loved the classical beauty of the capital of the former Russian Empire and didn’t want to spoil it with those unphotogenic Soviet people in their funny hats carrying half-empty plastic bags. Even the unruly Leningradian weather was forever tamed on those cards; the clouds had classical shapes that looked perfect on that grayish-blue East German color film. Now those city postcards are hard to get; the new entrepreneurs bought up all of them and sell them for dollars on the streets. New postcards have the same eternal classical clouds, but instead of Lenin’s monuments and the Cruiser Aurora they feature city churches and monarchist relics. But once I move away from the center, from those imperial palaces and monuments, from the subway stations encircled with the settlements of kiosks, I find the sand castles that children built, all by themselves, in the dusty public gardens in the shadow of oak trees. In the Summer Gardens elderly women continue to knit on the benches side by side with whispering lovers. That statue of Youth around which little Nina Belskaya played her hide and seek, is it still here? And osoka, the wounding grass, does it still grow on the outskirts of the parks? Who is this aged woman with blurred mascara walking along the alleys of the park? Something, you don’t quite know what it is, tells you that she isn’t from here. She tries to feed that black swan in the pond. “Oh come on, miss,” a stout babushka tells her. “You’ve got to get the right bread crumbs. This swan is very spoiled. He won’t take just any kind of bread.” We stroll together for a while, down the avenues. She catches her reflection in the shop window of the old Soviet store, Political Books, right next to the familiar unshaven face of Karl Marx. “I look so hopelessly foreign,” she says, laughing. We cross the bridge and escape into the labyrinth of sunless Leningradian yards, not repainted since the 1930s, where teenagers eat Snickers chocolate bars and play the same old hopscotch on the asphalt. There we say our goodbyes. She has to catch a 190

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plane “back home.” I continue walking from one yard to another, haunted by that familiar stagnant smell that never leaves that city built on swamps and bones. The local drunk, Uncle Petia urinated on the pile of trash in the corner of the dark yard, and now the street cleaner’s dog is playing here with a blue and red ball. It recognizes you, this dog. You look different but you smell familiar. Oh, the inescapable sweet smell of my childhood! I think of visiting my old house. There used to be a slow tram, number 30, that would take you from the Circus on the Moika river back to the Petrogradskaya side. I stand here for some twenty minutes. I seem to be the only one waiting for the tram. That’s a bad sign. “Excuse me, does tram number 30 stop here?” I ask a woman passerby. “It’s written on the sign . . .” “Dear girl, dochen’ka. Kakoi-tam tramvai. Teper’ tramvai voobchshe ne khodiat,” she sighs back. “There was a tram number 30 here, but it’s been some three years since I’ve seen it, and I walk here everyday, believe me. I work in the cloak room in the Circus. People don’t go much to the Circus these days. Life’s like a circus. And those poor animals, you know, we have trained dogs and even a tiger, they don’t get quality foods anymore. The new city officials are the real beasts, they don’t understand that the circus is our national treasure.” So I retreat back to Nevsky Avenue where my favorite old book store on the corner now sells jeans and Adidas suits. The run-down ice cream parlor where as teenagers we used to buy Finnish chewing gum from low-level black-marketeers is now a Lancôme store. I walk toward the Palace of Pioneers, crossing the Anichkov Bridge. It reminds me of that bridge in Paris, Pont d’Iena near the Eiffel Tower. Suddenly, I see one word in big crimson letters blowing in the wind at me: NOSTALGIE No, it’s not possible. I must be hallucinating. It must be rain and smog. My glasses are misted. I clear up my glasses but the specter of NOSTALGIE is still there. Yes, it is written like that in French with no Cyrillic, “nostalgie.” I decide to take a snapshot of this uncanny mirage and take out my Polaroid. “Excuse me,” a middle aged woman stops me. “You shouldn’t take your picture from here. It’s not the right angle. This horseman on the bridge is our great masterpiece.” “Thank you,” I say and continue to arrange my camera. 191

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“Listen to me, daughter,” she says insistently. “That’s the wrong view. If you want to get the Palace of Young Pioneers you have to face north!” “What’s wrong with her?” the other passerby quickly joins in. “Don’t you think she should face north to take a better picture of the Palace of Young Pioneers?” “Yes, absolutely.” “She’s wasting her film!” “Daughter, where are you from?” “Is she a foreigner?” “No, no.” I push the button. The letters of the NOSTALGIE gradually emerge on the dark Polaroid. And then I read the small print: “Nostalgie. Radio Europa Plus. The Pleasure is Yours!” From my E-mail To: [email protected] Miklos: I’m escaping my former native city into virtual space. It’s just good to know there is an exit somewhere. Everyone here says that I haven’t changed at all. “Just like ten years ago!” What a scary thought. I have moments when I think that this is my real life—I mean this life in Leningrad, and all the rest, New York, Paris, you, Nina Belskaya, is just my fantasy. A virtual exile . . . No, it’s the other way around. Send me an e-mail. I’m angry at you in real life, you know that. T.

To: [email protected] Dear T: I hereby write to confirm your real existence in New York and in Paris. You didn’t dream it, believe me, I was there. I’m your witness. I give you my hand. Can you feel it? I push the RETURN button over and over again, but all it does is create more distance, more space between the lines. 192

Ninochka Taniusha, get things straight. It’s Leningrad that you’re dreaming now. It’s the city that doesn’t exist anymore. You’re hallucinating. It’s a nightmare of origins. There is an exit and more than one. You’ll leave again, I promise. Nowadays round trips are safe. Don’t fly Aeroflot. Be sure to check your emotional baggage. Don’t let them handle it. They won’t do it with care. The times have changed, after all. Look, they didn’t confiscate your computer, and they don’t care about your dangerous correspondence. Not yet. (Hello, Are you there? Hello! Are you sitting by the blue screen in your morning robe? Or is it late at night over there and you’re still in your street jacket, the one with many zippers, too exhausted to take it off? Do you keep your password secret?) Yours, guilty in real life, yes, but not in the virtual one. Miklos.

26

In which I bury my grandmother I will never again see the face of my grandmother, her closed eyes, lightly painted eyebrows, powdered face. “They did a good job in that funeral home. She looked almost alive and there were virtually no wrinkles on her face. She looked beautiful, like she was in her youth,” said Dina Grigorievna. I was late in arriving. My grandmother had asked to be cremated. She was unsentimental and prepared to die. She didn’t suffer more than she had to. So today is her funeral, and it was decided that she would be buried at the Jewish cemetery at the outskirts of the city. Andrei Mikhalych meets me and my aunt at the tram stop. He’s still dashing. He has a gray trench coat and a white scarf that is very becoming. “Remember Andrei Mikhalych?” asks my aunt, “He once read you that story about the mermaid with bleeding feet, and you cried and cried.” I have no recollection of that. Andrei Mikhalych laughs. He embraces me wholeheartedly as if I were his granddaughter. He gives me three kisses, “the French way.” “Oh, you look so grown 193

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up,” he says. “I’m sorry we have to meet again on such a sad occasion.” He doesn’t say that I look like my grandmother. I know that I don’t. I inherited neither her broad shoulders nor her strength of character. “You’ve got your grandmother’s sense of determination,” he says after a pause. “She always did what she thought was right.” I don’t contradict him. This is not the time or the place to do that. Yet, I don’t agree with him. My decisions were all opposite to my grandmother’s. I chose to emigrate. She would have nothing of that. When I told her that I was leaving, she said that she could never imagine life outside the Soviet Union. “Your grandma was an exceptional woman. I’ve never met anyone like that. I admired her all my life . . .” “She was quite a character,” says my aunt. “She knew she was going to die. She felt at peace with herself at the end. She said that we shouldn’t abandon hope for the better future. But then all through the night she was feverish or something. They might have given her light ether as a painkiller. She seemed euphoric and tipsy. I had never seen her like that. She usually didn’t drink. She was delirious. She said, ‘Everything’s sparkling and glittering around me. I’m in Paris, André,’ (she called me by my French name, André). I knew we would go back, just the two of us. It’s so beautiful here, so full of life. Oh André, don’t frown, don’t be sad. Maybe it’s the decadent civilization and yes, French waiters and the cabbies are very rude—no—don’t argue with me this one time. Today I love all of them! Cabbies of the world unite! Let’s dance André, no, no, not that awful song, A spring breeze is blowing in our country. It’s getting more joyful and merrier to live . . . No, it’s not really dance music, it’s a march. I want the other one: Mais vous pleurez, monsieur . . . . La-la-la la vie en rose . . . No, no, that one is too sad. Remember the one that was playing in the Russian cabaret in Paris. The lilac twilight . . . . You’ve taken off your shawl, un-made your lo—oovely braids. . . . Let us be happy! Give us our moment! Loosen up, André, loosen up. I am so happy and so tired . . . .’ She smiled and fell asleep. I cried by her side.” My aunt sobbed and so did I. The tram ran slowly through the outskirts of the city. “Excuse me, could you pass the change?” 194

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“Two tickets please.” “Thank you.” I remembered those rituals of public transportation, the sense of communion of strangers in the crowded trams. To hop a tram you have to go through a rite of passage using your elbows, feet and umbrella, you do your bit in the struggle for survival. But once you come out a winner in this survival of the fittest, once on a tram you become polite to your fellow riders, you give them an approving look and go out of your way to pass on their change. No, they don’t put it into their pockets. That’s unheard off. This would violate the most sacred public trust. I discover that it’s rare tram now that still has an old ticket machine. The money is devalued now, change is hard to come by. Most trams went the Western way; you just put your ticket into the machine, and it punches holes in it. “Here you go. Two tickets for the gentleman on the left.” “Thanks, miss.” “It would have meant a lot to Ninel Markovna if someone said Kaddish for her.” “As far as I can remember she was an ardent atheist. She regularly took her students to the Museum of Scientific Atheism. She never remembered a word of Yiddish. Well, maybe one expression, dreinit kin kopp, ‘don’t drill holes in my head’—whatever that means.” “Oh, yes,” Andrei Mikhalych smiles, “yes, dreinit kin kop. The last five years of her life she would chat in Yiddish with me. You know we grew up together, in the same town of Chernovitz. It was a very chic place to be a child. Jewish bourgeois children had French nannies there—many were actually Romanian, but nobody knew the difference. We tried to be very assimilated then, very international. We wanted to escape our stifling little world, emigrate into the twentieth century. And we all did it, more or less successfully. We were not completely unlucky you know, just not as lucky as we thought we were.” “Grandma would tell me that you grew very superstitious with old age, Andrei Mikhalych, and she would shake her head, ‘Watch it!’ ” My aunt tried to smile. This is the final stop, the Jewish cemetery. There is an inscription here in Hebrew which I can’t read. The gates are rusted. There are missing planks on the fence. A tree grows through the 195

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wall of the old synagogue built in the Moorish style. A couple of workers are having a snack here on its ruined steps. They help themselves to rye bread, pickles and Pepsi Cola and discuss the defeat of the Leningrad soccer team Zenith. “He tried to hit the ball with his head, mother-fucker, and he missed it again.” Finally, an old man with sad almond eyes comes out to greet us at the entrance and shouts to the guard, “The Blanks have come.” Actually we’re the Sterns. My grandma’s maiden name has been long forgotten. But for the old cantor we are the Blanks, relatives of the dead Blanks lying there in that cemetery of Russian Jewish history. The narrow paths are covered with moss. There are almost no visitors here, only an old woman in a polka-dot scarf squats by the gravestones and picks out weeds. “There is nobody here to take care of the graves,” laments the old cantor. “Nobody at all. And you know, when I die I don’t know how people are going to find their dead. They come here, and they get lost immediately. Many paths here have no names. There are books, of course, old books where all is recorded. But nobody is taking care of those books, nobody. They get soaked in this humidity, they fall apart, the letters in black ink become unreadable. What can I do? How can I help? I’m an old man now.” I notice many tombstones are covered with cement, they look like the eyes of the blind. There are no names on them, no signs, no dates of birth and death, no graffiti. “These are the graves of the immigrants, says the cantor. “I mean of the immigrants’ relatives. You know in the seventies when the family emigrated it often happened that their relatives’ graves were desecrated. The hoodlums, you know, they would draw swastikas on them, horrible and stupid things. So when the whole family was preparing to leave, to Israel, to America, to Canada, when there was nobody left to take care of the grave, they would just cover it with cement. Yes, you can’t read who’s buried there. For the dead, you know, it doesn’t really matter. At least their memory will not be desecrated. I was scared of those cement graves at first. They stared at me like the eyes of the blind. Now I’ve gotten used to it. Maybe it’s better this way. That’s life, you know, that’s life.” In the corner of the cemetery a small group of my grandmother’s friends, relatives and students has gathered. “Re196

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member where she is buried,” the cantor tells us. “Please write it down, now, before I sing my Kaddish. I want you to write down where we put her to rest. People say she was a nice woman, a strong woman. It’s fortunate that we found a place for her here, in this cemetery. There is almost no ground left here for graves, but we found one last place for the Blanks.” “Thank you, Abram Abramych, thank you so very much. Thank you for everything. We’ll never forget you.” I look around at the crowded tombstones. Even after their death these people suffer from the shortage of space. Jewish names, Russified, Polonized, Germanized, float in front of my eyes. I can’t see anymore. They are saying Kaddish for my grandmother in a language that I don’t understand.

27

Which offers you seven elephants of happiness My grandmother preferred to travel light. She always boasted that she could pack all her things in forty-five minutes and get ready in three “like in the Army.” Now it’s my turn to pack her few remaining personal belongings, the ones that nobody else wanted. In the slim family album there is a photo of my mother as a Young Octobrist and of me as a Young Pioneer in a wrinkled Pioneer tie, a portrait of my grandfather Grisha in a military uniform, a photo of Andrei Mikhalych looking like a dandy in a white suit. And then there is that picture from the beach in Yalta taken sometime in the early 1960s around the time when I was born. Nobody looks familiar on that gravel beach crowded with Soviet vacationers on package tours. There are no witnesses to tell me who’s who. “Your grandma liked Yalta,” that’s all Andrei Mikhalych had to say about it. A naked girl of five or so with short dark hair squats on the wet sand, holding a seashell to her ear. She must have been told, as we all were, that you can hear the murmur of the waves that way. A few young woman in polka dot bikinis are lying with their eyes closed and their noses covered with special 197

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plastic “nose protectors” next to a group of tanned middle-aged men with triangular hats made out of Pravda. They’re playing cards and drinking Zhigulev beer. Who are these people? Where did they come from? Where are they now? Why did my grandmother keep this accidental photo? Is it just a memory of a place, or is there someone in the photo she was close to that none of us knew? The picture has a surface of opaque indifference. It is as if the view finder missed its target, the photographer was distracted for a moment letting the hero and the heroine slip out of the frame. This is one of those rare pictures in which everybody is in the background, and no one stands out from the picture’s photographic anonymity. I find comfort in dozens of familiar class photos, with my grandmother always in the center, the stern, but kind teacher surrounded by admiring pupils. There are pictures of individual pupils too, her favorites—Innochka on skates, Natashenka performing the dance of the little swans, Galya solving a mathematical puzzle, Alik and Alesha doing a French dialogue. The backs of the photos are covered with fond dedications and mistakes in spelling: “Dear Ninel Markovna: You’re our favorite teacher. We will never forget you.” “To dear Ninel Markovna from her grateful students.” I catch myself thinking that there are more pictures of her pupils than of me. I never wrote her any dedications, but I did send her postcards once in a while. I find the last photo of my grandmother that used hang on the Board of Honor in the corridor of her school. She has got a new haircut here in the 1930s fashion. In this picture she is almost smiling, looking relieved and reconciled to her surroundings. Then there is a loose page from the Komsomol Pravda from the late 1950s with a picture of Yves Montand and Simone Signoret in Moscow. The title inscription reads, “Moscow Youth greets the delegation of French Communists.” Yves Montand smiles into the camera, but Simone Signoret looks astray, as if reproaching us with her cat-like eyes. The date is 1956. There is an article in the paper about events in Hungary. “The Soviet Government helped to prevent the antiCommunist sabotage” and a photo of Budapest with burning buildings in the background. You can’t really see what’s going on. (What did my grandmother think about the events in Hungary in 1956? Did she disapprove or justify them? Did she cut out the 198

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page just for the picture of Simone Signoret?) The old newspaper is very fragile and crumbles when I touch it. My grandmother didn’t save her correspondence. She was in the habit of burning her letters, even the ones that had nothing compromising about them. The only things she saved were the postcards. She must have liked their faded colors. She had a pile of school notebooks in her drawer. No, this was neither her diary nor the notes towards a future novel. My grandma was wise enough not to do that. She thought that there was no point in adding more writing to the world. Too much has been done already. It’s better to remember some great lines that the others have written than add your own mediocre meditations. So this was her commonplace book with favorite poems. She used school notebooks with the table of measures on the back. She copied them carefully in her exemplary school-teacherly handwriting. By copying she made them her own. The only thing she added was the date. This wasn’t the date of the poem’s writing, but the date of her copying. The last thing I find, buried under the dusty notebooks, pictures and paper clips, are seven tiny elephants made of ivory. I am glad to discover them, I thought they had been thrown into the trash. Nobody knew exactly where they came from, but my grandmother seemed to have had those seven elephants for as long as we could remember. One distant cousin suggested that the elephants were a trophy from the years of Soviet-Indian friendship and that they were on sale together with Chinese tea kettles in the House of Leningrad Trade. My mother thought that my grandma bought them in Yalta from the Crimean Tatars or from the Karaims, rumored to be the last descendants of the legendary Khazars. The neighbor Galya insisted that they were definitely foreign. They must have been a gift from that romantic count who looked like Gerard Phillippes. He lost his fortune after the revolution. His diamonds weren’t forever. This was a gift from his heart. Whatever their obscure origin, the seven elephants always stood on my grandmother’s desk in a row, the biggest elephant in front with his hoof down. They said that the seven elephants were messengers of happiness. Of course, my grandmother wasn’t superstitious. Moreover, she disliked tchotchkes and usually made fun of petit-bourgeois domestic clutter. But the elephants were special. She dusted them daily with a wet rag. She grew attached to them, and 199

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they became her memory pets. They might have brought her happiness at the end. She just didn’t share that with us.

28

In which we dispel our sad thoughts and learn what Ninel Markovna really did in Paris “No more sad thoughts, my dear, no more sad thoughts. Your grandmother was a tough lady. Some thought her severe, but I never did. She had a soft side too. When she looked at me that day in Paris with her bottomless eyes and said, ‘André, you’re wasting your life. How long do you think you can fool yourself,’ I knew she was right. I did what she told me to do. I came to the Soviet Union.” “What year was it?” “1939. Right after the occupation of Poland. We thought that Russia would be a kind of safe haven. And besides we wanted to serve the Revolution, to say the least. You might say she ‘recruited me,’ and not me alone. She was persuasive. Did she warn me about purges? No, of course, not. She denied it ardently. ‘That’s propaganda, André, trust me,’ she said. There might have been a few mistakes, but we both know, you and I, that ‘you must break eggs to make an omelet.’ Life is too short, you know; we’d better cook ourselves an omelet or two. She was impatient with people who doubted too much. ‘On the one hand this, on the other hand that . . . ’ ‘If you think too much, you can’t act anymore,’ she used to say. Sometimes she wasn’t fair to people, and she might have had enemies. Things were complicated. I’ll tell you about it some day. Some other day. We both paid dearly for our return to Russia, but I don’t hold it against her. If I had stayed in Paris, I either would have been as good as dead, or I would have been a truly great filmmaker. Who knows. At that time, cinema became less important than life. We wanted to join the forces of Eurasians and Leftist émigrés to make them all work 200

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for Soviet Russia. Once I had a moment of hesitation. I remember we sat in that crowded restaurant in Paris, I forgot its name, ‘Chez somebody,’ and as I drank and felt happy for a moment, I experienced a pang of doubt. Should I leave all that, should I start a new life, yet again? She guessed it at once. The pupils of her eyes were like gun bullets. ‘Remember what we promised each other when we were eleven, back home in Chernovitz,’ she said. She knew I remembered that.” “What was she like in her childhood in Chernovitz? She never spoke about it to us.” “She didn’t change much. I remember once she took me far away to the outskirts of the town. We ran up to the roof of one of the abandoned buildings from where you could see the forest and the nearby villages. One of them had been virtually destroyed in a recent pogrom. Most of its residents left and never returned. ‘There are many injustices in the world. Poverty, misery, violence, she said. It doesn’t have to be that way.’ She cut her finger, drew some blood and asked me to do the same. We dipped a birch stick into our blood and signed a pact of friendship. ‘We will live in a better world, Andrei, let’s promise each other that.’ I think she read it somewhere in a French novel, Victor Hugo or something. We were such bookish kids. “But once I saw her cry. She was running down in the high grass crying. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘It was so terrible, Andriusha, so terrible,’ she said sobbing. ‘What is it?’ ‘I stepped on a rabbit, a dead rabbit.’ ” “You know, she never spoke of Chernovitz. It was as if she wanted to hide the fact that she wasn’t born in Leningrad. She considered herself a native Leningrader and was always eager to show the city to the visitors and guests. ‘You must go to the Russian Museum first. No, one day for the Russian museum and the Pushkin museum is not enough.’ She was such a patriot.” “Yes, it’s true. At the end we forgot that we were from Chernovitz, and we always argued which city was more beautiful, Moscow or Leningrad. You can guess what she thought.” We are sitting in a basement café on Nevsky where there used to be a famous café called Nord with a marble floor, which was then renamed Café Sever (Russian for “north”). There they sell the best eclairs and kartoshkas and White Bear chocolates. Now 201

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there is a new “private” buffet, and it will be called “Nord” again, but they haven’t finished making the sign yet. In the café are a few new yuppies, foreign students who are buying coffee and cognac for an aging Russian intellectual, a couple of sullen guys in Chinese Adidas suits with a bleached blond woman, and us. Most importantly, the coffee is good here and the counter woman says, “Thank you, come again,” with fresh cordiality and an embarrassed smile, like something she didn’t have time to rehearse well. “Were you in love with her, Andrei Mikhalych?” “More than that. It was always more than that, you see. It’s not because she was married. That was irrelevant. She was my ideal. How can I explain this to you? Human nature is so complicated. We couldn’t be involved in an intimate way. Ninel Markovna, you know, she understood it all. She helped me, too. In the late 1950s, at the time of the International Youth Festival in Moscow, I began to collaborate with the director Grigory Alexandrov, the one who made Volga, Volga and The Circus. Have you seen them?” “Yes, sure.” “Did you know that Alexandrov traveled with Eisenstein to America? He loved to boast about his success in Hollywood. Alexandrov told me that he had drank there with a famous Hollywood producer, ‘one of those very high up’, he didn’t give a name. He just winked at me and said ‘you know who I mean.’ For all I know it could have been Louis Mayer himself! Supposedly, the producer asked Alexandrov point blank if he wanted to emigrate to America. ‘After all, most of Hollywood’s talent has come from Eastern Europe, and mostly from Pinsk and Chernovitz.’ Alexandrov proudly said that he would never leave Soviet Russia. The producer poured him another drink and said that he would wait for a week. He would show Alexandrov great Hollywood musicals, to see what he thought. That’s all—a legend, of course. There was also a vicious rumor that both Eisenstein and Alexandrov wanted to stay in Hollywood, but were received there rather coldly. We won’t know the truth. All we know is that Alexandrov returned to the Soviet Union and created a Soviet musical comedy. So the producer hadn’t wasted his time and vodka after all. Alexandrov broke off with Eisenstein. He wanted to make Soviet people laugh, so that they will ‘be merrier and more joyful everyday.’ 202

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He didn’t want to just ‘catch up with America,’ he wanted to get ahead, to make something bigger and better, more popular, more magical, more musical than anything the Americans ever did! So he made a musical dedicated to the Soviet constitution and made the American performer emigrate to the Soviet Union. Not bad, eh?” “Wasn’t that the film that my grandmother saw on the night of her arrest?” “Yes, and it wasn’t her cup of tea really. ‘Come on, Andrei,’ she’d say. ‘Our times aren’t made for comedy.’ I disagreed, of course. In the fifties she adored Jean Gabin—don’t ask me why. It was enough for her to watch him walk the streets of some rainy provincial town in his trench coat, and she’d be glued to the screen. To be frank with you, I don’t think she cared much about my films.” “I’ve seen your Chekhov miniseries on TV. I must have been in the seventh grade, I had a sore throat and a mild fever. You had a perfect sense of timing.” “Have you seen Your Lovely Braid with Valentin Kachalsky’s songs? You might have been too young for that. Kachalsky’s three daughters, Liubochka, Lialia and Alyona, played the daughters of a bankrupt nobleman. One was a spoiled brat, another a nymphomaniac and the third a blue stocking . . . We spoke of our life indirectly, you know, just the way one should in art.” “Which Kachalsky was it? The singer of émigré romances— ‘I am a princess without a sou’—all that stuff?” “That’s a real oldie,” chuckles Andrei Mikhalych. “How do you know it? I didn’t think anyone of your generation remembered it. His songs went out of fashion so quickly.” “I am a historian, Andrei Mikhalych. His name comes up a lot in the 1930s. I didn’t realize he came to the Soviet Union. He wasn’t a household name in my time.” “Oh yeah. He was quite well-known in the 1950s, both as a singer and as a campaigner against alcoholism among youth.” “Hmm. I thought he used to be quite a drinker as a young man.” “Precisely. He wanted to wash off bad memories—the drunken debauches, chronic hangovers, women vomiting in bed—all that stuff. He was recruited for a good cause, at last.” Andrei Mikhalych winks at me. “The campaign against alcoholism was a good cause. 203

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It didn’t help alcoholism, but inspired lots of jokes: Rabinovitch goes to the meat store and asks for a bottle of vodka. ‘What’s your problem? Since when have you gotten so dumb?’ the saleswoman answers. ‘Can’t you see? This is a meat store, so we don’t have meat. The liquor store is next door. That’s where they don’t have vodka.’ And then in Gorbachev’s times, Kachalsky appeared on TV again, he was singing for Raisa Maksimovna and saluted their war on alcoholism. Oh, those were the days! You knew your haves and have nots. Even shortages had their proper places. You must know that joke about coffee without cream?” “Yes, it’s famous one. It was used in Ninotchka.” “Was it? I don’t remember. I must have told it to Mr. Lubitsch in Budapest. Ernst was jealous of my sense of humor.” “Oh?” “Just joking. I was a kid then, and a very serious kid. So how come you’re interested in all that vintage stuff? I thought you were into the Beatles and Jesus Christ Superstar. Remember, I saw you reading the Bible one day and you told me that you were trying to understand Jesus Christ Superstar? I must confess I had a good laugh. So what is it now? “I’m doing research on Russian émigrés in Paris in the 1930s.” “I see. That’s quite a topic. Couldn’t you find something less depressing? They were a miserable bunch, those Russian émigrés. Their lives were made of conspiracies and despair. They had neither meaning nor purpose. All they did was drink and complain, mourning the Russia of the past and hating the Soviet Russia of the present. Now they’re in fashion, I guess. We look at them through rose-colored glasses. Of course, there were great artists and writers among them, people like Boris Vilde who fought in the resistance, or Poltavsky-Rizhsky, a brave man and a great poet. They spread all kinds of rumors about him those days. And Vadim Sovin went really far. He wrote in several languages. I’ve just read in the Moscow News that Sovin had a ‘detective genius.’ Now his complete works are on every corner.” “What about Nina Belskaya?” “Who? “Belskaya, Nina.” “Why do you ask about her? She was just a minor disciple of Krestovsky, a linguist or a psychologist or something.” 204

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“Well, her work on exile and paranoia was quite influential.” “Influential? Where? For whom?” There was something unpleasant in Andrei Mikhailych’s sarcasm. “It’s mentioned in many studies.” “A footnote, I’m sure. She hadn’t published a lot. She was an amateur. No more—I didn’t know her well.” “I think you knew her better than that.” “What do you mean?” “She had the same name as my grandma, didn’t she?” “Not really, her name had a soft sign—Bel’skaya. It’s a coincidence. She and Ninel Markovna never met. If you’re interested in that you should meet my old friend who wrote a preface to the selected works of Poltavsky-Rizhsky. I rather liked some of his poems, especially the later ones. How does it go? I will protect you from the drizzling rain and from that ever-rushing movie train There is no death, my dear, no death . . .

“He was friends with Nina Belskaya, wasn’t he?” “Oh, my dear, you’re on some kind of wrong track. It must be American sensationalism or something. Nina Belskaya was nobody. She ended badly. There was a rumor that one of the immigrant workers in her building tried to rob her when nobody was home. Something banal like that. And why are we discussing her anyway? A day after your grandmother’s funeral? I am very tired, my dear. I really don’t want to get angry. It’s all very sad, all very sad. You’re young, and you’re certainly stubborn like your granny. I really like you, dear. I feel I’m your silly uncle, yes, your deviant uncle. But I am exhausted now, and I’ve got to rest. We’ll talk, I promise, we’ll talk.” From the Archive of Boris Krestovsky Paris, October 10, 1939 Dear Professor, I waited for you all morning counting the raindrops on my window sill. I listened to those atrocious f’s that the girl downstairs was practicing. I saw our poor concierge cry when the girl left. She 205

Svetlana Boym felt that she had sinned against the spirit of music. I heard the immigrant workers cursing in many dialects. They laughed loudly, and then all was quiet. Now they left to pack the furniture in the yard. The concierge went to walk her dog. I was there by myself, waiting for you by the window, embroidering a blouse, like a sailor’s widow. I had hoped we could finally be alone. Alone together, the way we always are. At midday, Natalie returned home from her meeting of the Trotskyite Central Committee with an air of selfimportance. The dog barked. The immigrant workers quarreled among themselves. I took my tea with the last piece of lemon and tried to read. Life returned back to normal. Your umbrella is all dry now, lying on my desk. Why didn’t you come? Yours, Nina Paris, October 11 Dear Nina, I should have called you, but you know how much I hate telephones. Urgent circumstances of world-historical significance forced me to go to Meudon. I would like you to meet Ms. Blank next week. She is truly a remarkable woman, not an idealist in that vaguely romantic sense, but a rational believer. She gives me hope for the future against all odds, and most of all, against my own natural propensity towards apocalyptic thinking (which both Ms. Blank and you rightfully reproach me for). She is a survivor who gives all of us hope for survival. So I promise I will see you very soon now. Forget the umbrella, Ninusha, I will come to see you, to have a long soulful talk. Yours, Boris Vladimirovich

From my E-Mail To: [email protected] M: I buried my grandma. I think we were all unfair to her. She seemed strong, and we believed her. The Jewish cemetery is abandoned by the living. The dead have stayed, but their caretakers have emigrated. Everyone has escaped one way or another. Should I have been writing about my grandmother from the very beginning? Nina Belskaya seems very far away now, very far away. Do you think I’ve just dreamed her up? Has she ever existed? Is she important? Maybe that 206

Ninochka professor of hers ended up killing his favorite disciple? If so, I would never be able to publish it, not here, not in the U.S. He has many followers. How are you? Your family dinners, your work, and so forth? Is all that for real? T.

Dear T: Your message arrived without any indication of time. How do you manage it? Is your Leningrad outside our time zone? I’d like to tell you a joke about a Hungarian, a Russian and an American on a deserted island, but I wouldn’t know if you laughed or not. I think of you a lot and want to see you, to give you a hug. Will you forgive me for such thoughts? Look, Taniusha, you’re grieving now, whether you want to or not. You thought you had joked your way out of this one, but you can’t. You, who are so afraid to be sentimental. We both have a taboo on nostalgia, that’s what we have in common. I am not good at cheering you up, I guess. Just remember that you’re doing what you have to do. Follow your path, even if you don’t know what you’ll find. You might betray yourself, but you’re honest in your search. I can’t say the same about myself. I had to postpone my Lubitsch project. I’m finishing those assignments for the International Bank. You know, we were planning to buy a condo in New York, our “American dream,” so I am working to save money for the down payment. They tell me that I have to live in the real world (the italics are not mine). I am only glad that’s not the only world I’ve got. So take care of yourself, we’ll make sense of it later. We will, I promise. Tovarish’ uchitel’nitsa. Segodnia svetit solntse. Dozhd’ konchilsia. Urra! Da zdravstvuet pervoe maia! (Comrade teacher. It’s sunny today. The rain has stopped. Hurrah! Long live the first of May!) Je t’embrace—M.

M: I am afraid that I lose my capacity to imagine things when I am back “home.” It’s almost like a superstition. If I imagine too much I won’t 207

Svetlana Boym remember anything. Here my horizon shrinks. I don’t know if I can still think alternative thoughts. I don’t want to imagine my grandmother’s dreams. I don’t want to distort her memory with yet another reconstruction. I listen to people and try to remember what they say about her. I want to understand how people make sense of their lives and the lives of the others. I try to remember what it was like to live here—before the emigration. Don’t even try to compare St. Petersburg to Budapest. It’s different, very different. I’m trying so hard to “pass,” to fit back in. I am afraid to be discovered and I am terrified to fit in too naturally. Can I still plot my way out? Thank God for e-mail!! Tseluiu—T. I plan to see my English professor, the one who taught me everything I need to know, even Jesus Christ Superstar! I badly need a distraction.

Dear T: I kiss you too. I’ll teach you much better English than he ever knew. I’m jealous. E-mail quickly. M.

Taniusha: I’m getting worried about you. Two days ago you were jealous of my cyber detours, and now you’re silent. Yes, I live a double life. I didn’t want this. I thought I could change. My real life is a kind of double life, but in my virtual existence I am faithful—to you. If I take a detour to check world news, that’s just for ten minutes or so. Otherwise in cyberspace, I’m all yours. M. 208

Ninochka Taniusha: Mr. Jones, our senior accountant, just told me that we, East Europeans, are good at foreign languages, because we were used to the “double speak” of our childhoods. We used one language in private and another in public and were virtually bilingual. He read it somewhere in the psychology section of The Prague Business Journal. It’s a new theory of some RomanianAmerican doctor. I thought I should immediately e-mail this to you, to get your expert opinion. I disagree, I violently disagree. This Romanian-American doctor doesn’t know anything. In fact, the opposite is true. Our two languages were part and parcel of the same culture. The intonation changed it all. What great fun it was to communicate with hints, jokes and intimations. You didn’t need to say it all, half-words were enough. We overdosed on irony. We relied, sometimes naively, on that unspoken intimacy of “our circle,” of our “true friends.” You emigrate, and you lose that sense of understatement. In a foreign language you have to overstate your case. You can’t try to use double entendres. You’ve got to be understood in the most basic sense. You already speak with half-words, and usually the wrong ones, so you’d better spell out the other half so that you increase your chances of being understood. You have to cut down on jokes. They come out awkwardly. After a while you sound like a caricature of a jolly East European. My American friends sometimes begin their sentences with an expression like “jokes apart . . .” But I don’t want to be “jokes apart.” I say a lot with my jokes, and I take my jokes seriously. When you learn a foreign language, you learn to simplify yourself, to mold your experience into the staccato rhythm of the foreign phrases. The English ones are just too short for me, but I’m trying to learn. With you, I am not afraid of my accent. I explained all that to Mr. Jones but he got a call on another line. So I am ranting to you again, via e-mail. My signals are dissembled and then reassembled again by many foreign machines. I can’t restrain myself. I hope you are late for your appointment with that professor of foreign languages and double entendres. Have you missed it already? He probably won’t show up anyway—he’s too afraid, and he can’t call you because he doesn’t have a phone. Kisses, M.

Taniusha, You don’t answer my messages? What’s going on? Are you there? Donnemoi un signe, un signe precoce de ta presence! My computer is blinking 209

Svetlana Boym when I write you. Is it trying to say something? Is it a wink or just a technical difficulty? It says that I have no new mail. Where are you? Are you taking extensive English lessons with your professor? I think you’ve studied enough. Do you have a flood over there, in St. Petersburg and is the power off? Je t’embrace, M.

29

In which you meet my English professor and drink the cheap wine of our youth How do you kill time in your former native city? Call friends or former lovers or, even better, former would-be lovers, with whom a lot could have happened but not much did. So you reminisce about your past hopes for the future. You need guides from your past, otherwise you’ll just end up sitting on those melancholic park benches or talking politics with the kiosk vendors. Or maybe this idea of calling old friends and lovers is nothing but your immigrant self-indulgence. You think you can disrupt people’s life for the sake of your silly project of self-knowledge. People have other problems here. Go back where you came from! That’s what I would have said to myself if I were them. But luckily, I’m not. Professor Cherniakov responds quickly to my call. “Tania Stern!? What a surprise! Your voice hasn’t changed at all. To tell you truth, Lena Lavrova told me that she saw you on Nevsky. She said that she saw somebody who looked like you. I said that nowadays anything is possible—and here you are! Remember Lavrova? She got a job at the University.” (Of course, with her good accent and great connections.) “So, how are things?” I ask not quite knowing where to start. “Wait,” he says whispering. “I’ll take the phone in another room.” Things really haven’t changed much, just like in the good 210

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old days. There always was something conspiratorial in our relationship. In fact, there was more conspiracy than relationship. “Listen,” he says, “why waste time? Let’s get together. Where? Where else! The Summer Gardens near the swan pond—our old place. The baby swans are dancing in the West these days, but the old ugly duckling is still there. So, see you at five. I’ll bring a bottle of Rkatsetelli. Okay?” It is to Professor Cherniakov that I owe my knowledge of English. This book would never have been written in English if it hadn’t been for Alexander Viktorovich. Of course, he taught me irregular verbs, subjunctives and the sequence of tenses that I may have forgotten over time. He was just ten years older than we were, straight from graduate school. He taught a course in general linguistics and advanced English grammar. He sang the poems by great Scottish poet Robert Burns, accompanying himself with a guitar: My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

In class it was Burns, after class it was the Beatles: “Oh, I get high with a little help from my friends . . .” It goes without saying that all the female students were in love with him, and our mastery of English improved greatly. Everyone was using the subjunctive left and right. Why he chose me to be his favorite became clear only much later. He said that I looked like his first love who turned him down and that we both looked like a Provençal princess. Which Provençal princess? The one in the nineteenth-century engraving illustrating the fourteenth-century manuscript. That was news to me, and it was incredibly thrilling. He wrote me letters in three languages, and I responded in two and a half. I learned everything I know about linguistics then and those two and a half languages with their subjunctives stayed with me. The sequence of tenses obviously didn’t. What else? He was tall, dark and not very handsome, stooping a little, smoking and drinking too much. He was defiantly “Western-oriented.” He didn’t scold us like our other English 211

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teachers when we used American forms like “hi” instead of “how do you do” (the older teacher, Vera Ivanovna, called “hi” the “most vulgar word in the English language.”) He organized an evening of the Beatles, which was cancelled by the dean of the faculty, who said that “the Beatles were teaching amorality and materialistic values to our youth.” Most importantly, Alexander Viktorovich taught me to love the solitude of a scholar, the archival quest and meticulous note-taking. “Call me Sasha, at least when we’re alone,” he had asked me, but I never managed to feel comfortable doing it. With his help I discovered the back room in the university library where I could take notes on the only copy of Saussure that was available there. And then I was doing research on Cathars and Scottish Masons. Alexander Viktorovich prohibited me from making broad generalizations, which I must say I was always tempted to do. “The scholar has to be humble,” he’d say. “You can dedicate yourself now to a study of an article, definite or indefinite, the choice is yours. Nowadays that’s the only honest thing you can do.” It doesn’t matter whether you study the use of article in the Scottish Masons’ documents or in the English translation of Karl Marx. Alexander Viktorovich wasn’t an ideologue. He believed that scholarship, the more esoteric the better, was the best escape from the official discourse. Did I mention that our romance started as an independent study? Needless to say it was completely secret. It was before I learned about “sexual harassment.” We lived in a society where law didn’t have much prestige either in the official or unofficial culture. Love and books were only ways to escape the drudgery of daily life. And yes, nothing much happened between us, and what did was consensual, although this, too, was a concept I wasn’t familiar with then. We never left the university together. We excelled in elaborate cover-ups. He would meet me at the subway station, and we would act as if we had run into each other by pure chance. Then we would wander around the city, go to the roofs of the Peter and Paul Fortress, sit on the steps of Mikhailov Castle, talk and wander again. We didn’t really know each other. We cared more about our fantasies. And sometimes our fantasies overlapped. I lived with my parents, and he still lived with his. Once we went to my room before my parents came home from work. Our 212

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neighbor, Aunt Natasha, was rustling her slippers by my door, checking whether we were still talking. Then she knocked and peeped in, “Tanechka, I’m sorry to disturb you and your friend. Can I borrow a bit of butter? I’m all out of butter today, and I don’t have time to run to the store. Besides the store’s closed for their lunch hour. I have to make blini for Andrei Nikolaevich. Excuse me. Thanks a lot.” Another day we wandered around the river and ran into my grandmother. What was she doing on the bridge? Just enjoying the view? She might have wondered the same about us. To my surprise, she was very tactful. She didn’t ask any questions, didn’t impose herself, just smiled at me and walked away. So Alexander Victorovich and I continued to wander in peace before he met an acquaintance of his who invited us over to his studio and made us an omelet with Estonian sausages. I recognized Alexander Victorovich immediately. His hair was grayer, but his eyes were as youthful and restless as before. He pulled a bottle of young Georgian wine out his backpack with the same mock conspiratorial gesture as he used some fifteen years ago. It had been ages since I drank from a bottle on a park bench. It all had the taste of a teenage prank. But to my embarrassment I realized that Rkatsetelli was really undrinkable. Sipping it from the bottle was quite uncomfortable. I tried my best, though. I was afraid to appear “too American.” He made an elaborate Scottish toast and I caught myself thinking that his English had a strong Russian accent and that he used some expressions that native speakers no longer use. They survived only in Russian textbooks of the English language. I don’t think he ever traveled outside Russia; before, he wasn’t allowed to, and now, he couldn’t afford it. Now my English might be better than his—what a thought! I’m sure he could still correct my grammar, and he’d be right. “Oh, I remember how you used to laugh in class with Sveta Tamarkina and how you drew a Cossack mustache on the photograph of Fidel Castro. It was a picture of Fidel and Hemingway, I think. Once I called upon you to speak about John Osborne and Angry Young Men in Great Britain.” “Did I? “Yes, I remember you did a superb job.” “Well, I have learned a lot about angry young men since then.” 213

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“Sometimes you laughed in class but outside class you were very serious, more serious than now. I remember how you wore that brown coat that made you look very thin.” I don’t recall much about the Angry Young Men movement or the brown coat. It is strange to think that other people remember things about you that you no longer do. They witnessed your past; they can confirm that it actually existed. I realize that there is virtually nobody who knew me before and after emigration. Nobody can piece together the two parts of my life, provide some unifying narrative, make them cohere somehow. It’s a little sad, but it has an advantage, too. I can make up my past, make it more exotic and tantalizing than it really was. He pulls out a couple of old photographs, among them the group portraits of our English class. We are not standing in the broken waves of the Mediterranean, but in the university corridor with the Board of Socialist Achievements and profiles of Marx, Engels and Lenin in the background. I look at the glossy surface and suddenly experience a pang of recollection. I remember how we were forbidden to carry any group photographs with us when we were leaving Russia as refugees. “No more than two people in the photo and no manuscripts,” said the custom controller, a very large woman in uniform. “Don’t you know the rules? Who do you think you are? Do you think you’re above the rules or what?” Group photos of any kind were considered too subversive to be exported from the country. What kind of group is it, anyway? They look like they’re hiding something. What if it’s a state secret? I look at the photograph and remember how we combed our hair ten minutes before it was taken, checked the state of our eyelashes in the mirror and sucked in our cheeks to give ourselves a special allure. All I see in the picture now is that 1970s look—long, nottoo-clean hair, bell bottoms, platform shoes. Nobody smiles in Soviet group pictures. The photographer doesn’t ask us to say “cheese” or anything strange like that. He just counts to three, and we all automatically assume those mature blank expressions. Only Garik Vinogradov, one of three men we had in our otherwise all-girl class, put two fingers behind Sveta’s head in a horn gesture. That wasn’t such a great idea. Sveta had an uncle in the District Party Committee, a powerful man and an executive director of the sausage factory. Sveta has a teaching position in the 214

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Institute now. Garik was reprimanded for his mischief. He never graduated. He went into the army and became an Afghan Vet. He’s in business now. And here is Professor Cherniakov himself, surrounded by his adoring students. He looks incredibly attractive here in his black turtleneck. He has the wistful look of a Leningradian seducer and the beautiful long fingers that always looked like they were about to touch a guitar. Then he would utter something in a deep and guttural voice about the weariness of life. How could one not be in love with him! I saw a ring on his finger, and he noticed that I had seen it. “It’s a difficult situation as usual,” he said. “My wife is a very good woman. I needed to move out of my parents’ home to have a place to work. It was a few months after you left. And now there is this girl, a student of mine. She was in my English singing group. She had a very pure voice and perfect pitch. We’ve been seeing each other for a year or so. So I moved out to live on my own, to see Dasha—that’s her name. But now I don’t know anymore. It’s getting hard for me to work under those circumstances.” He brought me a gift, his first book, a study of emotive syntax in the Northern English dialects. It was a scholarly specialized edition of only about 500 copies. He was very proud of it. “It’s not a major work, but at least it’s honest. I didn’t make up anything. I didn’t try to build ideology upon linguistics. Everyone does it these days.” He blushed slightly, and for a moment I wondered if I still had a crush on him like I did fifteen years ago. I remembered what it felt like. After all, he called me, in spite of our break-up, during that difficult year when we were refused emigration and were under observation from the authorities. Perhaps that’s why I returned his call now, fifteen years later. We walk out of the park towards the station. We stop by a bookstand. They sell many scholarly books from knitting manuals to The Decline of the West to The Joy of Cooking. “See,” he said, “linguistics is very popular these days. Here you go—The Language of Ancient Slavs: What Was Hidden from Us and Why.” And then we stumble upon Boris Krestovsky’s The Culture of the Steppes. “Krestovsky, of course, was a distinguished linguist, now he’s a hero here. He is what they call a part of ‘our underappreciated national treasure.’ But you see, many of his examples simply don’t 215

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fit. He knew better than that. He wasn’t really studying languages. He was developing ideology. He wanted something more than Slavophilism; he wanted a Russia that embraces East and West and is completely self-sufficient. If you ask me, that’s a gross generalization. I would like us to be a great but normal country. I don’t need us to be superior to everyone else. What do you think about this one, The Truth About Mount Zion ? It proves that Mount Zion was populated by proto-Slavic tribes and that Zion comes from the Slavic verb siiat—to shine. You see what I mean about generalizations?” I say that I was interested in language theories and in Boris Krestovsky, in particular, “for historical reasons.” “Well, in that case you should visit your alma mater. They’re having a ‘Forgotten Heritage Week’ dedicated to the émigrés of the first wave. I excused myself, I’m not going. I hope they’ll forgive and forget. It’s a circus down there. But for foreigners like you it could be fun!” “For foreigners like me?” He didn’t ask me too many questions about my life in New York. I noticed that people tended not to. They act like they know what it’s like, as if it doesn’t surprise them anymore. They don’t want to know about my life that doesn’t include them. Or else they think I lead a cloudless, happy and rich life and that I am too lucky. They don’t want to hear details. Alexander Victorovich looks at his watch. “I’m sorry. Dasha will be waiting for me at another Metro station. It’s the one day when she comes home early. It was great to see you. You haven’t changed a bit.” I watched him look for change and take an escalator down. He was stooping and walked faster than necessary, as if escaping something. He turned around at the last moment and waved at me. He didn’t wait to see if I waved back. I remembered why it hadn’t worked between us in the first place. He, too, hadn’t changed a bit.

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30

In which we taste a fruit drink and cabbage pirogi at my Alma Mater and learn what happened to Boris Krestovsky in Russia I enter my Alma Mater through the back door, like a guilty student who hasn’t submitted her term paper. My homecoming begins in the buffet line. I notice a group of young girls cramming for the language exam. The smell of youthful sweat immediately reminds me of that anxious exam period and the good, old predeodorant days. The girls have the same blue eyeshadow on their eyes that we had fifteen years ago. Then it was very hard to get and you had to stand in line at the House of Leningrad Trade for the Polish cosmetic sets. Now you can purchase blue eyeshadow in any kiosk on the way to school. Aunt Liuba, the counter woman, greets me cordially, “How do you do, dear, we haven’t seen you here for a while.” The bar counter is empty as usual; only a glass of orangy-brown fruit drink is standing there, a lonely survivor of my youth. Aunt Liuba doesn’t remember who I am; she just recognizes my face. She wears the same white uniform, and looks exactly the same, only there are a few more wrinkles on her kind face. She’s been here for so long that she lost her sense of time. She is not sure whether she saw me last spring or twenty years ago. “Aunt Liuba, I’m so hungry, what do you have today?” “The usual: pirogi with cabbage and the fruit drink.” Aunt Liuba with her warm fruit drink is the guardian angel of my Alma Mater. What’s in this “fruit drink”? There is tap water that once upon a time was cold and a fruit syrup that once was jam. It gives the fruit drink its incomparable coloring. And what’s in the cabbage pirogi? Don’t even ask. But they are truly delicious together, pirogi with fruit drink, they calm your hunger, quench your thirst and soothe your spirit. The gala hall, which used to be reserved for Komsomol festivities, is decorated with photographs of Russian exiles of the 1920s–1930s, writers, philosophers, generals. The evening is coorganized by faculty and students and called “Our Forgotten National Heritage.” I recognize the moderator, a balding skinny man in a brown jacket. He was a professor of the history of the 217

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Communist Party, scientific communism and scientific atheism. I never got to study scientific communism because it was the final course, a culmination of five years of study of dialectical materialism, historical materialism, history of the Communist Party and political economy of Socialism. I didn’t get that far, I had to leave the university. This professor, Ivan Sergeevich, was better than the previous instructor, Alexey Ivanych, who had a speech disorder and sounded like Brezhnev in his later years. Ivan Sergeevich, on the other hand, was relatively progressive. Now he teaches Russian religious philosophy and Eurasian thought instead of scientific communism. But you can no longer live on a university salary, and Ivan Sergeevich is a practical man. He was a member of the joint venture “Les,” a new enterprise exporting Siberian wood abroad. Ivan Sergeevich became an important person. He grew a beard and acquired a spiritual air. Now he was waiting for the year 2018, Year One of the Great Eurasia. He always knew which way the wind was blowing. “Our national heritage in philosophy and religious thought has been carefully hidden from us. We need time to catch up with the flow of new documents, new discoveries. Our evening is dedicated to writers and philosophers of the ‘First Wave’ of Russian emigration. They were true patriots who were forced to leave their motherland, but lovingly preserved the memory of Russia abroad. The Eurasians dreamed of the ultimate promised land. Their dreams were not fulfilled in their own time. We hope they’ll come true in ours. Long live Great Eurasia! (Applause.) “We will begin with an honored guest, Madame SavchenkoSavitskaya, the daughter of the Eurasianist Boris Ivanych SavchenkoSavitsky and the niece of Alexey Savitsky. Boris Ivanych Savchenko-Savitsky was educated at St. Petersburg University. He dreamed of returning to the Soviet Union before the war, but he never imagined that he would be brought back by force, that he would return to his motherland with the tanks. Captured by the Red Army that ‘liberated’ Prague, he was treated as a traitor and not as the patriot that he was. He shared the fate of many founders of the Eurasian movement. In the camps he developed his theory of Russian history and the culture of the steppes, which he presented as an eternal struggle between the rooted Russian superethnos and the ethnos parasite, the nomadic tribe that had 218

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better remain unnamed. He worked steadily under any circumstances. Not a day passed without his writing at least a line or two. ‘The Eurasian thought that wandered too long in internal and external exile has finally returned victorious to its homeland’ were his last lines. (Applause.) Madame Savchenko-Savitskaya is a little Rubenesque woman with lively eyes and sweet dimple on her chin. She rises and says, “Dear friends! Thank you so much for inviting me. I never dreamed I would live to this day when we could publicly commemorate my father and our beloved teacher, Boris Vladimirovich Krestovsky. Boris Vladimirovich was an extraordinary man—kind, modest, I would even say shy and a bit otherworldly. He never married, you know. There was always something ascetic about him. He loved children. I remember our first visit with him in Paris. I was eight or so. He sat me on his lap and talked to me as if I were a grownup. He asked me what I read and corrected my mistakes in Russian. ‘Oh, when you get a little older, Olen’ka, you should read our great novelist Feodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, The Possessed, The Idiot, Crime and Punishment. but never, never read them in the French translation. It’s an abomination.’ He stroked my hair. ‘Promise?’ I blushed and answered in French, ‘Oui, monsieur,’ and then I realized what a stupid thing I did speaking French, and I burst out crying. He smiled and wiped away my tears. He was not only a scholar, he was a poet. I’ll never forget his marvelous reproduction that hung on his wall: the Scythian Amazon with one severed breast and the other full and juicy like an Antonov apple. I thought he looked at me when he said that. It made me blush again. I didn’t realize, of course, that this was a powerful allegory of the Eurasian motherland. (Applause.) “Here are some slides made from our family archive. Boris Vladimirovich and my father on the banks of Vltava river in Prague. Boris Vladmirovich bought my father his first Western suit—you can see that it isn’t buttoned properly. This is how we can date the photograph. It was taken in 1924. My dear papa felt very uncomfortable wearing this suit and was always losing his buttons. This is Boris Vladimirovich in his study in Paris. You see the pile of paper on the corner of his desk? That is the final version of The Culture of the Steppes. On his wall, a map of Eurasia. Oh, look at this! It’s Boris Vladimirovich as young man with a dog. He loved his German 219

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shepherd dearly. He named it Friedrich (or just Freddy for family members) on the twenty-fifth anniversary of Nietzsche’s death. Friedrich got rabies sometime during the years of war communism and bit two revolutionary workers. So he was expropriated together with Boris Vladimirovich’s property. Oh, Boris Vladimirovich never forgot Friedrich. Of all things he lost in exile, Friedrich was perhaps most dear to him. In Paris he had a Siberian cat named Vas’ka, fat and furry, with haunting, vitreous eyes. I was just a little girl then, but I remember it all clearly, just like now. Boris Vladimirovich inherited Vas’ka from the officer of General Kolchak, his neighbor. The officer was driving in a taxi in Paris and had a bad accident. Of course, Boris Vladimirovich wouldn’t leave Vas’ka to die from hunger on the Parisian streets. He was a kind man. Vas’ka was the opposite of Friedrich. He wasn’t lively at all; he was a kind of melancholic émigré cat. You’d pet him for five minutes, and he wouldn’t even condescend to mew. He’d just drill you with his indifferent eyes and keep his little mouth shut.” (Applause.) After Savchenko-Savitskaya came Monsieur Orloff whose father had fought with Denikin and was a member of the All-Army Union. Mr. Orloff’s Russian wasn’t very good. He kept using French words and misplacing accents. “When my papá had a rendezvous with Boris Vladimirovich, he was very impressionne. Papá was not only a brave Cossack, but also an avid reader. He loved Lermontov, especially that poem, ‘I’m sad and weary and there’s nobody to hold your hand in the time of misfortune/ Oh how quickly they pass, how quickly they flee, my days, my best years. To love? But whom? For awhile? It’s not worth the effort. And we cannot love forever.’ Beautiful verse. You know better than I do how it goes. Papá embraced Eurasianism wholeheartedly. It helped him make sense of the Russian tragedy. He believed that the Russian superethnos, rooted in the Russian soil, is threatened by the ‘ethnosparasite,’ uprooted foreign ideas like Marxism and Leninism. Boris Krestovsky was our spiritual maitre. I am so glad he is finally honored in his homeland. I want to tell you, dear compatriots, how long we have all dreamed of this moment—of our longawaited return to our beloved country. As our celebrated singer Kachalsky put it, ‘Russia, beloved Russia, I miss your slender birch trees in the rain/ Alien tribes invaded you, my maiden Russia/ your morning snow is dark with bloody stains.’ This my first voyage, 220

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I’m here only for a long weekend, but I can’t tell you how much I’m moved. I’m moved to tears. God bless Russia!” (Applause.) “Our next speaker,” announced Ivan Sergeevich, “is Señora María de Jesus Victorio de Paùl, the widow of the late Don Alejandro Victorio de Paùl (Viten’ka Pavlov to his family), Russian émigré and the founder of Argentinian IndoEuropean linguistics. Alejandro Victorio de Paùl is the author of an influential comparative study of gauchos and Cossacks. Hmm . . . Señora de Paùl? Has anyone seen Señora de Paul?” A petite blonde in an enormous shawl rushes into the room. (She was a former brunette; you could see the dark roots in her blond hair.) She is surrounded by screaming fifteen-year-old girls demanding an autograph. “Estas muchachas. ¿Son aficionadas de don Victorio?” One of the girls screamed, “It’s her sister! The one who comes alive! They all thought that she died in a mountain-climbing accident! But she didn’t. I knew she didn’t!” “No,” shouted the other girl, “She isn’t from The Rich Also Cry ! She’s from Simply Maria. She is the countess who became a nurse and fell in love with the gynecologist, the one who’s married to that gringa, Ms. Johnson!” “What are they saying?” asked Señora de Paùl after two policemen escorted the soap aficionados out of the room. “I’m awfully sorry,” said Ivan Sergeevich. “This is such an embarrassment. It’s so humiliating for our much esteemed guest. This just goes to show you, dear friends, that our youth have lost their national values. They know Mexican soap operas better than Russian poetry.” Señora María Jesus Victorio de Paùl covered her shoulders with the shawl and offered the audience her disarming smile. “My husband Vitenka, Alejandro Victorio de Paùl, was an extraordinary man—a scholar, a poet, a loving husband, a patriot. It is such an honor for me to speak on his native soil. I have to say that he became an Argentinian patriot as well. We met in the pampas. I was, of course, just a silly girl and he was gray-haired, dazzling and wise. He said that the pampas reminded him of the steppes. ‘Steppes!’ I exclaimed! ‘I thought they were like the pampas, only the wind there is cold and cruel.’ I wanted to study Russian at that time because Doctor Zhivago was my favorite movie. Only later I 221

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realized what a genius Victor was! He made an outstanding contribution to the study of linguistics. You see, at the beginning he was interested in Aryan and Eurasian relationships. He spoke impeccable German. In Argentina he expanded the genius theory of Boris Krestovsky beyond the Eurasian continent and combined them with the poesía gauchesca. He was a pioneer in the comparative studies of Gauchos and Cossacks. Now our little town on the pampas, Rio Sueño, is a sister city with Rostov-on-the-Don. Most important, Don Victor demonstrated that Cossacks and Gauchos exemplify the best in Eurasian and Latin American values—they are at once free-spirited and rooted in their native soils. This way they’re opposed to bourgeois nations of the Romano-Germanic West, homey, cozy and settled, and to the parasitic nations that live on foreign soils and drink their juices. That’s exactly what he said, ‘the parasitic nations who drink our juice.’ He was a poet, too, my dear, beloved Viten’ka. My friends, let me read to you in conclusion, a poem that he dedicated to me: “My little señorita”—moia malen’kaia seniorita— My little señorita, olá! throw at me the lasso of your love. I feel at home with the gauchos of my dream. You brought a thaw to my soul, with your tangos and milongas, Can you hear my Russian icicles melt and drip all around me in a joyful concerto?

He was such a gentle soul, my Victorito! We were happy together, just like two children, until he died.” (Applause.) “Only now,” interjects Ivan Sergeevich, “can we begin to put together the full picture of the Eurasian movement. We have here a unique photograph taken on the occasion of Boris Vladimirovich’s birthday from the archive of Olga Borisovna Savchenko-Savitskaya.” The old photograph is blown up on the large screen. A group of dedicated young people surrounds their beloved teacher, Boris 222

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Vladimirovich Krestovsky. They no longer look like shipwrecked émigrés, not at all. They are new Columbuses standing in the foam of their dream—the continent-ocean, the promised land, the evanescent Atlantis discovered at the wrong time and in the wrong place. Their eyes have the misty expression of exhilaration and hope. They look toward a bright future. Nina has the same dreamy expression as everyone else. She stands side by side with Boris Vladimirovich, like a comrade-in-arms. It is the perfect photo opportunity for eternity. Poltavsky-Rizhsky looks like a classic figure of Eurasian literature. Kachalsky and Sovin take the dignified poses of distinguished “artists of the people.” Andrei Mikhalych, still known as Andras, Lionel and even poor Nikolas appear like “new men” from “brotherly countries.” Their political and poetic licenses are washed out in the foam of the new era. Only the frivolous striped bathing suits betray their Romano-Germanic surroundings and don’t change from photograph to photograph. The gala hall sinks into darkness. I feel a bit nauseated from all these new discoveries, made after two glasses of fruit drink. The cabbage pirogi have given me bad heartburn. I begin to see things from the old days. First, there is John Lennon squinting on the wide screen. Why is he there? Was, he, too, a man of the steppes? “Back in the USSR! Oh how lucky you are!” Now we know what it was all about! I remember sneaking into the gala hall at dusk, some fifteen years ago, when we were preparing our infamous “Evening of the Beatles.” The Komsomol banners were curled up in the corner. Portraits of hero pioneers were turned backwards and stood against the wall as if serving “time out” for misbehaving. We were rehearsing our slide presentation. We looked into John Lennon’s squinting eyes searching for truth. Of course, we were later punished and scolded for “promoting bourgeois values.” The Secretary of the Komsomol Organization of the Institute publicly shamed us at the Komsomol meeting in the same room. Professor Cherniakov attempted a spirited defense of the Beatles, appealing to their working class origins and their critique of capitalist society. It failed. But what a ball we had afterwards humming “We all want a revolution, we want to change the world. . . .” We fought among ourselves. Paul’s fans sang, “We all live in a yellow submarine,” and John’s fans wore peace signs purchased on the black market from drunken Finns. But it was more like a lover’s quarrel. It all 223

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seemed so clear back in the 1970s—who was with us and who was against us. We had Komsomol meetings by day and Beatles’ music by night. We thought we knew who would get our jokes and who wouldn’t. But these people in the room hardly even smile. There must be some Eurasian humor after all, but I just don’t get it. A typical Eurasian joke goes like this: “One day in the middle of the steppes a Cossack meets a Gaucho”—no, no they are both strong silent types, they might shoot each other without a punchline. Who is this guy in thick spectacles and a white Panama hat hiding from the wind? It’s the eternal Rabinovich. What’s he doing here in the middle of the steppes? He’s about to run into Anka, the machine gunner. Anka is a Eurasian Amazon now, and Rabinovich is the aging manager of the former Soviet food store Rossiisky, that used to sell the best Finnish salami. Rabinovich looks up to Anka. “Are you still here, you parasite,” shouts Anka, bearing her severed breast. ”Go back where you came from. And as you’re leaving, fix me some coffee, will you? Good to the last drop. Get me some pirogi, too. Yes, with cabbage. I’m a vegetarian. Listen, don’t give me that bullshit about milk shortages! I know where you keep it, you pig! How many cows have you stolen from my people?” In this joke Rabinovich doesn’t get to say much. He doesn’t think it’s funny. He wants to call his patron, Ivan the Fool, but he dropped his cellular phone on the slippery slope. And Ivan the Fool won’t answer him anyway. He’s gone for a power breakfast. At that moment a wounded Cossack appears out of nowhere. Oh no, it’s bad enough without him. Run, Rabinovich, run. I am suffering from a severe Leningradian heartburn. I don’t know what you put into your cabbage pirogi, Aunt Liuba. They had a strange aftertaste. What do you mean, “I used to like them?” Don’t you remember? That was a long time ago!

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31

In which we stop making Eurasian jokes and explore the double life of Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky “My name is Lozhkin, Alexei Alexeich. I’m a biology teacher at Secondary School No. 52. It used to be on Pioneers Street, but it moved. I heard the last words of the great Russian poet, Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky.” “ ‘Our Literary Treasure’ will continue after these messages from our sponsor,” announces the TV anchorwoman. We cut from the tired middle-aged school teacher in the Soviet-style brown jacket and crimson tie to the image of a gentle forest brook babbling to the rhythms of classical music. What is going on? In my days there were no commercials on television; instead there were “nature intermissions.” For five minutes or more we would watch a beautiful sylvan stream of birch trees in the wind with Tchaikovsky in the background. There was not much variation in the nature intermission, the viewers at that time didn’t expect diversity from their “sponsor”—the Soviet government. Rather the opposite was true, they were comforted by the predictable stream of things. Now the audience is made uneasy by those images of nature. Something must be hidden behind it. No wonder that during the Romanian revolution of 1989 all they showed on TV were nature images and folkloric opera. Can you imagine, they showed Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake during the coup d’etat of August 1991? Let’s not get too worried, though. It’s not a big deal this time. True, the brook wasn’t supposed to babble; it was a technical difficulty. We get a quick glimpse of the computer on TV from Interhightech Trust and finally go back to the anchorwoman. “Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky was called the ‘Russian Rimbaud.’ The comparison doesn’t do justice to the Russian poet. Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky may not have died in Paris in 1939, as was believed for all these years. In 1939 he stopped writing. His life itself had become poetry. He returned to the Soviet Union and became an anonymous builder of the Moscow Metro. The workers called him simply bricklayer Poltavsky. He stayed at work after hours and polished the mosaics in the Komsomol’skaya subway station. When the war broke out, he volunteered for the Red 225

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Army and fought until the victory and marched to liberate Berlin. Then he died in 1947 of complications from the flu and malnutrition. Could this be true? Let’s hear our guest Alexei Alexeich Lozhkin tell us his side of the story.” From the slow sequence of old Parisian photographs showing Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky as a poor young dandy in huge hat and a weary bohemian writing in a café with a glass of absinthe in front of him, we cut again to the man in the brown suit. “I am a simple, ordinary person. There is nothing special about my life. As I told you, before I retired I used to teach botany in the fourth grade, zoology in the fifth grade and introduction to biology. I don’t have a family. My wife left me many years ago and went to live with the history teacher. I never remarried. But I was fortunate in another way. I had the privilege to hear the last words of a great man, who I believed was Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky. I was not his relative. He had none. I was his communal apartment neighbor and, I can humbly say, something of a friend. He treated me like his younger brother. “It was the war that brought us together. We both returned from the front in 1945 and didn’t quite know how to live our lives in the time of peace. I was barely twenty-four. He was in his late thirties. We would gather together in the kitchen when the neighbors were asleep and remember the war. People only wanted to hear heroic stories, and we would recall our everyday fears and lost friends. We were among the lucky survivors of the battle for Stalingrad. I suspected that he had a secret in his past. He told me that in his youth he wanted to be a writer, maybe even a poet (Lozhkin chuckled when he said that), but he never regretted his choice to do construction work. He told me that nothing in life could compare to the building of the Moscow metro. He was a very educated man, and he knew several foreign languages. I never heard him recite any poems; he was a man of few words. There were, however, photographs of two beautiful women in prewar costumes. They looked somehow foreign to me. They had those funny hats that our women rarely wear. Once I asked Yuri Mikhalych about them and his face lit up with a smile. ‘Oh, it’s a long story,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell it to you some other time. Beautiful, aren’t they?’ “Unfortunately, that other time never came. In 1946, he caught the dangerous Baltic flu and soon died in his bed. He had 226

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no relatives, so I nursed him through his fever. He was delirious. Then suddenly he had a moment of lucidity. He looked straight into my eyes and said: ‘My dear Alesha, I chose life over poetry and I never regretted it . . . until now.’ Then he mumbled something in a foreign language, most likely French or maybe Romanian, but there was nobody to understand it. His last words are forever lost. I didn’t make much of it. After all, four decades passed like one day. In the 1960s I discovered poetry. Like everybody else I went to the poetry readings of Evtushenko, Akhmadullina, Voznesensky. I read a lot. Do you recall the 1960s debates about physics versus lyrics. I loved both. I fully embraced glasnost. So many new documents and revelations were appearing everyday, life had become exciting again. I stayed up late at night, I wanted to be on top of things. One day I saw an article in the journal Ogonek dedicated to Poltavsky-Rizhsky. They published a cycle of his poems, ‘Summer in Terioki.’ First there was that poem about the lovely lilting sun. The second one was about windy Nordic beach. Both immediately attracted my attention: In lovely lilting sun I lost my shattered shadow My heart—a loaded gun— went blank in summer meadow The bullets in my brain The vermouth in my blood washed out in a flood of drizzling Baltic rain *** I strolled in sandy dunes of a deserted beach you hummed a foreign tune you bit a ripened peach You burned your tender skin I risked my healing scars we swam in saline waves under forgotten stars. 227

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“Once I read it, it all became clear to me. I played a bit of detective in my old age. Let me share it with you. You see, my neighbor, Yuri Poltavsky, was a solitary man with no hobbies. There was only one thing he absolutely loved—the sea. He’d go to the Gulf of Finland in the late August, usually alone. He’d take that commuter train—elektrichka—crowded with mushroom gatherers and grandmothers bringing their grandchildren back from the dacha. He would spent the whole day by the sea. Once he took me with him to Solnechnoe. He walked there on the sandy dunes, counted the waves and when the ninth wave came he said that he made a wish. That turned out to be his last trip to the Baltic Sea. I think those poems must have been written after he returned to the Soviet Union. Maybe he hid them somewhere; maybe there was something controversial in them. I suspect that somehow they must have been smuggled abroad. I don’t know. You see, the poem is a cipher. The title is ‘Summer in Terioki.’ Terioki is the Finnish name for Zelenogorsk. Of course, there are no sandy dunes in Zelenogorsk; it’s a crowded resort town. It used to be Finnish territory, but it became part of the Soviet Union after the Russian-Finnish war in 1939. Solnechnoe is on the same commuter line as Zelenogorsk, only a few stops earlier. You see poetry is always indirect. It is not really about the summer in Terioki, but the summer in Solnechnoe. But he had to cipher the poems, pretend they were written before the Russian-Finnish war. Do you see my point? We didn’t read much about the RussianFinnish war in the 1940s. It was almost a secret. Maybe that’s what the ‘foreign tune’ is all about. The poet meets a disinherited Finnish girl on the beach. “I read that the poet’s death remains a mystery. One critic wrote that Poltavsky-Rizhsky died playing Russian roulette in Paris in 1939. But that just can’t be true. I looked at the poet’s photo in the paper and experienced a cold chill. My God, he looked like my dead neighbor, Yuri Poltavsky. He had the same sadness in his eyes and a birthmark near his upper lip. There was no doubt in my mind. So I wrote about my discovery and started a campaign, ‘The Truth about Poltavsky-Rizhsky.’ I don’t have much time left in this life. I want to dedicate myself to the memory of the great poet.”

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“Thank you,” said the anchorwoman. “Thank you very much for such a moving story. Yuri Poltavsky must have been an extraordinary man. Of course, we will soon be able with the help of American forensics experts to find out the truth once and for all. We will do DNA tests on the body, and then we’ll know for sure. Until then, let’s hear from our other guests, but first we’ll hear from our sponsor.” After the brief appearance of a long-legged girl with cleavage eating a Snickers bar, the camera moved to a woman in her early forties who spoke English rather loudly. She had a different style of shabby clothes than the poor biology teacher. Hers were shabby chic—you know, the more worn-out, the higher the price. Sometimes you have to pay not to appear rich. Her face expressed irritation. Could this be right, what the interpreter just told her? No way. “This is impossible, absolutely impossible. My name is Jaqueline Natalia Poltan; my friends call me Jackie. I believe I’m the only offspring of my dear beloved father, George Poltan, alias Yuri Poltavsky-Rizhsky. Why didn’t I tell the world about my father earlier? I simply had no idea of his past. I was only about ten when my father died. I grew up in St. Petersberg, Florida and spent my summers on the sandy beaches not far from there. The great American writer, Lionel Adams, frequently came to visit my father. What did my father do? It’s hard to say. Uncle Lionel once sat me on his lap and asked me: ‘Do you like movies, Jackie?’ ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘your father and I wrote many scripts in our youth. It’s a secret. Promise not to tell anyone? You can’t really see our names in the titles. We ghost-wrote them. Do you know what that means?’ I was very scared when I heard it. I was afraid of ghosts. (The interpreter is having difficulties with this sentence. He can’t quite translate ‘ghost-writing’ into Russian. The audience doesn’t get the joke and begins to fidget impatiently.) Well, you don’t laugh, my friends, but Lionel laughed a lot when he heard it. There was a rumor that Lionel and my father were ghost writers for such classics as Sunset Boulevard and Silk Stockings. My dad was a great Russian patriot. I remember he was thrilled when the Soviet satellite with a dog was sent into space. I must say I that felt sorry for Laika when she didn’t come back. She was such a cute dog. My dad wouldn’t hear of it. He was so

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proud that the Russians conquered space before the Americans! I bet if he had a boy that year he would have called him Sputnik. Dad was also a great lover of poetry. He often recited poems to me. His favorite was, ‘I don’t expect much from life, I don’t regret the past, I’m looking for freedom and peace of mind, I just wish to forget and rest.’ Once I traveled with him to Texas. He drank some vermouth in the bar and then took me to a shooting gallery. He was big on guns, really opposed to the gun control laws. He said his gun was the guardian of his freedom. As he was aiming at the swans and ducks in the shooting gallery he recited a poem to me: In lovely lilting sun I lost my shattered shadow My heart—a loaded gun— went blank in summer meadow The bullets in my brain The vermouth in my blood washed out in a flood of drizzling Baltic rain

“I learned it by heart later. Once I asked him: ‘Daddy, have you ever written poetry yourself?’ He only sighed and patted me on the head. ‘Oh, dear, let’s not talk about it,’ he said after a pause. ‘It’s a long story.’ As they say in Russian, ‘it was long ago and not true at all.’ My father was a great friend of Lionel Adams. There was a lively, though small Russian community centered around a small restaurant, The Russian Bear. My father had an amazing knowledge of foreign languages. He used to be quite a drinker in his youth. He met my mother, the daughter of a wealthy Texas industrialist and gun collector, in the bar of The Russian Bear. They fell in love, almost at first sight, and soon he proposed. But my mom was a tough cookie. She said that she would agree to marry him but on one condition—he would have to go to alcohol rehabilitation treatment and stop drinking forever. He tried to joke his way out of it, but it didn’t work. My mother was a stubborn woman, even though she was some fifteen years his junior. So, at the end of his life he had to abandon drinking. He didn’t like to talk about his European past, and I was too young 230

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to ask many questions. He died of throat cancer in 1968. I inherited his gun collection. Then, some twenty years later, after I was through with all of my rebellions, I finally read Lionel Adams’s sketch, ‘Russian Roulette,’ and it became clear to me who my father was. I read a slim volume of Poltavsky-Rizhsky’s poems and recognized immediately the one about a northern beach and a perfect peach. There was no doubt in my mind—my father, George Poltan, was one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century. Oh, how I wish I could still talk to him, walk with him on the beach, hear his deep voice and thick accent! I am now studying Russian because I want to reclaim my heritage, to get my identity straight. I promise to dedicate my life to this project, to recover the past and ensure immortality to the great genius, Yuri PoltavskyRizhsky, alias George Poltan.” “My dear friends,” says the excited anchorwoman. “I have a surprise of my own to share with you. This is not speculation; this is a real document that was recently discovered in the archives of our great artist, Valentin Kachalsky. Let’s not come to any hasty conclusions. Remember that for all these fifty years PoltavskyRizhsky’s genius remained underappreciated in our country and abroad. The Soviet critic, Petrenko, dismissed his work in 1935 as ‘decadent bourgeois acrobatics, poetry of parasitism.’ The hostile émigré press called his work a ‘drunken delirium of a talent wasted in exile.’ Only Boris Krestovsky and Savchenko-Savitsky truly appreciated the poet’s work and described him as a ‘wandering Russian soul that could not find a home anywhere in the world.’ What I am going to read to you in concluding our program is thought to be the poet’s last work composed on the eve of his departure to some kind of new world. If you believe our speakers, you might say this is the last oeuvre of the émigré poet Poltavsky-Rizhsky, before he became the builder of the Moscow metro or a Hollywood ghost writer. It is part of Poltavsky-Rizhsky’s lyrical novel in progress that was to be entitled Conspiracy of Fates. The novel embodies his spiritual errings and attempts to bring together classical pagan ideals and Eurasian thought: Did you know that kosmos in Greek means both universe and women’s adornment? I think of you, my immigrant Parca, embroidering your kosmos—Russian blouses for French ladies—and 231

Svetlana Boym dreaming of other fates. I would like to peep through the keyhole at the three virtuoso virgins as they stitch and cut our lives. I might get a glimpse of their navels through their airy pajamas. They shouldn’t play in bed with those enormous scissors. It’s dangerous, don’t you think. What if they make a wrong cut and cover the impeccably ironed sheets with blood?

As the sing-song voice of the anchorwoman rises in a question mark, the phone rings: “Taniusha? Andrei Mikhalych here. I heard you were sick to your stomach, is that right? You should be careful, very careful. Am I interrupting something? Oh, you little liar, I know I’m interrupting. “Did you know that kosmos in Greek means both universe and women’s adornment?. . . . We live in the age of double agents and double entendres. What can we do when we don’t belong? We become our own agents, and then betray ourselves. Let’s promise each another never to tailor national costumes and collective designs. Each kosmos is individual and has its own cut—yours, I hope, is low, very low. I would like to see through it, to help you with each little hook on your back, if you wouldn’t mind. I remain your obedient secret servant, and you offer me no assurances, no guarantees, no security whatsoever . . . just a fleeing image, a lovely lace. Oh God, how tempting it is to eavesdrop on the Fates, but helàs, this cannot be done. So there, my dear. My secret agents miss you. I escape Eurasia for Kosmopolis and then, like a coward, stroll back to the Café Rotonda where a mediocre American writer will pay for my drink.”

“Listen, Taniusha, there was something in the middle of a document I just read. I had to skip it. My voice, you know, is rather weak. I’m getting laryngitis. But I have a suggestion to make. Come to Moscow.” “Wait, Andrei Mikhalych, what is it that you’ve just read? Who is the addressee of this letter?” “My dear girl, it’s a letter without an addressee. One shouldn’t take poetic texts literally.” “Was it addressed to Nina Belskaya?” 232

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“There you go again. Well, let’s not quarrel because of some minor character in your story. We’ll talk. I promise we will . . . in Moscow. You know what I think? Since you’re here for another week, why don’t you come to the Moscow film festival? I know a lot about the films of the 1930s. Ninotchka? Of course, I know some people who collaborated on it. Isn’t Greta Garbo amazing? Her laughter, though, never seemed plausible to me. “No, Taniusha, it wouldn’t be a problem for me to get you a pass. You’re a foreigner now, after all, and it’s easier to get a festival pass for foreigners. Come, you won’t regret it. You really should. “Train tickets are a bit difficult to get, but you know me, I can handle it for you. I’ll call Annushka right now. Go to window number 24 in the Moscow train station. It’s the one to the right. On the window it says “Special Reservations” and there is usually no line. Go around 2:00 P.M. Say you’re a friend of Andrei Mikhalych, and you’d like a ticket for ‘The Red Arrow Train.’ Remember, if she offers you anything else, just say no. You want to go on the train called the Red Arrow. Say you’d be very grateful and that you brought an envelope from Andrei Mikhalych. She’s a sweetheart. I got a festival pass for her niece once, and I always get her good canned salmon. “I hope you won’t let me down, Taniusha, if I make all these arrangements for you. I’m an old man, you know, it’s not as easy for me as it used to be. I promise you won’t regret it. I will show you everything. Old pictures? Sure, no problem, Paris, Chernovitz, Kislovodsk, anything you want. I even have a photo of Greta Garbo in a beret. Listen, you can come see me play dominos with old Kaganovich. Yes, that Kaganovich—the mayor of Moscow in Stalin’s time. He’s an old man now, but still a stubborn player. Harmless and totally forgotten, he is a great movie buff, too. He and Beria never agreed about the movies. Beria loved musicals, especially The Last Waltz, and Kaganovitch preferred romantic comedies. Stalin used to say, ‘Come on, Comrades, both are good. We have to respect our differences! Remember, Comrades, the art of compromise! Afterwards, Stalin had a good laugh and Beria sulked.’ It’s a true story. Kaganovich told it to me once when he was losing his game, he thought he would distract me from winning. No such luck! So you’re coming? I knew Kaganovich would capture your fancy. I was right!” 233

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From my E-mail To: [email protected] M: Are you there? Here I feel that the outside world no longer exists, that Russia is a self-sufficient continent ocean. I would have liked to swim smoothly through it but I no longer can. I am neither here nor there. Here, supposedly “at home,” I feel worse than abroad. Where are you? What kind of double games are you playing? How long will they last? To: [email protected]

Tanechka: Hang in there. I am here, staring into the blue screen, looking for your reflection. I am “abroad,” and I miss you very much. Listen, we’ll meet at home one day, in New York. Russia will be a memory. You’ll tell funny stories about it to a group of New York friends at a party. You’ll laugh at yourself and drink California wine. We’ll be happy. I just have that feeling. I’ll write you a long, long letter with lots of subordinate clauses and beautiful adjectives. Some day. My boss just came in. I have to pretend I’m working. Kisses. Yours, M.

M: I don’t trust anything, not even your voice on the e-mail. I wonder why do I still use it. I just need to escape for a while, and my fingers push those convenient buttons with fatigue and inertia. Nina was right; one gets addicted to a double life. But there are two kinds of double lives—forgive me a redundancy! You know all too well what I mean, don’t you? It’s just that things here appear in a different light. That life that we lead in New York—working, seeing friends, paying bills, worrying about who is whose “other woman,” watching calories, eating healthy, not smoking, getting depressed about an imminent midlife crisis— 234

Ninochka all of that seems so petty and irrelevant here. Ours are tempests in a teacup. How’s your real estate sale coming along? Any luck? T.

Tanechka: Don’t be sarcastic, don’t be sad, hang in there. Help is on the way. I am plotting a major expedition, but I can’t tell you anything about it, not yet. My secret agents are watching. Let’s be cautious for now, but I promise we’ll talk. Go to Moscow, it will be a good distraction from the melancholia of your native city. We’ll talk. In Moscow. M.

M: I’m tired of all this crap, Miklos, sick and tired of all this crap, duplicity, secrecy, cover up. I thought e-mail would be an escape from that, but it isn’t. Alternative life is as bad as real life. Well, if it can’t work between us, it can’t work. You know very well that we won’t be able to continue like that in New York, at least I won’t. It would all be very predictable. I wouldn’t want you to be late for your family dinners. T: I beg you not to “close the connection.” Just give me a chance. I have something to tell you. In Moscow. M.

To: [email protected] Dear Ms. Stern: You and Miklos have betrayed yourselves. I know that your relationship with Miklos goes beyond friendship. You’re probably aware that he is living in the United States on a student visa and at the moment is waiting to get his green card or, to be deported. Our appointment for the green card will take place next year. You understand the consequences. Therefore, I urge you to discontinue all communication with my husband. I mean what I say. Have a nice stay in Moscow. Victoria 235

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How did she manage to get into my e-mail? Did you, my reader, betray me? Did you inform on me? Did you divulge my password? You too?

32

In which you follow me to Moscow and have a pickle treat A bust of Lenin used to decorate the Moscow Railway station in Leningrad. At the time when Lenin monuments began to disappear giving way to Lenin nestling dolls, favored by tourists, a group of Leningrad pensioners decided to protect the Soviet leader’s monument at the Moscow train station. They loved it and didn’t want it to go. The city officials respected them and even said: “That’s okay. We’ll keep this monument if you like it so much. We are for pluralism.” The Lenin defenders picketed the monument every day. Once they took a break and went to bed at around 2:00 A.M. When the others arrived at 5:00 A.M., the bust was gone. “So what,” said Annushka as she looked out from Window 24. “We saw enough of those Lenin monuments in our lifetime. We remember them. Now we want things to be different! Here are your tickets. Andrei Mikhalych said you were his cousin—is that so? How come I haven’t seen you before? Of course, I got you the Red Arrow. Believe me, I know Andrei Mikhalych’s tastes. He wouldn’t settle for less. Thanks, thanks a lot. That’s very generous. My best regards to the old man. He’s such a charmer. Have a nice trip. Comrades, ladies and gentlemen, don’t even think of lining up here. This is special reservations only. Besides, this is my lunch hour. I told you in plain and clear Russian, ‘No tickets.’ ” “To Moscow! To Moscow! To Moscow!” My fate was decided for me. I am signaling a cab on the street. A car stops right in front of me, a regular car, not a taxi. “How much?” the driver asks me. I thought it was I who was supposed to ask this question. I was taught to say five hundred to the Moscow Station. “Five 236

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hundred? You must be joking. No taxicab will take you for that money. But you seem like a nice girl, come in, it’s on my way.” Your relationship with a prospective driver is like love at first sight. If you reflect too much, he might change his mind. The market fluctuates radically from eighty rubles on the meter to two thousand rubles, or ten dollars, for foreigners. The driver evaluates how much you can actually pay and then multiplies that by the pleasure or displeasure of your company. A verbal give and take transpires after which you’re taken for a ride. My driver is a nice guy; he has neither a gold tooth nor tattoos, nor an Adidas suit, which are commonly known as “danger signs.” He’s a former engineer, and now he makes more money giving people rides. He had to change his professions like many immigrants did, only he stayed at home. He doesn’t mind it. “It’s like a whole new life is open to you. And you,” he asks me, “you’re not from here? Are you from Moscow?” Damn it, must be my body language again. Did I cross my legs in the wrong way? Am I smiling too much in that impersonal, slightly frightened manner? “Yes,” I said, “of course I’m from Moscow. I work at the film studio.” (Don’t ask me why I said that.) “Oh, I guessed you might be from the Baltics or something.” “No, no.” “At first I hoped you were a foreigner, that’s why I stopped. I was hoping to make a buck. Foreigners, they don’t know. You tell them ten dollars, they give you ten dollars. It’s nothing for them. But you aren’t a foreigner.” “I guess not.” “When you opened your mouth I realized, of course, that you speak such good Russian. But I decided to take you anyway, since I’m a kind man. You do have a funny intonation in your Russian. I can’t quite put my finger on it.” “Maybe it’s just that I have a sore throat.” “No, it’s not that.” “Well, I spent some time in Estonia.” “I thought that you might be from the Baltics, somewhere West of here. How come you’re alone on Saturday night? Don’t you have a husband?” “Yes, of course. He’s at the dacha this weekend,” I said, “We’re trying to grow some fresh vegetables there, cucumbers, 237

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tomatoes, dill, you know how expensive things are these days. So he’s there, and I’m going there, too, but later. I have to visit my sick uncle in Moscow. It’s hard to be sick these days. The hospitals themselves transmit most of the infectious diseases.” From that moment on the driver, Nikolai Vasilievich, had no doubt about my authenticity. “The husband at the dacha” did the final convincing. He was very pleased with the rest of the trip. He whistled his favorite melodies like “Italiano Vero” and “Three Tankmen, Three Merry Friends” and chatted about new democrats and the prices of vegetables. I arrived safe and sound, on time at the train station. The Red Arrow used to be the most prestigious overnight train in the entire country. It was reserved for special guests, middle level apparatchiks and bureaucrats, the artistic elite and their families, foreigners and the lucky friends of the ticket vendors. The service was fast, the sheets were clean and the tea was served in nice glasses with sugar included. Before emigration I took the Red Arrow only once as the “friend of a friend of the ticket vendor.” I entered my compartment where the four of us were about to spend a memorable night on the more or less comfortable “sleeping shelves.” The conversation here was already in full swing. Everyone had already met. Dmitri Ivanych, a cheerful middle aged man, immediately offered everyone a generous helping of “exquisite” Siberian pickles, the best zakuski in the world. Judging by the smell of his Hermes eau de cologne and only moderate intoxication, he used to be a minor party boss and was now a manager in a joint venture. The man next to him, Alexei Mikhailovich, had deep-set, never smiling eyes and an uncombed beard. The others addressed him as “professor,” although it was never clear what was he a professor of. A blond woman, “Elizaveta Pavlovna, or simply Liza,” as she presented herself, sat opposite him. She resembled a pretty apparatchik’s wife (or mistress) with a new perm. (Actually, it didn’t look new anymore, and her haircolor was slightly off.) A young guy in a crimson jacket, Sasha, was in the compartment next door, and he joined us, too. He was Elizaveta Pavlovna’s nephew, and he actually worked for a living. “So, life has become merrier, life has become better,” said Dmitri Ivanych, the manager in the joint venture. “That’s a reason 238

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for a toast! To new acquaintances! Hurrah . . . I didn’t live badly before, but I guess mistakes were made. The young people, of course, they exaggerated our mistakes, but that’s what youth’s for! I’m an optimist, Comrades, ladies and gentlemen. I think it’s important to be an optimist. Somebody’s got to do it. Would you agree with me, Lizochka?” “Yes, Dmitri Ivanych. I am for change too, for a new life. But I don’t like that they paint our life all in dark colors in the press; it’s all about crimes, camps and hardships. It was not all so bad! People loved and laughed and life went on, even in Stalin’s times, even during the war. I was, of course, too small. What do you think, Professor, you must know?” “Not by bread alone, Elizaveta Pavlovna, not by bread alone. We need a new idea, we can no longer deny to ourselves who we were.” “In what sense?” “We have to remember who we were as people. We’re Russians, we should not let foreigners and non-Russians dictate to us what to do. We have our distinct destiny. We are neither Europeans nor Asians. We’re Eurasians; we are the threshold nation, we took upon ourselves to save the West in many great wars. Now we have to realize our destiny. We need a new great idea now, not ideology, but Idea with a capital I. Remember my words in the year 2018.” “I don’t know,” said the guy in the crimson jacket. “If you ask me, I say we all have our own ideas. Every man for himself. And it’s not all about ideas. Ideas are over. There are different economic interests. We all pursue our own interests, and we change our lives overnight. I was going to go to a university and become another useless engineer. I would go to work and, as my dad used to say, ‘you pretend you’re working, they pretend they pay you.’ Now, I earn more than all of the engineers at my dad’s firm put together, and I support my dad, too.” “That’s the problem. Every man for himself. It’s more like every man steals from the common good. You may be able to afford your designer jacket, but you have to have something underneath.” “Sashen’ka, I think the gentleman has a point,” pleads Elizaveta Pavlovna. “You’re young. We need something beautiful again to bring us together. Our national pride.” 239

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“Comrades,” said Dmitri Ivanych, biting his pickle and pouring himself a glass of vodka. “I agree with you. With all of you, with you, Lizochka and with you, Professor. I am for a great Russia too and peace for all. I am for democracy too, but we have to have our pride, our roots. You know, once they opened this ‘window to the West’ everyone rushed there to see for themselves. And now they’re all running away from that window, back home. I went to Paris too. You know, there used to be a joke, ‘I want to see Paris again.’ I have traveled before; I went to Bulgaria and even to Dubrovnik. I had the best wine there and the most beautiful women. Paris is Paris, of course. They’ve got their Notre Dame, but people are so rude there! Soulless folk! We went to Place Pigalle too, but even the prostitutes there are highly overrated. Many of them are not even women! No wonder Frenchmen come to Moscow and pay our Russian girls. “I’ve been to America too. You go to the department store, and there they smile at you just so you buy as much as you can. ‘Have a nice day’ and ‘may I help you’ and all that hypocritical crap! And then they wrap everything, seal it with ribbons and put it in cute little boxes. All this energy is wasted on wrapping and packing, and each cork has instructions that come with it, little arrows showing you where to open it and how to close. If you ask me, I prefer our Russian corks—they’re more natural. You just use the good teeth Mother Nature gave you and open it. No sweat, no instructions! Listen to what happened to me. I was leaving the department store. It was raining, so I thought I’d have a cigarette before going out into rain. You wouldn’t believe what havoc that created. The guard jumped at me. ‘What’s wrong? Isn’t this a free country?’ I say. ‘No smoking,’ he says. ‘Okay, okay,’ I said, ‘just one cigarette, no big deal.’ ‘No smoking,’ he repeated very angrily. Is that called freedom? They have more rules, instructions and restrictions than we do! If you ask me, I would never move out of Moscow. Its the world capital! And our émigrés are coming back. I’m in a joint venture, you know. The émigrés often come back through my company. The old ones are a noble people, very polite, crying when they get to the Russian soil. They are true patriots. But the new ones who left in the 1970s and 1980s, they’re different. Now they’re trying to make a profit here. I would say, you betrayed the country 240

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once, we don’t trust you anymore. Obviously, most of them are non-Russian.” “Yes,” said the professor. “Russians are a distinct people and we have to be self-sufficient. We’re the largest country in the world, after all. That’s why it’s so important for us to stick together, to see our common roots—from the Baltics to Siberia, from the Southern rivers to the Northern seas. Democracy without spiritual community is nothing. Economy is just a modern cipher of ancient spiritual transactions. Our economy doesn’t work according to Western laws.” “And what does the young woman there on the upper shelf think?” Dmitri Ivanych winks at me. “She’s keeping silent, just listening to us. You live here too. Now you can speak your mind.” “Oh, I’m sure she thinks we need laws, social programs, not collective ideas,” answered Alexei Mikhalych. “I’ll bet she’s a typical westernizer. Nothing new. Same old song. They didn’t change. We want to be governed by an idea, not by a golden calf.” “I am sure she wouldn’t mean it that way,” Elizaveta Pavlovna rises to my defense. “And I agree we need better laws. I want my ex to pay me my alimony, finally. And now how can I get him to? He’s a new businessman now, he doesn’t pay taxes. But I agree with you too, we need a new idea, a Russian or Eurasian idea to live by. So we all agree, don’t we. That’s one thing lacking in our country—kindness and agreement.” “That’s in the Russian character, too, forgiveness and kindheartedness. It calls for a toast!” We drank and snacked on pickles and warm potatoes that the woman had brought with her. She said that we all were such nice company that she’d open a box of chocolates that she was carrying with her as a present. “No, no,” protested Dmitri Ivanych, you really shouldn’t . . . You shouldn’t. I still have a few pickles left.” “Dmitri Ivanych,” she said, “the hell with those chocolates, for old time’s sake. Let’s ask the train conductor to bring us more tea.” “Tea is on me,” said Sasha. “We need more than tea, ladies and gentlemen,” interrupted Dmitri Ivanych. Sasha raised his glass: “This is for the new Russia.” “I see you’re drinking your own non-alcoholic beer, Sashka, and a foreign one, too. That’s what I call disrespect,” said Dmitri Ivanych. 241

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“You see, Dmitri Ivanych,” said Sasha, calmly sipping from a foreign bottle. “I’ve got to work tomorrow morning. Somebody’s got to do it!” “The young lady on the top shelf doesn’t drink either. She has to work too. That’s all right with me. But I don’t know if she agrees with us,” says Dmitri Ivanych. “She’s just tired,” Lizochka interferes on my behalf again, “she’s very tired.” I can’t say that I had a good night sleep. I fell asleep at dawn. I dreamed that the conversation went on forever, and both Dmitri Ivanych and Alexei Mikhalych forced me to eat more and more pickles, more and more pickles—it was some kind of pickle contest. I began to love pickles, I couldn’t get enough of them. I’m a proud pickle connoisseur. Trust me, the little ones with yellowish peel are the best, since they are not so salty. In the end, I demand more pickles myself. “The pickles are all gone,” they said, “and you can’t buy them in your country.” I woke up with a sour aftertaste in my mouth. The radio was blasting, If you only know how dear to me, how dear to me are the Moscow nights . . .

“Sorry, miss. You have to return your sheets and pay for the tea.” “I like these songs,” said Dmitri Ivanych, “much more than rock and roll. Yes, yes, I know, rock and roll should be allowed too. I’m not against it.” I looked outside through cotton curtains decorated with red stars. At first I couldn’t quite figure out where I was. Moscow, right?

33

In which we eavesdrop on Comrade Kaganovich Andrei Mikhalych meets me at the train station like a proper gentleman with a bouquet of flowers. I insist on carrying my bag 242

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myself. “Don’t make an issue of my womanhood.” I do my Greta Garbo imitation. He laughs. “Sure, sure. Your grandmother was like that too. She liked to travel light. Today we’re in luck, my dear, we’re really in luck. I almost got you a pass for the opening events of the festival and Viacheslav Pulkov’s press conference. Who’s Pulkov? Oh my dear, what kind of backwater did you come from? He’s Russia’s greatest film director, and he just finished his blockbuster epic, The Lilac Sunset. Nobody has seen it, but it’s rumored to be an absolute masterpiece. Oscar, Cannes material. A Russian revolutionary saga, gorgeous cinematography, beautiful music, snow in the steppes, starring Lialia Kachalskaya and Victor Andropov. Everyone will be there.” “But Andrei Mikhalych, I’m exhausted, really. I came to talk to you.” “Listen, you must go. I can’t tell you everything right now. You must go,” whispered Andrei Mikhalych. We go through a long subterranean passage where a lonely singer performs old prison songs for a group of German tourists next to a bookstand selling “Astrology and Spirituality.” A swarthy woman with a baby sits by their side begging across from two cheerful babushki who offer a newly published papers: Private Life, Business Quarterly and News from the Stockmarket. “Life has become merrier,” says Andrei Mikhalych. “It reminds me a little of the 1920s when everything was still possible.” Andrei Mikhalych lives in a special “cooperative house” for “distinguished cinema workers.” It was build in the 1950s and has a large yard with trees, benches and children playing on the wooden slides. You can see the yard from his kitchen window. Four old men sit there around the table and play dominoes. “See that tall guy in the brown jacket, gray-haired, not completely bald? That’s Kaganovich. Still playing in the same yard. You thought I was joking? Not at all. But we shouldn’t bother him now. I have a feeling he’s losing. Losing puts him into a foul mood.” On his desk in the little apartment there is a picture in an old-fashioned frame. It’s that revolutionary woman with omnipotent gray eyes and swan’s neck, wearing a beret. “Ninel Markovna, the way I will always remember her. I know that doesn’t look like your granny, but it’s her all right.” 243

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We sit down for the inevitable cup of tea with raspberry jam. Andrei Mikhalych volunteers to make me an omelet. Your grandmother’s recipe—“red omelet”—scrambled eggs with fried tomatoes. “I am going to treat you to my delicacy, André,” she said when we met again in the summer of 1955, both recently out of the camps, “because you look so delicate.” That’s your grandmother in Paris. Oh, believe me, she was very convincing. If you heard her talk in those days, you would have changed your mind too. She was fire and ice, passionate and calm at the same time. She was a woman of action, a new type. “An agent? What a word! Are you thinking of some kind of James Bond in a skirt or a Mata Hari? My dear girl, you watch too many movies! Life is much more interesting than art. No, no she wasn’t ‘working for the NKVD.’ She just got a little assignment and did her little job well. She was doing what she did best— convincing others of the truth of her dream. Let’s put it bluntly. No, she wasn’t in Paris to study foreign languages and check out Mona Lisa’s smile. True, that smile is quite enticing. You know they say now—that it’s Leonardo’s self-portrait? I didn’t believe it myself but they are using computers to prove it. That’s hard evidence, you see that’s what counts. Ninel Markovna loved going to the museum. She could stand for a hour in front of a picture. She would feel guilty afterwards. ‘Oh André, I didn’t do my duty today,’ she would say. She worked a lot with the Eurasians. She was convinced, for example, that Boris Vladimirovich Krestovsky was a true patriot, and he would be of great service to the Soviet Union. She talked to other Eurasians as well. Some of them returned to the Soviet Union before the war. She met with Louis Aragon and Elsa Triolet and was a friend of theirs. No, I don’t think she had anything to do with General Sedov’s disappearance or the murder of Igor Reiss. She didn’t do any dirty work. I think she was not even aware of it.” The phone rings. “Oh yes, what an honor! Madame Lialia herself. You were gorgeous as usual, Lialiechka. No, I thought it was a good clip. Really. Why would I lie to you? Just to compliment you? I would never do that! You’re lying in the steppes, at peace with yourself, your hair is the color of ripe wheat. It’s great stuff . . . It captures the mood wonderfully. The camera movement intensifies it. I have that article in Télérama, straight from Paris, 244

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with this quote: ‘Big success—The Lilac Sunset: a true panoramic saga from Russia. A perfect marriage of old and new, of history and art.’ Do you want me to translate it from the beginning? Just a minute. It goes like this: ‘Viacheslav Pulkov’s office in Moscow is tranquil place. It seems far away from the hustle and bustle of new businessmen and bankers rushing through the city with American efficiency. On the wall is his genealogical tree showing that the Pulkovs were an ancient noble family that dates back to the reign of Ivan the Terrible.’ No, Lialechka, I don’t think Pulk was a Tartar prince, it’s about someone else. The Pulkovs were not Tartars. Shall I continue? ‘On the wall is his genealogical tree . . . ’ Oh, I’ve read that. ‘In front of Viacheslav Pulkov—coffee and sake.’ No, not sari, sake—it’s Japanese vodka. ‘Sake and coffee are his favorite drinks, symbolizing East and West. In his films Monsieur Pulkov offers us the spirit of Eurasian space, the threshold between Europe and Asia.’ Lialechka, it goes on and on from there and I am a little occupied at the moment. Making a ‘red omelet’ for my foreign guest. Oh, it a distant relative of mine, a journalist from the United States. She must come to the opening. She is also interested in your father’s songs. No, no, she isn’t a singer, she is a journalist. She loves that song, you know, about the bordellos in San Fernando. It’s an old tune, yes, I’m an old man . . . No joking. So you’ll call Vera Aleksanna about the pass. Wonderful. I knew you would. I will bring you the review, Yes. I kiss your hand. Thank you. I kiss your hand again. “Where were we, Tanechka? In Paris, where else. Ninel Markovna was a virtuoso. She had the beauty of conviction. It radiated from her, made her almost superhuman. You should have seen her swim. She looked like a revolutionary mermaid. Every stroke was a hit. Aragon himself courted her and even a member of the Central Committee of the French Communist Party. He brought her fresh forget-me-nots every day. He, too, was a romantic before he was a communist. I ran into them a couple of times. “She was a teacher more than a lover. In later life, you know, her most fulfilling relationships were with her students. Whenever you’d come to see her, you’d see the altar of student photos, in their Octobrist and Pioneer uniforms, ribbons and ties. They adored her. Remember her two favorites, Milochka and Allochka? They came to watch figure skating on TV in her room. She read lots of 245

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heroic tales to them, but I don’t think they were by Soviet authors. She read them Scandinavian fairy tales, then the Italian resistance stories, Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables and the Twelve Feats of Hercules. First, they were the stories of the search for the ideal, and then they became stories of survival and finally of resistance. The heroes crossed many borders and overcame all obstacles with the power of their character. “Was she happy? I don’t think she thought in those terms. ‘Pursuit of happiness’ wasn’t part of her vocabulary. She lightened up in her later years. It was as if she lost weight—the weight of duty and fear. You know she never wanted to leave the country; she was an old-fashioned patriot of the Soviet Union. But one of the last times I saw her, she told me that joke about Ivanov and Rabinovitch. The Party committee calls up Ivanov and Rabinovich. ‘Ivanov, do you love our beloved motherland?’ ‘Yes,’ answers Ivanov. ‘Would you die for it?’ ‘Yes,’’ answers Ivanov. Then it’s Rabinovitch’s turn. ‘Do you love our beloved motherland?’ ‘Yes,’ answers Rabinovich. ‘Will you die for it?’ ‘Well, if I die for it who will be left to love our motherland?’ She laughed more in her later years than she ever did before. It took her a long time to get to that point. Oh, don’t condemn your grandmother, Taniusha, don’t be harsh on her. Who are we to pass judgment? Should you be righteous, just because you were lucky enough to be born in better days? You can be proud of her, too. She was a survivor, after all.” The phone rings again. “Hello, Verochka Aleksanna? Oh, life goes on as usual. Getting older every day. Vse stareem . . . You’ve got the pass? You’re wonderful. You know that. I kiss your hand. Forever indebted . . . “Look, poor Kaganovich seems to have lost the game. He looks sad. I know because when he holds his head in his hands like that, it means luck isn’t on his side. Well, well, he too is getting old. He thinks he’s still a player, the old man, but he doesn’t always win.”

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34

In which we watch The Lilac Sunset and listen to Kachalsky’s songs I stare into the dark eyes of Buddha on the Moscow metro. This is the first advertisement that appeared on public transportation. Before that, the only inscription on the train was a call to caution, not to salvation: “Don’t lean against the doors!” I turn around and see a group of giggling Russian girls dressed in Indian costumes, long saris and dark wigs. The girls get off at my stop, the former Karl Marx Avenue, a short distance to the Hotel Russia. They’re following me every step of the way. I accelerate, they do too, I stop to check my pass, they go slower. Finally, we approach the main entrance to Hotel Russia. I briskly turn around to confront them, and they burst out in a wild applause. They almost sweep me off my feet. At that moment I see a tall Indian man with a handsome moustache and incandescent white teeth. “I can’t believe it! It’s Radja K. himself from The Beauty in Bombay miniseries!” The girls in saris burst out screaming. I show my pass to the babushka door guardian. She smiles at me and shouts back at another babushka-ticket checker: “Zinochka, check out this foreign girl. She didn’t even bother to put on good shoes to come to the Grand Hall. No respect, that’s what I say, they show no respect.” A pass to the opening of the Moscow Film Festival was the dream of my youth. The lines for tickets would usually start weeks before the show, the black market around Hotel Russia would peak, and one’s love and happiness could hinge upon that fateful pass to the Moscow Film Festival. The gap between those who had it and those who did not was wide. A friend of mine discovered a secret back door in Hotel Russia through which he managed to sneak into one of the Festival movie theaters and watch the last five minutes of Sophia Loren’s press conference. He became a hero. On that day he met his future wife of twenty years who was thrown out of the opening of the Japanese soft porn movie, The Pupil of Her Eye. She had forged her ticket. They were chased out by the same hard-working babushka. This was some time in the seventies, I don’t remember when. And now, here I 247

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am marching proudly in front of watchful babushki with a pass of my own. I will see Viacheslav Pulkov in person in the Grand Hall. I must have come a long way! In the center of the stage with an operatic crimson curtain stood tall vases holding white narcissi. Viacheslav Pulkov wears a white jacket and glasses tinted dark gray. Lialia Kachalskaya is stunning in a lilac dress with open shoulders. In the background is an oversize portrait of her father Valentin Kachalsky with his dates, 1905–1990. He died peacefully in his sleep during the making of the film, and the film is dedicated to his memory. “My late father was an artist and a patriot and the most gentle creature I’ve ever known. I don’t think he ever insulted anybody in his life. Never even killed a cockroach. He was a sweet and kind man, a true Russian soul. I remember my mama once wanted to spank me. I must have broken her favorite porcelain tea pot that she bought near the restaurant Bejing. She took my father’s Parisian belt, ordered me to raise my skirt. At that moment my father, who must have heard me cry, ran into the room and begged my mother to let me go. ‘She has been punished enough, my dear. I promise she will never do anything like that again.’ My mother was a kind woman too; she just wanted to discipline me. We all cried together and then made up. I apologized, and we ate mashed potatoes with herring, a special Sunday treat. In Paris my father was a friend of our great master, Boris Krestovsky. He was a sage and a saint, Boris Vladimirovich. My father would tell me, ‘Lialechka, I had the privilege to know a truly great man. He wasn’t like us ordinary immigrants. He didn’t indulge in women and wine. He dedicated himself to truth. It was he who inspired me to stop drinking and to return to my homeland.’ My father particularly enjoyed working in film. Cinema was his first love. This film was his swan song. He worked on the script day and night, against his doctor’s warnings. The character of the émigré poet turned NKVD agent, Michel Zagorsky, was a particularly difficult one. He didn’t want to make him simply a villain, but a seductive and suffering character as well. Yet it was the émigré poet that opens the Pandora box and destroys the Russian idyll. My father said that he wanted to combine truth and beauty— a marvelous expression, isn’t it, truth and beauty? My character Anna Sergeevna, Ania, is very beautiful, very feminine, a Russian 248

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gentry woman. Before the Revolution, she was in love with an eighteen-year-old poet, Michel, but he emigrated, and ten years later she fell in love again and married an idealistic Red Army commander, a man of the people. This time it’s a perfect match— a noblewoman and a man of the people, the best of Russia and Soviet Union join together in matrimony and live happily ever after in their house in the steppes. The drums of the civil war are silent. The time is the 1930s, a time of peace, achievement and new prosperity. Until one day it’s all threatened by a ghost of the past. “My father was truly honored to have worked with our great director Viacheslav Pulkov, and he was extremely proud when Pulkov suggested that they use his songs for the film. “The Lilac Sunset” was one of his favorites: ‘In the twilight shimmer of the lilac sunset, you’ve taken off your shawl, unma—a-a-a-ade your loo-ovely braid . . .’ First, he wanted to use another of his old songs, ‘I am a princess without a sou and I elope with my baby Jou-Sou,’ but then he decided against it. That is a charming, mischievous song, but he wanted something more melancholic and tender, something that would reflect the spirit of the steppes.” “Let’s pause right here, in the steppes, so to speak . . .” says the moderator Zinaida Pavlova, a well-known TV anchorwoman. She has that melodic Soviet voice that could make a tale of atrocities sound like a familiar lullaby. With a tactful sign of her hand she interrupts the sea of applause. “Viacheslav Nikolaevich, tell us about the steppes that create that special ambiance for your film.” “You know, I was looking for the quintessential Russian landscape, the wind playing in the undulating grass, the last beams of sunshine at dusk, the vastness of the land. I wanted to show something disquieting in the air, perhaps the breeze of history. My German producer wanted me to film it in Canada. He said it would be more practical (laughter in the audience). He didn’t understand the spirit of the steppes. I insisted, of course, and we did it my way. There is a house there, like an oasis, a home in the steppes, an old estate where the Red commander Grigory Iasnyi lives with his wife, her parents and his two daughters.” “Could your new film be called autobiographical?” “Yes and no. Of course, everything we do is autobiographical. I wanted the house to have the spirit of my childhood home. I wanted my viewers to feel the fresh wind of the steppes in their 249

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faces as they watch the saga unfold. Grigory Iasnyi looks a bit like my own late father. But the storyline is not autobiographical. As they say, the relationship to real people is purely accidental.” “Would you, then, call your film historical?” “My answer again would have to be yes and no. The film brings our attention to a dark moment in Russian history and shows it faithfully—the 1930s, the Stalin era. On the other hand, I didn’t want to make another one of those ‘films of unmasking’ that portray violence, death and gruesome realities. We’ve had enough of those dark films. It’s as if our Russian history was a chain of crimes and nothing else. I didn’t want to blame anyone. I wanted to make a film of family reconciliation that celebrates the continuities of our history. It’s about memory. We have to be faithful to memory, dear friends. We have to recover it. That’s what our people need most these days. Of course, our Russian happiness is as fragile as ever. The émigré poet, Ania’s first love and the murderer of her sister Tania, who perished in poverty and exile, takes his final revenge. Michel informs on Grigory Iasnyi and has him arrested and sent to Stalin’s camps.” “Excuse me, Viacheslav Nikolaevich,” a man in the third row interrupts to the great displeasure of Zinaida Pavlova. “As far as we know, your own father was never arrested. In fact, the newly discovered documents show that he informed the NKVD on the activities of various artists.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Which documents?” “The KGB files from the newly opened archives, which I think are the best repositories of our memory. Let me present myself: Boris Davydov, from The Memorial, a society for the preservation of historical documents.” “You can see, ladies and gentlemen,” chuckled Viacheslav Sergeevich. “This is precisely what I tried to avoid. Mutual accusations, blame. My film is a work of art, not a historical document.” “I am a reporter from Der Mann, a German magazine. What is your favorite drink? We heard that you don’t favor beer.” “I’ll be frank with you. My favorite drink is . . . sake (the audience gasps) or rather sake and coffee—East and West united together. I still love vodka and occasionally tea with jam, but not beer. I would dare say this is not an ideological objection. It’s a matter of taste!” (There is approving laughter in the audience.) 250

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“Cokie Roberts, Nightline, U.S.A. Mr. Pulkov, we hear you have high political ambitions. Is that so?” “Hello, Cokie! Welcome to Moscow.” (To the audience.) “Cokie and I go way back together. We had a vodka tonic at the Capitol back in 1979! Let me tell you, Cokie, and this is between us of course,” (Laughter in the audience.) “you had an actorpresident, and we’ll be ahead of you once again! We’ll have a film director for president! Perhaps in the year 2004. That’s our version of a philosopher-king. I’m joking, of course. But to be quite serious, I’ve thought about it. What our people need is one wholesome uniting idea to heal our wounds and humiliation. Eurasianism is a natural choice. The other thing our people need is beauty. Eurasia and beauty go together. So who knows . . . “Well, I hope you will enjoy the film. But don’t watch it for the plot, watch it for the ambiance, for the mood, for the spirit of the place. I believe our new directors don’t have to go to the West to make films. We have our native tradition, we have to be faithful to our spirit.” “Who produced the film?” “It’s a French-German-Russian co-production.” At that moment Galina Pavlova disappears behind the curtains and then reemerges again a few minutes later with a sorrowful expression: “Unfortunately, we will not be able to screen the film tonight.” The audience sighs with displeasure. “Pulkov’s French producers wanted the film to open in Paris first. It will be the opening film for the Moscow–Paris retrospective. But they were kind enough to offer us a clip.” The lights go off. A Kachalsky song in stereo is playing as the scene opens to a little house in the steppes. Anna and Michel sit in the grass. Michel cannot turn his eyes away from Anna. Anna stares stubbornly at the passing clouds—a very, very long shot. The camera pans through the formless clouds. A storm seems to be imminent, but the sun still beams through the thick fog. “These clouds, Ania, they remind me of dreams that were never meant to be,” utters Michel after another pause. Flashback to wintry mist on the frozen window. We hear the sound of a gunshot. The smoke dissipates, and we find ourselves in a brightly lit ballroom where a more youthful Anna is dancing 251

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a waltz with Michel. They burst out laughing. It wasn’t really a gunshot, just a Christmas noisemaker. All those eccentric and kindhearted uncles and aunts gossip happily in the corners of the ballrooms and play cards absent-mindedly. Anna blushes. Michel embraces her tightly, but the camera moves beyond them to another girl looking like Anna but with a pale and sickly complexion. “Your sister Tanya, she died from the sorrow of exile.” We hear Michel’s voice behind the screen. We cut to Ania’s sister Tanya (portrayed by Alena Kachalskaya), lying in a luxurious bed in a small room with a sign in French seen through the window: “Café de Quatre Vents.” She is wearing a snow-white bustier with antique rosebud embroidery (straight from Frederick’s of Hollywood), and her eyes are closed. There is blood on her Miracle Bra. The camera pans over her dead body as we hear the lines of the poem in Michel’s voice: In lovely lilting sun I lost my shattered shadow My heart—a loaded gun— went blank in summer meadow

We cut back to the undulating grass. “Annushka, Annushka, where are you?” a tall man in military uniform calls her from the house. “An-na . . . A-aana,” we hear the echo of his call. “I’m coming.” The camera wanders through the steppes following Anna on a narrow path in tall grass. On the horizon we notice a Young Pioneer detachment—a marching line of tall girls with thin braids and short boys in long shorts. “One-two, onetwo, I’m a Pioneer! Who are you?” They march straight toward us, forcing us to join in with the powerful drum beat. The camera rescues us just in time and takes us back to the moody, inconstant clouds. “One-two, one-two, I’m a Pioneer and who are you? One-two, one-two! We’re Stalin’s children, and who are you?” We hear their heavy breathing in stereo. The audience gasps and bursts into a long applause.

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From My E-Mail To: [email protected] Dear T: Ple-a-ea-se don’t break off our communication. I’ve moved, I’ve got a new password. I’ve changed addresses. E-mail me via Istvan; Istva@ica. buda.edu.

Dear T: You’re right, you’re right, you’re right. You’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wrong. Ple-a-ea-se don’t break off our relationship, not now, not via email. My computer is sick with a deadly virus. I opened a message called “Hard Times,” and it turned out to be a terrible virus that is now destroying my hard drive. So you can’t aggravate my illness. You don’t want us to be virtual lovers, to commit virtual adulteries? Okay, let’s be virtual friends. I think they still give people green cards if they have virtual friends, especially if their virtual friends are resident aliens, soon-to-be naturalized, like you. E-mail me via Istvan; Istva@ica. buda. edu. Remember Istvan, who was so good with “Katiusha”? E-mail anything. Just touch those soft gray buttons at your leisure. You give me daily news on the Eurasian front, and I’ll tell you stories about the movies. And I’ll send you some sweets. Would you like a little piece of Sacher torte? How can you be sure that I am not a part of the mystery you’re trying to solve? I’m like your character, so you can’t drop me now, just because my wife figured out my password. I can’t be left like that at a loss and in the dark. You can’t just cut me out of your story, leave me on a deadend street in cyberspace. My father knew Lubitsch, remember, and not only Lubitsch. There is a loose end here, eh? We didn’t meet by chance. Remember that dog, that ugly chow licking your ankles? That chow sniffed more than you thought. Yours, desperate Miklos M: Men are such whiners! All right, let’s not write about us, let’s write about all the rest. I went to the opening of The Lilac Sunset. It was an opening

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Svetlana Boym without the film itself. I couldn’t help thinking to myself that there was something else ciphered in that film, another story, that I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s interesting how Pulkov rewrites history. He “rehabilitates” his father. Pulkov’s father was briefly a Komsomol hero, then worked for the KGB and was a typical Soviet art manager, the director of a theater with all the perks and privileges. In the film the father is a Soviet hero, but without guilt. He isn’t a victimizer but a victim of the regime. It’s a double self-righteousness, don’t you think, of the victor and the victim. You know, all these psychological studies I’ve read talk about victims identifying with the victimizers—so we can blame them for their neurotic projections. What about victimizers who co-opt the moral authority of the victims? Soviet manhood coupled with Russian femininity against the Eurasian primordial landscape. One “but”: the émigré poet in the film crosses borders, kills and seduces. He represents a double betrayal—of both Russian and Soviet ideals. Once uprooted, forever guilty. He reads the lines from Poltavsky-Rizhsky’s Summer in Terioki. I sent you a piece from his last written page. What do you think? Where does one go from here? To the grave? To Moscow? To St. Petersburg, Florida? The film is a masterpiece of Eurasian art, says Pulkov. Wait, wasn’t it made with western money? Yeah, sure, but they owe us, don’t they, those bloody westerners, for everything we’ve done for them! Remember the Mongol–Tartar Yoke! And then there are those ambiguous songs, nostalgic songs that trigger and betray memories—the song interrupted. Am I turning into a paranoiac like Nikki? The Hungarian connection, though, is becoming progressively irrelevant, almost superfluous. Make me change my mind! T.

Taniusha: About Poltavsky-Rizhsky. Do you think a poet who said that he was leaving Eurasia for Cosmopolis and Cosmopolis for Rotonda would end up in the Moscow metro? The grave is more likely. But then again, Russian poets are a special breed. One never knows about them. About Pulkov, do you have something of a crush on him, by the way? Those gray-shaded glasses make him look sexy. Yes, something is ciphered there, but are you sure it has something to do with your story? Not all stories are interconnected, after all. It’s this Russian-Soviet idyll, this 254

Ninochka reconciliation through the exorcism of foreigners, émigrés, non-Russians, others. That’s an age-old mechanism, you know. But is it still a good film? What about the camera work, acting, setting? What scares me is that when it comes to Russia you seem incapable of seeing the film as just a work of art, not as the scene of a crime. I don’t blame you. Crimes were certainly covered up there, but whose? The melancholic wind of the steppes reminds us of our forgetting. I fulfill my promise, I talk only about business. But in my thoughts I take lots of liberties. I am at work, believe it or not. Kisses and hugs. Do not touch your blue screen, it bites! Yours.

T: Guess what I watched last night on TV with our American guests? Doctor Zhivago! You will hate me for this, but I thought that Julie Christie was not too bad with her pale lips and frosted cheeks. The most interesting thing for me was what followed the film, a short promotional documentary, “The Making of Doctor Zhivago.” You know what I found out about the stunning Russian landscapes, steppes in the snow, Siberian vastness? Siberia was shot in Segovia! The snow was a big production. It was shot in central Spain, in the summer, in 80-degree heat. The snow is just a special effect. Of course, the director made his actors travel to Finland so they would know what snow feels like. Why Spain? Turns out the extras there came cheaply. It’s all happening in the early 1960s, Franco is still very much in power. Remember that scene early on with street demonstrations and the singing of the International? It was very convenient because the residents of the village near Segovia happened to know the tune all too well: it reminded them of their own wild Republican youth in the heroic 1930s. Their singing attracted the attention of Franco’s police suspicious of the revival of the Republican anthem. “Oh, it’s only a movie,” they were assured. But during the shooting the next night the residents of the village woke up to the loud sounds of the International. “Franco is dead! Franco is dead!” they shouted and hugged each other. Many corks popped out of bottles. “Oh no, it’s just a movie.” So there. Think of sweating Omar Sharif in the 80-degree heat wearing Afghan sheepskin in the beautiful Spanish countryside covered by artificial snow. The extras had a ball playing Bolsheviks. And the cinematic snow 255

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To: [email protected] (message not sent) M: You, get off your lazy butt, and plug in your computer! What’s going on? Is it out of power? Are you on one of your proverbial business trips? Did the International Bank confiscate your e-mail privileges because you used them excessively during your work hours? Are you playing games instead of writing to your friends? Did you find another home page? You, who wants so much to be at home.

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In which I meet Cossacks and have a romantic escapade at the Pizza Hut “Excuse me, there is a man waiting for you downstairs. He’s a foreigner. I think he’s French. He says that you have an appointment with him.” I go down to the lobby and see Miklos trying to speak English to the receptionist. “I’m here on a business trip for a day. I thought I would surprise you in the morning while you were harassing me on your computer.” We walk out and find ourselves in Red Square. “I never thought it really existed,” said Miklos. “I thought it was all propaganda.” “Miklos, you shouldn’t simply disbelieve everything you were taught at school. That’s too simple.” 256

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“Red Square is beautiful,” says Miklos. “It truly is.” “This is where they used to execute people—I mean a long time ago in the seventeenth century or something. Yes, right there, where the photographer is standing with the cardboard effigy of Gorbachev. You, too, can play Raisa! The Japanese tourists are very amused, as you can see.” “So, be my guide.” “Okay. There used to be a poster here that said ‘We will come to the Victory of Communism!’ Now you see that there is an advertisement, ‘Come to the Canary Islands.’ I have a fear that our poor Russian people will arrive at neither of these two attractive destinations.” Miklos runs to the Lenin Mausoleum like a schoolboy. He observes the changing of the guard. They march by so perfectly, like gigantic toy soldiers. It’s fun to walk around with Miklos, because for him I am a native. More than a native, I am a tour guide. “Yes, yes, and there is St. Basil’s Cathedral. Isn’t it amazing? It’s almost as beautiful in real life as it is on TV. It’s always used as a backdrop for American reporters. For them it just stands for some kind of fairy-tale Russianness. No, no, they do it ‘for continuity’ otherwise their viewers wouldn’t believe that they’re reporting from Russia.” “Who are these people? They don’t look like policemen.” “They’re Cossacks.” “Cossacks?” “Yes.” “Did they come from the Bolshoi Theater? They seem to be wearing operatic costumes. Did they escape from the second act?” “No, Miklos, they’re real.” “What do you mean?” “It’s a Cossack revival, you’re so behind the times!” “I spend too much time at the International Bank.” “Exactly.” “So how do you like these Cossacks? I love their hats!” “My rule is when I see a Cossack, I cross the street. Just in case the ‘revival’ goes too far.” “So Cossacks are victims, too? I thought they did their share of bloodshedding.” 257

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“Well, they forgot that, or rather that’s not what they are remembering. History can be revised. Maybe Jews did those pogroms to themselves and then accused the innocent Cossacks? It depends on the point of view—they would tell you. As for me, I prefer to be on the other side of the street.” “Oh, come on, they seem so harmless and so . . . well-dressed. I’ll take a picture.” We stand on the bridge over the Moskva River. “So,” asks Miklos, “do you miss home?” “No, but it’s not what you think.” He doesn’t joke back. “So, what’s the news?” “Well, the news is that my poor grandmother was in fact a kind of femme fatale in her youth, and she did go to Paris in 1930s. I’m afraid language study wasn’t the only thing she did there. Andrei Mikhailovich assured me that she was not an agent in our ‘vulgar sense of the word.’ She was there ‘convincing people that they would be better off in the Soviet Union.’ She believed it in her heart. In other words, she was a recruiter, but an honest one. Does that help?” “And is Andrei Mikhalych, also known as Andras or André, the dazzling Hungarian Trotskyite turned Eurasian-Bolshevik?” “Sort of. But he was Hungarian only in passing. He was born on the Ukrainian-Romanian-Russian border.” “Whatever. Once Hungarian, always Hungarian. Lubitsch, too, was Hungarian only in passing. That’s okay. Let’s not take ethnic matters too seriously.” “Let’s not.” “He’s still interested in the movies?” “Yes, he wrote scripts for Chekhov adaptations, and Kachalsky wrote songs for them. They regrouped, so to speak, twenty years later.” “And your grandmother, the Soviet femme fatale, and the dazzling Hungarian Trotskyite fell in love?” “Not exactly. He said it was ‘more than love.’ They grew up together, and he was gay.” “Maybe it was more than love then. As long as it wasn’t less. So your grandmother was a real Ninotchka.” “Only instead of a romantic French count, she found an old gay friend from Chernovitz. And they did not live happily ever 258

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after in Paris or Istanbul, but went straight to the Soviet camps. In a way there was a happy ending there, too. A moderately happy ending—they were both survivors.” “So all along you were looking for the wrong person?” “No. I still want to find out how Nina Belskaya died and why. It’s funny but I identify with her more than with my grandmother—in spite of it all. I can’t imagine what my grandmother dreamed of. She left no personal notes. I feel guilty about it, but that’s how it is.” We decide to have a snack, but all our attempts to “do something authentic,” like eat in the restaurant Caucasus, fail. To go in you have to pass through rows of purely Russian bodyguards, and after that they check you out and determine whether you’re one of their friends, they inform you that the restaurant is not serving at this time. We thought of trying out that old restaurant Prague, but it was rumored to have become a new Russian hangout. At that moment the two of us were struck by the same fortunate idea: “Let’s go to the Pizza Hut!” “But that, too, must be a front for something else? Some godfather’s hut?” “No, Miklos, it’s the most authentic Pizza Hut you’ve ever seen. To tell you the truth, I’ve begun to miss those big mix-andmatch salads.” Pizza Hut in Moscow has a familiar air of cheap and cheerful plastic interiors in pastel colors. There are no bodyguards at the door, and the floor is very clean. There, several Russian boys and girls proudly wearing Pizza Hut uniforms work hard at wiping the floor. If you observe them attentively, you notice that they are wiping the floor a little too ardently. They wipe it over and over again in the same spot, where hardly anyone walks, and there is no time for the floor to even get dirty. They just like their jobs, and they need them badly. Pizza Hut in Moscow looks bigger and better than its American original. It’s not just a fast-food place, it’s a real restaurant. Here you see new Russian yuppie couples— eighteen-year-old boys with nicely groomed and gelled hair in Versace jackets and girls with great haircuts and lots of makeup. They look like they just stepped out of a fashion magazine from a few years ago. They have none of that dressed-down sloppy “grunge” style of American students. They created their own image 259

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of new Russianness, Versace style. We must appear to them like sloppy middle-aged people with bad manners. I open the menu and realize immediately that my Russian language skills, too, are behind the times. I wouldn’t even know how to pronounce those euphonic Americanisms. So I decide quickly to have a large salad plate with unlimited helpings. Miklos and I face one another in a Pizza Hut booth. For a moment there is a pause, and we stop joking. “You know, Miklos, we won’t see much of each other back home.” The waiter comes up to take our orders. He realizes that I speak Russian, but he continues to speak to Miklos in English. “Large salad and Pizza al Diablo? Thank you.” “These are all escapes, Miklos, and some day we will have to stop running away. I know, I like it myself, unless it gets too painful or simply too inconvenient . . .” Miklos is silent. He might be agreeing with me but he doesn’t want to say so. Maybe he’s right. We shouldn’t talk about it now. It’s not a good time. I stand up and go to get my large salad. I get mildly excited looking at all those familiar exotic ingredients—baby corn, olives, marinated artichokes, tofu. I have forgotten they existed during my stay here. When I first came to America those salads for me were embodiments of abundance and choice. Like a kid in a candy store, I would fill my plate to the brim, using all my old Soviet tricks. I could never finish a plate like that, but I enjoyed the fact that I could still get one. Back home in New York nobody minded it. They smiled at me with approval thinking “the girl must be hungry,” or “she likes our salad, she will come again,” or just smiling without thinking anything. I felt at home by the salad bar and filled my plate with familiar efficiency. Only after my salad mission was accomplished did I realize that my actions had produced havoc. The waiters and even the floor sweepers began to whisper intensely among themselves. Finally, as I began to struggle with my large salad, the waiter came to our table and addressed Miklos in broken English with excessive politeness. “Excuse me, sir.,” he said, “ your lady took too much salad.” “The lady is hungry,” said Miklos smiling. “And it says here that the large salad is unlimited.” 260

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“Yes, sir, it’s unlimited, but not to that extent. We consider this to be two portions. I am very sorry, sir. I think you will have to pay for two portions.” The waiter doesn’t even talk to me. He must think I am a Russian girl from the provinces on a date with a foreigner, and I don’t know what I’m doing. Miklos behaves like a true gentleman, I would even say like a westerner. He gives the waiter a broad smile showing him a row of nice white teeth like in an American TV movie. “It’s no problem,” he says generously. “The lady’s hungry, and I’m paying.” “Very good, sir,” says the waiter and adds in broken French, “Bon appetit.” Now I am obliged to finish my salad and eat every marinated artichoke I took. And no, I don’t want a large coffee, thank you. Afterwards, we went to my room at Hotel Russia and stayed in bed for hours. Our next-door neighbors were celebrating a Caucasian feast. There was nothing we could do about it, it was the man’s fiftieth birthday. I dozed off in Miklos’s arms as the men next door intoned “Suliko”: Suliko, oh, my Suliko. I was looking for the tomb of my love, I was searching for it but in vain, I traveled all over the globe, where are you, my Suliko?

Stalin loved that song.

M: I’m touching the computer screen and thinking of you. I want more dressing on my salad, more butter on my rye bread, more strawberries in my jam, more lemon in my tea, more milk in my mashed potatoes. You’ve got that Sacher torte all over your face. Do use a napkin! Oh Sacher torte, the decadent dream of a fallen empire. No, I’m not going to mail it to you. You don’t deserve it. You’ll think too much of yourself. I am just sending it to myself. 261

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From the Archive of Boris Krestovsky Paris, November 9, 1939 You accused me, Nina, of being dry and sour. It was cruel, perhaps, but you were right. Maybe I don’t deserve your friendship. Maybe it’s causing you too much pain. Let me make a true confession. My melancholic temperament is incompatible with yours. You’re humid and warm, and only occasionally acerbic. You are bound to life, to here and now, to this world. My inner landscape is made of a desert and dry steppes with a harsh wind. At least I am wise enough to confront it. Yes, I prefer the dream of life to life itself. Do you blame me for that? In fact, that thing that most people call “life” with all its uncleanliness, sweat, secretions and pain arouses in me much fastidiousness and irritation. I am squeamish and hypochondriac, you know me. Every pimple and defect of the body, mildly unpleasant smell and clumsy gesture arouse my repulsion and make me hate humankind. It lasts a moment, and then I feel ashamed of my thoughts. To tell you the truth—and I say it not without shame—in my own rather unhappy life, I have revered the love of animals more than that of humans. The only time I cried saying good bye was when I left my poor old Friedrich, the German shepherd, in Soviet Russia. As for people, I prefer humankind to the individual deviations from it. You, of course, are a notable exception, and so is Ninel Markovna Blank. I have found one escape from my repulsion toward the everyday routine—the dream of a better tomorrow. Eurasianism is about roots and the past, but many people forget that it is also about the future. The year 2018 seems far away, but one day it will come—don’t take it as a prophesy, but as a pragmatic, scholarly prediction. There will be a Eurasian candidate for the Russian government in the 2000s, if not earlier. If only we live to see it! We must learn to forego ourselves sometimes, to sacrifice our little whims and birthmarks—nothing but pimples on the face of Eurasia. The Eurasian high grass undulating in the wind is the landscape of our happiness. Sometimes you betray yourself, Ninusha. You, too, have your nostalgia for Russia. You dream of homecoming. Face it. Why would you have those dreams otherwise? Why would they bother you so much? Don’t be afraid to wake up. Don’t nurse your whims too much. 262

Ninochka We will continue with our true confessions at another time and in another place. Yours, still without umbrella, Boris Vladimirovich

November 8, 1939, Paris Dear Professor, The Eurasian grass undulating in the wind is beautiful. You’re a poet, Boris Vladimirovich, whether you like it or not. You love words, not only roots. Didn’t you teach me in those old linguistics classes that individual speech is unpredictable, it relies on rules and defies them, partakes in common communication and exceeds it? There is that little extra something that makes it human. You called it “margin of freedom.” Well, it’s for the sake of this margin of freedom that I do what I do. Come tonight. I absolutely must see you. I will cancel my movie plans if you come. I will put away my embroidered blouses and papers on paranoia. I will let you teach me a lesson. See you soon. I really mean it. I need it. Your faithful student, N. B. P.S. Sometimes I think I am going mad. All of us are going mad. We have to cherish moments of sanity, don’t you think?

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In which the murderer makes a scene Once upon a time in a madhouse, the doctor asks the nurse Anna Ivanna, “What’s wrong with this patient? Why is he so agitated?” “Doctor,” says Anna Ivanna, “he says he’s Rabinovich, the butcher from the supermarket.” “And what’s wrong with that?” “Well, it’s megalomania! Actually, it’s engineer Ivanov.” I am with my old Moscow friends, joking. It’s a perverse kind of joke that you don’t really know what to make of. In the old days the humor was clear—it was the butcher Rabinovich who 263

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was trying to pass for engineer Ivanov (Ivanov, Vassilii Isaakovich). And now, who really knows who’s passing for whom? It’s confusing. At least someone attempts to tell a joke. I miss this kind of intimacy, the complicit whisper of chronic smokers and the smell of stolichny salad—potatoes, pickles, peas, ham and mayo. You can add apples as well if you like, but it’s not required. My friends have known each other for twenty years or so. During that time lots of things have happened. They occasionally slept with each other’s husbands and wives and took care of each other’s dachas and children. There were minor hurts and even a few betrayals. But still, these are the friends you can call in the middle of the night and ask for help. You know they’ll do anything for you. It’s an old-fashioned closeness. I miss that in my New York self-sufficiency. My Russian friends think I have become too Americanized. I flirt less and gesticulate more, take Russian politics too seriously and get too upset if I can’t find a bank machine or if the water pressure in my shower is not quite right. “Fifteen years in the States, that’s what does it to you!”

A phone rings. “Gena Grenadsky? Yes, long time no see. Your last performance was very good, very subtle. It is for Tanya? Yes, of course she’s here. Having a soul-talk. She must think us exotic—you know they don’t do that in America. Tania, it’s for you.” “Tania, I’m sorry to bother you, it’s Andrei Mikhalych. He’s delirious. He might be very sick. He’d like to see you. No, I don’t think it’s that bad, but do come as soon as you can. Say hello to your friends.” I find Andrei Mikhalych in bed with a towel around his head. “Oh, it’s hypochondria, my dear, nothing serious.” “Yes, sure,” says Grenadsky, who is playing a tough doctor to his misbehaving patient. “Look at the thermometer: 101.3° F. It’s influenza, clearly. There is an epidemic of some kind of tropical virus going around. First we thought it was a heart attack—he was complaining of chest pain. You can’t imagine how we panicked.” “You must know, Gena, the old man likes to complain.” “Well now, he’s joking. He must feel a bit ashamed of himself. You wouldn’t believe what a temper tantrum he has thrown.” 264

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“Come, come, Gena, let’s not get into that.” “Now get your aspirin, Andrei Mikhalych, it’s American, don’t worry. I didn’t buy it from babushki on the street. I was walking the other day and saw an old lady selling pills out of her pockets. She was very kind. She said, ‘Yellow pills, son, are for headaches, and red pills are for heartburn. That way, I don’t mix them up!’ She was also selling Diet Coke. No, I didn’t even buy Coke from her. I went all the way to the American pharmacy. On two trams! Come on, Andrei Mikhalych, you must drink the whole pot of this tea with jam. I brought you salt bags. The salt is heated so you can use them for your sinuses. Put them right there, on the bridge of your nose. Such a stubborn man.” “Andrei Mikhalych,” I said, “you really should listen to the doctor. I brought you some vitamins—straight from Paris.” “Thank you, my dear, I’m very moved. This is only the flu, it will pass. It’s just that at my age I always think that this might be my last flu. So you want to set things straight.” “Oh yeah,” says Grenadsky, “set things straight, that’s right. Look what he did here. I’ve been trying to put the pieces together all afternoon.” Andrei Mikhalych’s study looked like a cutting room. The table and the floor were covered with pieces of old photographs and letters. “He was ready to burn them, the old fool. He tried to set his whole apartment on fire. I caught him at the right moment, thank God. He went back to bed, took his aspirin and calmed down. Ten minutes later he was already shouting at me from the other room, ‘Have you found Nikolas with his hunter’s gun? That must be in the Paris picture, look under the table!’ ” The group photo of the friends on the beach looks wounded and badly beaten. The bodies of the émigrés are cut violently across the stripes of their bathing suits. Their arms embracing each other are missing, their faces are disfigured beyond recognition. Krestovsky’s eyes are plucked out with a pencil, Nina’s face is all made up with a red marker. There are red circles on her cheeks, as if she were putting on rouge. Her upper lip has a bloody red “m” line with a grotesque birthmark right above it. The third row is cut up beyond recognition—the three pals, Lionel, Andras and Nikki are abolished; the great geniuses, Kachalsky, Sovin and 265

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Poltavsky-Rizhsky, all have happy faces painted across them. Red zigzags crisscross the waves and the foam in front of them. “Andrei Mikhalych, you’ve done violence to your memory.” “Oh Taniusha, there is really nothing to remember. We didn’t measure up to history, none of us did. It was all so trivial, so human, so stupid. And the year was 1939, not a happy time, as we all know. We all bluffed as long as we could. I did it all my life, but I don’t want to go to my grave bluffing. Is bluffing a sin? I wouldn’t know. I have never been a religious man. You wanted to know about Belskaya. Oh yeah, she was beautiful and smart. She knew foreign languages and had independent opinions, which she stated loud and clear. Sometimes, it’s not such a good idea to do that, but she did it anyway. She fell victim to the bluff. Oh well, too bad, it could have been much worse. You have to remember that she died young, and when you die young, you remain attractive for posterity. You don’t compromise your image with wrinkles, diseases, communal apartment intrigues, bad breath and violent memories. You don’t, lucky you. “Now, don’t think me naive. Nikki called me from Paris and told me everything. We hadn’t kept in touch, but he came here for a week, shed some nostalgic tears on the bank of the Moscow River overlooking Gorky Park. We didn’t find many things to talk about. I didn’t feel like taking him to see the tourist attractions. Too much had happened in the past fifty years. We didn’t know where to start, and we didn’t have much in common. He’s weak man, a bit of a masochist and coward. I don’t like that. He showed me a photo of Natalie, the last survivor of Trotskyite Cell No. 17. She turned into a lively little woman. Life didn’t treat her badly, comparatively speaking, but I guess it didn’t live up to her expectations. Nikki said I was her first love. Imagine that! “So much of it was about unrequited love. In those days. Unrequited love, alcoholic intoxication and delusionary politics. Just look at our circle of friends in Paris who so proudly posed for that pompous picture. First of all, everyone loved Boris Vladimirovich. He never even bothered to take off his hat that made him so attractive. He didn’t need to pose in those undignified bathing suits. He didn’t need cheap tricks to be the object of everyone’s love. We all loved each other, but with not much reciprocity. Let’s see: I was in love with Poltavsky-Rizhsky who was 266

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in love with Nina who had an affair with Lionel but was still in love with Boris Vladimirovich against her better judgment. Boris Vladimirovich admired both Ninas in his ascetic manner. Ninel Bel’skaya-Blank, of course, loved her cause more than any human being, at least at that time. Nikki and Natalie were in love with me, Lionel was in love with himself and so was Kachalsky. On top of that, Kachalsky wanted to save Russia, or maybe he hoped that Russia would save him. ‘Ta-ra-ta Mother Russia . . . you lonely sunsets on the plain . . . tara tat.’ The words escape me now. My memory is no good. ‘Ta-tara-tar—birch trees . . . something.’ Kachalsky wanted to defend it with a guitar and a bottle of vodka. You know, it takes a bit more than that. Don’t stare at me, please. You know what I mean, don’t you? Now, I’m sure you thought that there must be great story here: a misunderstood scholar of genius, one lucid woman in a crowd of naive believers suffering for her lucidity. Did Natalie make you believe Nina was a double agent? Poor Natalie, she, too, needs to justify herself. It was all too cruel, bloody, banal and absurd. It made no sense. So Natalie persuaded herself that Nina must have been a double agent. That was a better explanation. Now, do you want to know what really happened? I will tell you what really happened, or at least the closest one can come to what really happened. Don’t look at me like that. Khe-khe-khe—would you pass me a handkerchief? Gena! Those salt bags are not warm at all. Genochka dear, would you heat up some more salt? You’re kind, I knew you were kind. Oh yes, some more tea for me and my guest. “Why do you look at me like that? I hope you aren’t suspecting me of murder? Are you?” “Should I?” “That wouldn’t be very smart of you, Taniusha. You know very well that I had an alibi. I was drinking my espresso when Nina was killed. And besides, why should I do it? I bluffed then, but I’m not bluffing now. It’s too late for me to bluff. Look, I risk nothing at this point. If I were to confess to you now that I killed her, what would you do to me? Bring me to justice? Where? In Paris? In New York? In Moscow—with all my connections? I have old Kaganovich living here and the director of Moscow Commercial Bank with ten bodyguards in Adidas suits. Oi-oi. It pains me 267

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to laugh. My stomach hurts too much. All joking aside. Don’t you hate this expression ‘all joking aside’? I never trusted people who don’t have a sense of humor. You are not one of them. “So I will tell you the truth and only the truth. As much as I know of it. With a few jokes, but not too many. Yes, there was a Bolshevik-Eurasian rapprochement, and yes, I was in the middle of it all. We—I mean, your grandmother and myself, were given orders by a certain organization (by the vulgar name of NKVD) to recruit prominent émigrés and convince them to come back to the Soviet Union. Ninel Markovna did it out of conviction. She believed that these people were needed in the Soviet Union, and life would be better for everyone if they returned. I did it because of my youthful ambitions, idealism, ignorance and vanity. You see, I had a rather comfortable bourgeois childhood in Chernowitz and in Budapest, so I took it all for granted. I took it for granted that you have your home, enough to eat, enough to read, enough to love. So all that wasn’t enough. I wanted to build a new world. You know, when you’re twenty-years-old, you rebel against the settled world you came from, you have no historic memory at all, you’re not afraid to lose. I started as an anarchist and ran away from home. I met Lubitsch; he was really funny in those days. He became much more conventional in later years. Then I became fascinated by the Soviet experiment. I loved Russia; I thought of it as my home of sorts; I loved Dostoevsky and Malevich! So I was approached by couple of Soviet representatives, very intelligent and educated young men. I was promised forgiveness for my Hungarian anarchist past, Soviet citizenship and an opportunity to make true films for the people of the Soviet Union. That, to me, seemed like a great opportunity. All I had to do was ‘offer a little help’ in Paris. And I said, ‘Why not!’ I was promised that I wouldn’t have to do any ‘dirty work.’ I would only be asked to do ‘what I believe in.’ I would be helping the Soviet people and world communism. Isn’t that what I’d wanted to do all along? I responded with an enthusiastic ‘yes,’ especially when I saw Nina Blank. Once again we were comrades in arms. So I moved into the milieu of the Russian exiles. I saw suffering, misery and confusion. The Eurasians were more friendly toward the Soviet Union, and many even supported Stalin. So we went for the big fish, Boris Krestovsky, and for the smaller fish, Yurik the poet. Both would 268

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make a splash in Russia, and after them the talent and brains of the emigration would follow. We thought of Kachalsky too, but he was a convinced nationalist. He loved Russians and Eurasians, but not Soviets. Besides, he was in a drunken stupor half of the time. So that seemed like a waste of effort. You worked on him, and then he washed all his memories away with vodka. We were busy doing our work when we noticed that some émigrés became suspicious of our activities. That happened after the murder of Igor Reiss and the disappearance of General Miller. Kachalsky was drinking heavily at that time. When drunk, he would let his tongue wag. He began to scream all these insults against Soviet special envoys who seduced our great Russian geniuses in exile, evil bloodsuckers and crazy stuff like that. We were at a bar somewhere, Nikki, Lionel and myself, and frankly, he scared me. I began to worry about Ninel Markovna’s safety and possible sabotage. I made friends with Kachalsky and tried hard to get him off the topic. In vain. Somehow he had an intuition that Boris Krestovsky was ‘under the influence’—the Soviet influence. Once, at an émigré gathering, he pointed to Boris speaking with Nina Belskaya. They were discussing something with a lot of passion. They seemed to disagree, but you could see that there was a peculiar tension about them, a sexual tension, I would say. “What’s her name?” asked Kachalsky. “Nina Belskaya,” I scribbled on a napkin. “That’s her!” shouted Kachalsky. “I was surprised that he hadn’t meet Nina Belskaya before, but evidently he hadn’t. So I didn’t dissuade him. He saw the Lubitsch film at one of the screenings, and it enraged him. He thought that they heavily underestimated the dangerous power of the Soviet special envoy. They gave the part to lovely Greta so she would charm the naive Frenchmen in the audience. It confirmed all that they dreamed about—the proverbial beauty, self-sacrifice and kindheartedness of Russian women. And Soviet women were even better. He insisted that the film should have been a warning that the special envoy was already in Paris. He thought Nina Belskaya looked right for the part. She was no Greta Garbo, but as we know, things are never what they seem to be, right? So Kachalsky had followed her home once and knew where she lived. But he wasn’t prepared to act yet, he needed more information. 269

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‘Why do you think she lives in the émigré neighborhood?’ he asked me. “ ‘Don’t you know?’ I whispered back in a conspiratorial manner (I wasn’t taking him seriously.) ‘Haven’t you seen the film? One night in a hotel would cost Soviet Russia seven cows, seven cows, comrade. So she stays in a little room to save Soviet agriculture. She wants to mix with the crowd, to pass for an émigrée.’ (I was having fun, fooling Kachalsky, distracting him from Ninel Markovna. How could I have known that it would all have consequences, terrible consequences!) “The truth is we didn’t really like Nina. She had a special hold over Boris Krestovsky. She was distracting him from total conversion and a return to the USSR. She was too independent, not a member of any group. Independent-mindedness doesn’t survive well in a time of crisis. I heard her say once that our common responsibility was not to shed bitter tears about Russia, but to defend Europe against Hitler. This was our common goal. At that time it seemed too obvious. A piece of French propaganda. That was self-evident and unexciting. ‘Nina wasn’t a victim type at all. She was the last person to whom we thought anything could happen, certainly not a thing like that. Jokes don’t usually cost that much blood. That morning—I remember it well—was very bright and cool. The light was beautiful. We were just hanging around at the coffee shop, Nikki and I, chatting about film and politics. And in walks Lionel. “Boasting that he had won the bet? “Oh, the bet, yes. Nikki told you about that, too. Don’t hold a grudge against me for that. It was a boys’ kind of thing. Just a joke, and not a very good one. Should you pay for every stupid joke you make? It was nothing, really. Lionel had a crush on Nina, anyway, so we were just provoking him. Nikki wanted to be left alone with me; he was beginning to be annoyed by the three of us being together, like the three comrades in the movie. Luckily your grandmother was at the Congress of Linguists that day. She was safe. Think of it this way: it could have been your grandmother in Nina’s place. I had to protect your grandma, and I did, didn’t I? “So they were in a very good mood, Lionel and Nikki. I didn’t know what came over them. I was amused and let them 270

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chat. Lionel said a few platitudes about the language of cinema. ‘Cinema should be the universal language.’ ‘And Hollywood shouldn’t dictate it,’ I argued. It was clear that Lionel would rather talk about movies than about Nina. He didn’t like our joking about her. He said she was coughing and had a bad cold. He bought her favorite croissants and some honey for her throat. Yes, and I can use some myself, you know. I’m sorry, Tanechka, for sweating like this in front of you, very ungentlemanly. It’s a fever and an old case of tonsillitis. Must be that. “Next thing I know—an hour later—Lionel runs to my flat screaming that she’s dead. ‘Who’s dead?’ I asked. ‘Nina, Nina, Nina.’ He was incoherent. He screamed that ‘she was in her bathrobe, she was lying there in her robe in a pool of blood!’ She had been shot point blank. There was nothing missing. He was crying. He said it was all his fault, that he didn’t lock the door. But how could he know, he was just going around the corner. (Luckily, Nikki had to be somewhere else—he would have brought us all to trial with his paranoia!) I tried to calm Lionel down, saying that he shouldn’t blame himself, that there must be some plot against her, or maybe she was involved in something. He couldn’t hear me and kept muttering, ‘She was in her robe, you know. She wasn’t quite awake when it happened. She must have thought it was me, that I was the one who betrayed her. Oh my God, I will never forgive myself!’ “That was quite a day! Next comes Kachalsky pale as death. My door wasn’t locked either. I guess Lionel had the bad habit of not locking doors when he was too happy or too distraught. Kachalsky, too, begins to scream that he will never forgive himself and pulls out the gun and a bloody towel. Lionel hits him in his face: ‘You bloody son of a bitch!’ He screamed lots of curses in English, but that was the only one we could understand. ‘Why did you do it?’ “ ‘She was the Soviet special envoy!’ “ ‘No she wasn’t, no! It was the other Nina, didn’t you know that?’ “Kachalsky couldn’t follow it: ‘What do you mean, other Nina? There was more than one Nina? There were two Ninas? Nina and her double? I must be going mad.’ “ ‘André, I didn’t know that he didn’t know. Did you know that, did you?’ Lionel was babbling. 271

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“ ‘Look, it doesn’t matter—one Nina, two Ninas, three Ninas,’ muttered Kachalsky. ‘I came to kill myself, André, I wanted you to see it.’ (The bastard needed an audience. He couldn’t do it alone.) ‘I’m pulling the trigger here and now!’ he declared and fell down. He was totally drunk. We poured cold water on him. It was hell. Kachalsky was vomiting all over the place. He’d vomit and then try to kiss my feet and then vomit again. ‘Forgive me, dearest friend, I’m filth, the worst kind of filth.’ The room stank. Finally, he pulled the trigger, but the revolver fired a blank. I put some loud music on—big-band jazz or something like that so the neighbors wouldn’t suspect anything. Lionel was sobbing. He wanted to call the police or contact his lawyer in New York. ‘You must be kidding,’ I told him. ‘Forget your lawyer. We aren’t in America.’ “Kachalsky began to cough and then to talk. He had been on a drinking spree for three days. Since the day he saw Ninotchka, he had become obsessed with it. He said that there were hints all over the film—General Savitsky, who appears with Swana, is a hint at Eurasianists who resisted the seduction of the Soviet special envoy. Kachalsky drank night and day. That morning he decided to go to Nina’s flat. He had a gun, but he didn’t really know what he would do with it. He was too drunk for any premeditation or for any meditation for that manner. Yes, he knew that at this hour little Natalie was usually not at home—she went to the meeting of her Trotskyite cell. She must have been running late, so she didn’t lock the door. The concierge was busy giving a piano lesson to a ten-year-old girl who was practicing her scales very bombastically and loudly. ‘I felt exhilarated, beside myself,’ reported Kachalsky. He walked all the way up to Nina’s apartment. On the top floor workers were laughing loudly. They were immigrants who spoke some unknown melodic tongue with great guttural sounds. Spanish? Arabic? One of the workers brought down statuettes and a large Empire-style clock. The other was carrying an old ax. What the hell were they doing? Repairing things, breaking them apart? What would he tell Nina when he knocked at her door? Pretend to be one of the immigrant workers, ask for a glass of water? He was sweating heavily as if it were he who had just carried down heavy Empire-style bronze statuettes of Venus and Mars. Did I say Venus and Mars, Taniusha? No, no, that can’t be right. Forgive me, it’s my father in Budapest who had two of 272

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those. They were wonderful, I had to dust them as a boy. You should have seen Mars’s muscles in that dark-stained dusted bronze, and Venus had those tiny shining nipples. My poor father got them from an impoverished Viennese count whose son was undergoing psychoanalytic treatment, at a flea market somewhere. I don’t know how the statues slipped into my story. I guess I needed to fill in some missing details. I must be hallucinating. Gennochka, bring us some water. No, no, Tanya wouldn’t drink tap water, she’s American, remember. Our dirt is dirtier than theirs . . . kha-kha-kha. “So where did we leave Kachalsky? Sweating on the staircase. It was a miracle. Nina’s door was half-opened. He said he felt like an avenging angel who walks through walls. Kachalsky, you see, liked big words. Nina must have been lying in bed in her robe, undisturbed by background noise. ‘She had a sleepy expression,’ said Kachalsky ‘but it didn’t fool me. I knew she wasn’t sleeping. I saw the program for that film Ninotchka and the Eurasian treatise on her table. And there was a broken record lying on the floor. My record, André, my only French record. All my best songs! That was a clear sign. They were conspiring against me.’ “So he pulled out the gun. He looked at her. She had that strange expression on her face—a bit scared but at the same time ironic and incredulous. She looked ‘as if she didn’t believe me, as though she thought I was a fraud or something, a ham actor. It was insulting. I swear, she was teasing me to do it with her sleepy eyes. I shot her point blank.’ You see, Taniusha, he was a singer, he lived in a world of his own delusions. It was hard for him to step aside. As for me, what do I know? I know what he told me. He was in that heightened, feverish state, nauseated and suicidal. People don’t make up things in moments like that, under the gun. The sound of the shot made him sober in a second. He was afraid of blood, you know. He told me that he would faint when they drew his blood. And there was this incredible racket upstairs, a deafening, pounding noise. What were they doing, those workers, breaking walls with their axes or what? Then there was complete silence. He went to the door and noticed that the girl stopped playing her scales. The concierge might have heard something. ‘Shh. Did I hear a sound in Madame Nina’s room?’ ‘Oh no, Madame, it must be those gypsies upstairs. 273

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They’re moving the cupboard with all the little chests of drawers. As I was coming up to see you, they had just dropped one chest on the ground. You wouldn’t believe it; it had nothing but snuff boxes and playing cards.’ The girl was twittering away, happy to interrupt her exercises. ‘Would you run up and check?’ asked the concierge. Kachalsky heard the girl’s light steps. Her little feet in white stockings were rushing upstairs, jumping over the steps, like over piano keys. As they say, those seconds seemed like an eternity to Kachalsky. What if the girl pushed open the door? Lovely little twittering creature . . . Oh no, what should he do? He couldn’t kill an innocent child. ‘The blood of a child, the blood of an innocent child . . . something.’ Strange that at a moment like that some quote was persistenting in his mind. He couldn’t remember it. He rushed to the door and noticed a rusted iron hook there. Thank God! “What? I didn’t mention that there was a hook there? I forgot, yes, there was a lock and a hook. Nina must have been scared to sleep alone. Or maybe it was just there when she rented her little apartment, and she didn’t bother to put it on. How do I know all this, Taniusha? How come an old man’s memory is so vivid? Well, you see I’ve been thinking about the whole story for a film script or something. Maybe I’ll set it in Leningrad, not in Paris, but I’ll definitely have a singer be the murderer. A sentimental killer who sings beautiful, tender, heartbreaking songs. He could be a rock star or maybe country. Something contemporary. “Yes, yes, back to the mischievous girl in white stockings and pleated blue skirt. She ran up to Nina’s door and knocked: ‘Madame Nina, Madame Nina, are they bothering you, those people?’ There was no answer. Luckily, the little girl was impatient. Her lesson was over; she wanted to go home, to play in the square with her friends. She ran back. At that moment Kachalsky heard the noise above him. He quietly slipped out of the room and went a flight up. What can you say—this was his lucky day! At that moment three workers were trying to carry down an old bureau with curved bronze paws. ‘Help, brother,’ shouted one of them to the sweating Kachalsky and a minute later he was helping them push the bureau down the stairs. ‘Madame,’ he heard the girl cheeping. ‘Madame Nina must be still sleeping. I’ve told you it’s the gypsies.’ ‘Don’t call them gypsies, my dear girl. They are 274

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migrant workers. They have a hard life.’ Having said this, the conscientious concierge uttered goodbye to the girl and went out to get a fresh baguette. ‘How can you teach music in this cacophony,’ she murmured to herself and sighed. Kachalsky walked through the back door into the interior yard and glimpsed through the windows. Life went on as usual. Parisians were busy having a nice breakfast—the right kind of croissants, fresh jam, coffee with plenty of milk. He walked out to the street, stunned by what had happened. He saw Natalie across the street buying a newspaper. His timing was perfect. He couldn’t have calculated it any better. He sat in a square nearby and stared blankly into space. He saw a dog, a little furry mongrel fulfilling its natural need nearby. He tried to call to it, to play with it, but the dog just wouldn’t look him in the eye. It sniffed him carefully and ran away in fear. He vomited. He needed help. At that moment he must have thought of me. I lived in the neighborhood, you know, and I was used to anything. Kachalsky was an actor after all; he needed spectators. So he came to me and confessed it all—between vomit, sweat and tears. It wasn’t a pretty scene. Not very cinematic. Poor coward that he was, he proposed to kill himself. I offered him another solution—a return to the Soviet Union.” “Andrei Mikhalych, you shouldn’t talk so much. You’ll lose your voice.” “No, Genochka, don’t worry. Sometimes it’s like sweat, it’s good when it all comes out of you. “Soon we all returned to the Soviet Union, Ninel Markovna, Kachalsky and myself. Lionel went back to the States. I warned him about the impending war. I told him to keep his mouth shut. Things weren’t as simple as that clean-cut American lad would have liked them to be. There was no time for explanations. So there you have it. We went East, and he went West. Out of all of us, Kachalsky was the one who received a hero’s welcome: a veritable story of a prodigal son returning to his motherland from the misery of exile. He kissed the Soviet soil. And as they say, ‘a sparse masculine tear rolled down his cheek.’ Only it wasn’t so sparse. He had confessional diarrhea—he was confessing and confessing and confessing—about everyone but himself. He had a real flair for that. Nina’s story was taboo. I promised never to talk about it. It was a gentleman’s agreement. Believe it or not, I honored 275

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it. Of course, Kachalsky wasn’t exactly an honorable man. But what could I do? I wasn’t clean as a whistle myself. I knew it. My joke had cost a life. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Kachalsky’s confession contributed to your grandmother’s arrest. He was a sentimentalist. He liked to do things to the extreme. He couldn’t stop talking—for the sake of Mother Russia. Finally, he found an eager audience. We went to the camps, your grandmother and I. We were arrested the same week. I asked a friend to let her know what happened to me. But she didn’t try to leave town. Yet again, Kachalsky was spared. You see Stalin liked his songs. It was Stalin who sent Kachalsky to work with Alexandrov. Well, to do him justice, when I got out of the camps, Kachalsky (already a Soviet celebrity with an apartment in a Stalinist skyscraper) helped me to get a job in television. First, I was a continuity editor, checking the films for continuity—ironic, isn’t it? Then I wrote my own script for adaptations of Chekhov. Kachalsky was a new man—he didn’t drink and he made harsh pronouncements on fellow drinkers. He had a dacha in Peredelkino where he walked five miles every day in the summer. He had three lovely daughters who adored him and a young wife. Once he told me that Paris for him was one long night of drunken stupor followed by a painful hangover. I guess homecoming makes one sober. “Am I tiring you, my dear? I find all of this very therapeutic, you know. Talking about this makes me feel better. Maybe it’s the aspirin. Listen, let’s talk about movies now. They don’t simply reflect life, as you well know, they influence it. Even the harmless, silly ones like Ninotchka. And what did you think about Monsieur Kachalsky’s last chef d’oeuvre, The Lilac Sunset? I can just see the old man getting the Oscar for that one and letting his sparse masculine tear interrupt his heartfelt speech: ‘Dear friends . . . It’s a great honor for me. I want to thank my family and my friends all over the world. Too bad some of them are dead.’ “Oh well. It’s all artistic indirection, of course. Yet Pulkov and Kachalsky succeeded in rewriting their own biographies together with Russian history. What an exquisite cover-up! The victimizers are turned into victims! Pulkov’s family, you know, originated from a marriage of Russian and Soviet aristocracy, just like in the movie, only his father was a famous KGB agent who 276

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informed on his old friends and fellow-travelers from the avantgarde days. Just wait, they’ll rule the new Russia. Viacheslav-Khan the First, Emperor of All Eurasia. It wasn’t an émigré who was the villain in this case—Michel, the poet and ex-lover. I am sure Kachalsky helped develop the fine lines of the character of the émigré-scoundrel. “For what reason was Nina Belskaya killed? Oh, what a question! You’re optimistic, my dear; you think there should be a good reason for things. Well, in this case there isn’t. It was just stupidity and bad luck. She wasn’t a double agent. (Unless this had somehow bypassed me; after all, I was only a novice in all that recruiting business.) One is never sure about these things. You might think there was something to the fact that her door was conspicuously half-open on that fateful morning. And for whom did Lionel work? We may never know. Frankly, I don’t think any of them had serious political involvements. They liked politics on paper, the politics of a few idealistic slogans. That’s as far as it went. “I don’t think Poltavsky-Rizhsky was a double agent either. You see, a man who would write that the ‘poet is always a double agent’ couldn’t be converted easily. He was loyal to his conscience. He knew the difference between life and text. ‘Double agent’ made a good metaphor, as long as he wasn’t in anyone’s service. I must say, I had something of a crush on him. He never reciprocated, absorbed as he was with Nina and her unrequited affection. I stole his last love letter to her. I’ll give it to you, Taniusha, but you must promise to read it when you leave me. The three of them, Nina, Katia and Poltavsky-Rizhsky—they thought they would outsmart the world by parodying the conspiracies. They would figure it all out, make it rational, analyze paranoiac delusions, write poems, laugh it all off. Nice try—it didn’t work. “Bluff, banality and bluff won the final victory. Your grandmother wasn’t like that, and neither was Nina Belskaya. So they both died, and nobody knew much about them. They might have become friends, shared a cup of tea together without milk. Too bad they are both dead now. Never go home, my dear, never go home. Come visit, then go away again. You keep a clear mind and a good heart that way. Get some distance from Russia, get some distance from America. You can see things as straight or as askew as they really are. There 277

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is less bluff in that kind of life. Be loyal to the place in which you live, to your friends and maybe to a few neighbors. Don’t be deluded by big ideas. Old Kaganovich is still playing his dominos. He wants to exit this world winning. I don’t have such an ambition. I just want to stop bluffing. I am enjoying the perversity of truth. It’s so crooked sometimes, yet so clear. Genochka, take these salt bags away from me, they’re annoying. You’re a wonderful man. Did I tell you that? I feel better, really, I do. There is nothing wrong with me. It’s the flu, a seasonal thing. “To whom else would I confess, Taniusha, if not you? Who gives a damn about a girl killed in Paris fifty years ago? People would just say, ‘so what? That was a long time ago and not true.’ Something like that. It’s a luxury, you know. to give individual attention to every victim of injustice. We can’t afford that attitude here. Maybe we should, but we never did. I have a dream, though, that one day I’ll write a script and call it ‘A Perfect Murder.’ I don’t yet know who the characters will be and where it will be set—in New York or in Briansk, who cares. A perfect murder is sloppy, gruesome, messy, banal, and one gets away with it. Dostoyevsky, you see, didn’t believe the perfect murder was possible. If reason doesn’t betray the killer, the conscience will, he thought. It’s not the material evidence, but the criminal’s conscience that can’t be settled. And lawyers have nothing to do with it—those bluffers for hire. He would say that, but he got it all wrong, our great Russian writer. He, too, was an optimist. He presumed there is always someone who wants justice to be done— a Porphiry Petrovich or a Sherlock Holmes—that’s a matter of taste. He also presumed that criminals have a conscience. Oh no, golubchik ty moi . . . they confess everything, those men of the heart, everything—except their own crimes. “The perfect murder is the one which nobody cares to uncover. It’s in nobody’s interest. It’s messy and compromising. Police are too busy with ‘more important things,’ and so are the men of conscience. Agatha Christie is on vacation. The journalists are covering the big picture—the war in Europe or the sensational death of the movie star’s mistress, bitten by crocodiles in her own swimming pool. In the perfect murder, the perpetrator eventually takes on the identity of a victim. He speaks like a victim, he behaves like a victim, and we feel sorry for him. Oh, he’s such a 278

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sweet, sloppy, kind-hearted Russian soul after all, and he sings so beautifully. He’s a victim of circumstances. Our hearts bleed for the poor lost soul of a man. Life hasn’t been kind to him. The victims, you know, often don’t look like victims. And they’re silent. Maybe I’ll set my ‘perfect murder’ in Briansk; it’s as good a place as any. Don’t steal this idea from me, Taniusha. I’m not so old, you know, I might still be able to write this script.” From the Archives of Poltavsky-Rizhsky The stolen letter My dear cruel soulmate, Let’s organize a secret society; let’s worship the Fates. They will make a good emblem: three Parcae in folding robes, measuring, cutting and laughing. No eagles, no stars. Everyone is a member of a secret society these days, some are members of several. Most of our friends are agents of something or other, some are double agents. We are the only ones who wander around and gather autumn leaves and pine cones in the melancholic alleys of our non-belonging. For our secret sect we need three members at least. Three, remember, is a magic number—the minimal number for the Bolshevik underground cell as well as for the postrevolutionary drinkers. Three for one bottle of vodka. No, not Smirnoff—that’s too white. Make it an Absolut. We, the members of the society of Fates, shouldn’t be fatalistic. We deem the cuts necessary. We don’t ask for the impossible. We would just like to stretch our kosmos a size or two. We cherish that margin of freedom, those folding alternative worlds of flying gauze, the worlds of our self-creation. We defy the singular conspiratorial design and throw our lace in the face of the paranoiac majority. I hope, dear Ninochka, that in one of those imaginary worlds you might respond to my love—with something more than a kiss on the forehead, more than a nice letter and a lovely smile over a cup of oversweetened tea. I don’t want you to be my Muse or my Fate. Oh, how boring. Will you be my secret lover? The Folding Chair of the Committee of Three, Please, please, please, say yes. Poltavsky-Rizhsky

This letter never reached its addressee. 279

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37

In which we get homesick in Gorky Park Across the street from Gorky Park a little girl is playing with the head of Comrade Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky. She sits on his forelock and touches his broken arm. There is a little sculpture garden there where demoted monuments serve as children’s props. “Mama, mama, look. Whose head is this?” “Oh, I think it was Grandpa Krushchev’s, but they broke his nose.” On my last day in Moscow I couldn’t resist a visit to the Gorky Park of Leisure and Culture. What better place to reflect on double agents! I walk along the wide pathways with their birch trees and gilded statues. The Girl with the Oar looks like the Soviet twin sister of her much more shining sibling in Rockefeller Center in New York. The smell of fresh shish kebab and French disco music create a festive atmosphere. Women in flowery dresses walk hand in hand, young soldiers in khaki uniforms joke in the line for shish kebabs, teenagers in Adidas suits sell Adidas socks, babushki twitter on the benches as their grandchildren bury a plastic Ninja Turtle in the wet sand. “Life is good, and it’s good to be alive!” as one Soviet poet put it. He committed suicide a year later. Poets do that. They want to walk the streets of their lives like the lines in the poem. They want their lives to correspond to the maps of their creation, only sometimes they come to a dead end. One thing strikes me in Gorky Park: almost nobody walks alone here—only a few strange-looking men with gold teeth and an old woman with military insignia. Walking alone arouses suspicion. It’s quite different from London parks where people go to be left alone, to sit on those uncomfortable free-standing chairs and be private. In Gorky Park even the chairs can’t be left alone. There are too many people in need. I pretend that I’m looking for someone, that I am not really by myself; I am with those people over there, standing in line for the Swiss ice cream. I avoid meeting the eyes of those lonely men with gold teeth and tattoos and the smell of Soviet tobacco. I behave like a sloppy spy trying to pass for a native. Suddenly, I find myself surrounded by a group of boys in dark uniforms. They have the healthy look of Wonder 280

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Bread kids. Who are they? Russians are not so fond of uniforms these days, especially kids. The boys eagerly line up like young Pioneers in two rows and begin to sing. It’s a sweet song—in English. This is a Mormon choir from Utah. They’re missionaries who came here to spread the faith among the confused and conflicted natives. What better place to do it than Gorky Park! There is a history to it. I can’t say they draw huge crowds, but a few onlookers watch them with curiosity. A little dark-haired boy begins to do Michael Jackson’s moves, right in front of the choir, in the grass. I sit on the bench and listen to French disco and the duo of tipsy war veterans singing “Katiusha,” competing with the boys’ choir. The gilded Girl with the Oar, the robust new woman, the Venus of Gorky Park is enveloped in the exotic smoke of overcooked shish kebabs. And then there is a breeze, it blows the dust off the road, and you know that things will never be the same. “Don’t walk on the grass”—there is a comforting sign from Soviet times. You can do harm to the grass and the grass can harm you. Not that kind of grass, of course, but the wild grasses, krapiva and osoka, that still survive on the outskirts of the Park of Leisure and Culture behind the shish kebab stands. If you aren’t careful, you’ll cut yourself. You’ll renew your childhood scars. They weren’t so bad, actually. There was always somebody around, a kind and chatty aunt who would bring the green ointment (zelenka) and blow softly on your wound. It doesn’t hurt anymore, does it? If you’re lucky, you’ll find the healing grass, poddorozhnik, and it will be all over in three days. And you don’t want these scars to vanish without a trace—they’re your memory’s first aid. The drops of blood that little Ninel Blank drew with the birch stick and osoka, wounds on the other Nina’s knee cannot be admitted as material evidence. Lovely loopholes of personal memory will be discarded from secret files, ignored by biographers and detectives alike. Who cares what the characters dreamed about, and what kind of food they liked? Those fateful croissants that Nina never tried before her murder and that last ice cream that Ninel didn’t enjoy the evening before her arrest, the Soviet seedless grapes and emigrant artichokes, treacherously decadent fois gras and smoky shish kebabs of post-Soviet Gorky Park—they are irrelevant in the detective story. As long as the cause of death wasn’t food poisoning, that’s the main thing. This is immaterial evidence; 281

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it’s hard to get it right. It’s like clouds that change their shape depending on the speed of the train. Those clouds get darker and darker, and then it begins to drizzle again, as it often does in your hometown. So you step into a puddle on the platform, and get your foreign-made shoes wet. As for the material evidence, let’s admit it, we didn’t do so well with it. We repeated the mistake of the drunken murderer. We followed his paranoiac designs and construed meaningful relationships between people who met by chance and things that were randomly thrown together—the Eurasian pamphlet, the program of Ninotchka. They were just lying there, next to patched silk stocking, unfinished embroideries, half-written letters. Imagine if they asked you to empty your handbag for an inspection and then made a case against you on the basis of what they found? What if I had with me a copy of Gorky Park, Joys of Buddhism (in Russian), a Snickers bar and a pair of Turkish panties? What would that tell you about me? In Nina’s case it’s a Catch-22. She was murdered because she appeared to be a double agent, and now we assume that she was a double agent because she was murdered. The murder confirms our suspicions. The murderer must have been right. The victim was guilty. It’s all very clear now, the mystery is solved. The person lived, the person died. Only a fragment of her thesis on paranoia survived along with a few distorted memories. There are a few missing links that will be forever missing—this happens in every detective story, only other authors like to cover them up. First, the broken record. Who is responsible for the broken record? Who broke it? How? Why? Do you really think it was an accident? Second, the “Hungarian connection.” There’s something’s fishy there too, don’t you think? Andrei Mikhalych? How’s the weather in August in Budapest? Remember that man named Miklos? “Miklos who? It’s a very common name,” he would say. I have to call Andrei Mikhalych immediately. It’s one loose end, one knot that I’ve got to tie for my own sake. “Excuse me, do you have change for ruble?” I ask the kind shish kebab vendor. It used to be a two-kopeck coin to make a local call. “Oh, Miss, oh, Miss,” sighs the vendor. “When was the last time you saw a two-kopeck coin? In your dreams, Miss, in your 282

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dreams. Everything is devalued these days, everything is devalued. It’s clear that you aren’t from Moscow. For a while, it was fifteen kopecks, and then fifteen kopecks disappeared, too. They don’t make them anymore. So these people in the kiosks, these crooks— I don’t know where they’re from, but they aren’t from Moscow. I heard a rumor that they’re Chechens. Don’t fool with them, Miss. So these people began to sell fifteen-kopeck coins for a ruble. And then rubles disappeared too, so they sold the coins for ten rubles. You know, people have to make their phone calls. Those kiosk vendors, they exploit human needs. Do you see these people hiding in their dark and stuffy kiosks without windows, sneaking in and out like rats? That’s why, if you ask me, I would never buy a kiosk. I like to work in the open air. I like making and selling my shish kebabs, and I have nothing to hide!” “You seem like a nice girl, I’ll make you a nice, spicy shish kebab with pickles and Polish ketchup at no extra cost, and here is a token for the phone. Money’s devalued now, like everything else, so they finally came to their senses and made tokens for people so they can make a call. Have you seen the new subway token? They’re mint green, made of plastic. That’s the token of our times!” “Thank you. No, just one shish kebab will be enough. And no fruit drink. I’m sure it’s great, but I already had some today. Maybe I’ll try a Coke. Hello, Andrei Mikhalych? Gena? Is he better? Not better, but more cheerful? Well, I was glad to cheer him up. Andrei Mikhalych? You really should try to get better. Yes and no. I said, yes and no. Keep the rest for your ‘Perfect Murder.’ I can do English subtitles for it. Of course. Shall we call it ‘Nina or a Broken Record?’ How did it break, by the way? The record, I mean. Just fall down by itself? The force of gravity? Lionel put it at the edge of the gramophone table and then accidentally pushed it with his elbow. He was gesticulating awkwardly, talking about the movies. You don’t know? Well, if you don’t know just say so. What do you mean by ‘an everyday kind of thing’? Yes, of course, I’ve broken a few records. That’s why I use CDs now. “I wanted to ask you one more thing, Andrei Mikhalych. Did you know a man named Miklos Szanto? He knew Lubitsch from Budapest.” 283

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“Miklos Szanto. Of course. He wasn’t from Budapest, you know. He was from Chernovitz, like me. We all played cowboys and Indians together—Miklos, me, your grandma and half a dozen other kids. We were always Indians, because we were dark-haired and because I stole some feathers from Aunt Marta. Your grandmother was only seven, and because we were big boys, we didn’t take her seriously. Miklos even babysat for her; he liked her, too. Oh, but he wanted so much to be native, more native then the natives. So he married a very strict Austrian woman in Budapest. He was a talented man, worked with Lubitsch. I heard that he went into business to support his family and abandoned the movies some fifty years ago. He had nothing to do with the story. He was a thoroughly apolitical man. Why do you ask?” “Oh, nothing. I happen to know his grandson, Miklos Szanto the third.” “And what about him? “He, too, wanted to be ‘native.’ He came to America, married an American. Now he’s waiting for his green card and writing a script about Lubitsch. Well, actually, he is no longer writing the script about Lubitsch. He works for an international bank. He helped me with my search in Paris.” “It sounds to me like there is a story to it. I detect you aren’t quite indifferent to him. Listen, don’t think that there ever are perfect repetitions. It’s more like themes with variations. In one of those variations, it could all work out. In the other one, it all goes to hell. Ah? There are always loopholes, you know, loopholes. Well, I must get off the phone now. My doctor is here to bother me again. Are you calling from a public phone, like in a spy movie? Remember, how it used to be dangerous to call from a hotel because your phones were tapped? Life used to be much more thrilling. Well, you were lucky to get a phone token. They’re hard to get these days.” From My E-Mail To: [email protected] Hello Miklos: Tadeus here. I just learned that your grandfather played hide-and-seek with my grandmother in Chernovitz. But then, he tried to hide his past 284

Ninochka and went native in Budapest. My grandmother, of course, went to Cracow and became an actress in the Old Chamber Theater, destroyed during the war. I’ll be arriving in New York on Thursday. I bring the papers that you requested from Janek Lubichevsky. Ciao.

38

In which we leave Russia and bid farewell to Rabinovich and Anka the machine gunner I remember with a certain nostalgia an old joke that celebrates that peculiar ritual of Soviet joking: In a time when there are very few anecdotes left (bezanekdot’e), Rabinovich meets Ivan the Fool and Anka the machine gunner. Rabinovich says, “Anecdote number 12.” Ivan the Fool laughs. Rabinovich: “Anecdote number 67.” Ivan the Fool laughs. Rabinovich: “Anecdote number 31.” Ivan the Fool just won’t stop laughing. “How can you, Rabinovich, tell such obscene jokes in front of a lady.”

Once the idea that there are “few anecdotes left” seemed very funny to us. Jokes were one commodity of which there have never been any shortage. And this is such a familiar menage à trois. Short and funny Rabinovich tries to win the heart of the real Russian woman, Anka the machine gunner, with his silly jokes and long sentences. That’s the only weapon he has against tall and fairy-tale-handsome Ivan the Fool, who doesn’t need fancy words. It’s more than Anka the machine gunner that’s at stake here. It’s Rabinovich’s romance with a Russian beauty. How is it doing now? Not so well, I’m afraid, not so well. Ivan the Fool is still on a business trip. He’s a vice president of the joint venture Intertrust. What about Anka? Haven’t you seen her? She’s that youthful babushka who put on all her war medals and waved Soviet flags 285

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into the TV cameras on the First of May. She tried capitalism, bought many stocks at the stock company “Dream”—“MMM: no probleM-M-M!” But it was a pyramid of deception, and Anka lost her life savings. Rabinovich, her true friend, sent her a sheepskin for the International Women’s Day and a nice card. He’s far away now. Rabinovich has emigrated. Now he sits on a bench at Brighton Beach in his old fur hat, enjoys the winter sun and looks at the waves. If he gets a little nostalgic, he goes to the Supermarket Moscow and buys himself Stolichnaya vodka, cabbage pirogi and gefilte fish, and his heart warms up again. How did Rabinovich emigrate? Haven’t you heard? It’s a classic. Rabinovitch comes to OVIR (the emigration office and a branch of the KGB) and asks for permission to leave the Soviet Union. “But why, Comrade Rabinovich, why?” pleads the KGB officer. “You have two nice rooms here, a nice job.” “You see, Comrade, I have two reasons. The first one is my communal apartment neighbor. Every time I go to the toilet, he comes out of his room and says: ‘Just wait, Rabinovich, Soviet power will come to an end, and we’ll hang all you kikes upside down!’ ” “But Comrade Rabinovich,” says the KGB officer. “You know that Soviet power will never come to an end, right?” “Well, Comrade, that’s the second reason,” answers Rabinovich. History shows that Rabinovich with all his street smarts miscalculated the situation. He left anyway. He found a way out. That’s the moral of the story. In Hungary, I hear, they tell the same story about Comrade Cohn. That’s a clear case of plagiarism. Hungarian black market people always think they have the upper hand. Comrade Cohn is a foreign impostor. He is not a believable character. This is a true story about Comrade Rabinovich. Forget the jokes. The distractions won’t help. You’re taking the last detour before your exit. The airport is only a dozen miles away. My friend Alik is very kind to take me to the airport. The airport taxi Mafia can be quite brutal. The road rules in Moscow are in the process of perestroika—like everything else, the freedom of driving takes quite an anarchic turn. There is still, however, the freedom of parking, though occasionally your tires might disappear when you return to your car. The Moscow highways are 286

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almost empty of signs. The neon sign: “WE WILL COME TO THE VICTORY OF COMMUNISM!” now reads: WE WILL COME TO THE VICTORY OF -O—-NISM-. The exclamation point has faded. The optimistic slogan is in great disrepair. The advertisements are still sparse—there is a lonely Coca Cola sign and an invitation to learn the “truth about Dianetics.” “You come here and look at us in the microscope as if we were some rare species,” says Alik “and then you go back to your comfortable life.” “It’s not true,” I protest unconvincingly. “It’s just a strange feeling, you know, like I don’t live here anymore.” “You’re going to be in New York soon,” says Alik with a bit of a smirk, “you’ll take a good shower with just the right water pressure, you’ll get your money in the bank machine and drink your orange juice. Is that what it’s all about?” “Oh come on, Alik, don’t do this.” The truth is I am preparing to leave. I look at the people boarding the “Icarus,” the bus made in Hungary in the days of the “fraternal friendship of the Eastern Bloc.” The old Icarus drives into a puddle and sprays the road birch trees with mud. I am saying my goodbyes. I am leaving Russia—very casually, on a workday, with two suitcases. I’m traveling light, just like the first time. Will they let me go like that, will they believe that my green card is not a counterfeit, made in one of the Moscow kiosks, that this really is my left ear, unique and inimitable. Will they check ruthlessly every seam of my clothes, every handwritten page (you know no manuscripts are allowed), every photograph (no more than three people in the picture) like fifteen years ago? And if I still look suspicious, will they order a body search? (“Where are your diamonds, eh? Have you swallowed them all?”) But then I was an émigré, officially declared “traitor to the motherland,” now I’m a foreign tourist. Should I speak English with the border guards and then say spasibo with a heavy accent like a well-wishing foreign movie star? They’d just laugh in my face, those young men with guns. Once Russian, always Russian. No, of course not. Even my paranoiac fantasies are behind the times. “Don’t worry about anything,” says Alik. “Here we are.” We kiss each other a casual goodbye. “You aren’t leaving forever this time, right?” 287

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In the airport I behave like an efficient foreigner who knows what she’s doing. I pay a dollar for the carriage and find my line for the luggage check. It’s a relief, I am not in the line of those “leaving for a permanent residence.” And those were sad lines of exhausted immigrants-to-be, sitting on their huge bags that seemed to have survived from the wartime, with silent children without toys and relatives with furtive tears. There are lines of Russian Germans from Kazakhstan waiting for the Lufthansa flight of their dreams, Cubans who got asylum in Russia after perestroika going to Warsaw, North Vietnamese visitors returning to Hanoi after an intense shopping spree in Moscow. And then there are Hassidic scholars waiting for British Air. That’s it, that’s my line. I stand behind the group of Hassidic scholars, who switch from twittering Yiddish to very proper British English. I remember reading something about the hidden manuscripts in the Lenin Library that belonged to the Lubavitches and were stolen from them. Next in line is a business man from London. He winks at me in the most friendly manner and whispers, pointing at Hassids, “Look at these people, they just don’t know how to queue.” I would say something hostile in Yiddish, but I don’t know how. Who does he think I am? I tried too hard to “pass,” maybe I overdid it after all. What makes him think that I share his casual prejudices? Oh, no, he isn’t thinking anything at all, he’s just making small talk: “So have you been to Moscow before?” “Yes,” I say. “It’s my first trip,” he says. “I enjoyed it very much. The sturgeon here is really first class. Especially in that restaurant. What was it called? ‘Prague,’ yes, like the city.” The custom officers check the luggage of the Hassidic travelers and exchange sarcastic looks. “What a strange people! Where did they come from?” but the Hassids ignore it and just say “thank you” in perfect British English. There was nothing improper in their luggage. Lots of books in a foreign language. Now it’s my turn. “Do you speak Russian?” asks the custom officer, looking into my passport. “Yes,” I say with a sinking heart. “Are those two of your suitcases?” “Yes.” 288

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“Any antiques, precious stones, undeclared objects of gold and silver?” “No.” “Old rubles, icons, guns . . .” “No.” “How do you like America?” “It’s fine.” “It must be very exciting!” “Yes.” “Are you carrying bottles of vodka, caviar, salmon or sturgeon?” “No.” “Why not?” asks the custom’s officer as if he’s personally insulted that I ignored those products. “I buy them in New York.” “Any porcelain tea sets?” “Just two teacups, it’s a gift.” They unzip my bags and check a few items on top, matterof-factly and not very meticulously. “Oh, I see. You’ve got that Cruiser Aurora T-Shirt. It’s very cute. You may pass now,” says the custom officer chuckling. “You don’t have to look so scared. Have a good trip.” Finally, I go through the glass door beyond which everything is sold for hard currency. I board the plane and study the safety instructions. Yes, I have located the exit nearest to me. I’m glad that my seat can float, if needed. I feel light and dizzy. I am leaving Russia again. I thought I had just dreamed it up the first time. Now I recall exactly what it felt like fifteen years ago. Then I never believed it would be possible to leave Russia, to get out of its orbit. When I finally got my emigration visa, I was told that I would never be able to come back. I was leaving once and for all. There was something extremely uplifting in the first border crossing. I toasted new horizons of my existence with a complimentary drink. The flight attendant offered me my first Western smile. I must have overestimated it then. Now I bicker with a flight attendant like a real Westerner and demand my tomato juice with lemon and without ice. So first I dreamed of leaving home, then I was prohibited the dream of homecoming. I could never imagine that I would leave Russia and then return and then leave 289

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again. I crisscrossed that treacherous border twice. I did what neither Nina Belskaya nor my grandmother ever accomplished. Now the worst is over. I am up in the air again. I can unfasten my seat belt. The stranger next to me is reading National Geographic. In the centerfold is a photograph of St. Basil Cathedral. It always looks good in pictures. This is one of Russia’s most photogenic churches. Its architects were blinded on the order of Ivan the Terrible so that they could never build anything like it anywhere else. Its beauty is a state secret. “Ladies and gentlemen, madames and monsieurs, comrades,” announces the pilot. “The plane is leaving Russian airspace.” I look down. The clouds seem the same on both sides of the border. I feel a sudden lump in my throat. “No, I’m OK. Thank you.” “The lime will be just fine.” I notice that my neighbor has a black eye and her journal is still open to the same page. It doesn’t look like she is fascinated by St. Basil Cathedral. She’s quietly sobbing. I envy her. I was never able to let go in a public place. I offer her a clean napkin. In return she tells me the story of her life. “You see, I have a Russian fiancé,” she says. “It was very romantic when he came to visit me in East Lansing. He was a real gentleman. He’d hold my coat for me and opened the door. I’m an accountant, you know, we became pen pals and then I invited him to visit me in East Lansing. It was the most exciting thing that ever happened to me. And then I came to visit him in Russia, and he hardly noticed me. He got drunk with his friends and then, well, I guess I got in the way.” “It’s over,” I tell her. “What do you mean?” “I mean it won’t work.” She cries more, but I don’t give in. “Don’t you see that you have nothing in common with him?” “But I hoped that we’d get married and then get to know each other.” “Oh no. That would have been a disaster.” “Really?” “It was romantic for a week. That’s all there was to it. Some relationships should just remain that way. You see what I mean?” 290

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“But then, why did he propose? He proposed in Chicago and in Moscow he hit me when I brought it up. He hit me.” “You see, he needs a green card, that’s all.” “A green card? Actually, he did say something about being a permanent resident. Do you think that’s it?” “I’m sure.” “Hmm.” “You’re lucky to get out of it before it’s too late. Listen, you will find your soulmate. And it’s not going to be Edik P.” She takes out a handkerchief and wipes away her tears. “Thank you.” At that moment the smiling and caring flight attendant comes to our rescue. She thinks that both of us are getting too emotional. She offers us a complimentary Coke and earphones. “Have you seen The Murderer Never Knocks Twice?” asks my crying companion. “Oh, it’s great! I’d love to see it again.” “You go ahead,” I say, “I’m going to take a nap.” I dream of a huge apartment, a long narrow corridor and many interlocked rooms. The doors of those rooms are always half-opened. I try to close the door and realize that they aren’t made to be closed. They’re made to be left ajar. Everyone I ever knew and didn’t remember lives here. Babushki from the Moscow film festival inhabit one room, my New York roommates quarrel in another, Professor Cherniakov with Dasha and his wife hide in the room next to me. I walk into the corridor and try not to run into them at once. I can see Professor Cherniakov, but not my roommate from New York. When I see my roommate from New York, I am afraid to run into Ivan Sergeich, my professor of Marxist Leninism. When I’m with Alik, I try to avoid Natalie. And when I’m with my grandmother, I try to avoid both of them. It is very difficult to keep it all straight in my mind. I’m looking for my appointment book but I must have misplaced it. I feel claustrophobic. I am very tense and tired. My neck really hurts. Suddenly someone approaches me from behind. I guess that it’s the film director Pulkov in his dashing shaded glasses. He starts to give me a backrub. He has the strong beautiful hands of a man with a movie camera. I don’t turn around to face him. I know I really shouldn’t be getting a backrub from him. It’s totally inappropriate. We’re ideologically opposed . . . Well. but since he approached 291

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me from behind I can pretend that I’m not really getting a backrub, I’m just sitting there. Besides, it’s just a backrub, nothing else. “My neck really hurts. It hurts right here,” I say. Pulkov is very good at giving backrubs. Really good. It’s just a backrub, right? Of course not. He goes further. I’m no longer pretending that I’m just sitting there. I’m pretending that I’m just getting a backrub. “Let’s close the door,” I whisper. “No, we can’t,” he says. “If we do, they’ll think something is going on.” He puts some sake on my neck and licks it. His hands travel all over and so do mine. “Really, maybe we should put a chair by the door or something.” “No,” he says, “we can’t make any noise. In the steppes, you know, the earth is very dry, as you lie there letting the grass scratch your skin. The wind plays in your hair. You see the sky as you never saw it before, immense, unfathomable, engulfing. You feel as if you’re floating on the low clouds, the air is raw and humid. We live for the moments like that.” We do, we do. Once in a lifetime, it happens like that. It must be a perfect moment. I don’t think I’m wearing anything, I didn’t notice how he unhooked my miracle bra. He takes off his gray shaded glasses. There is no hair on his chest; it’s smooth like marble. Uncle Kolia walks in: “Viacheslav Olegovich, can I borrow your eau de cologne? Oh, oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” I wake up and see a car on fire. What’s going on? It’s not a good idea to show things like that while you’re in flight. Just watch it, you’ll get it. The car chase is in full swing. The police are busting the prostitute ring. The drug dealer is hiding in Chinatown. The lawyer has personal problems. He’s been seeing another woman. No, she isn’t the niece of the district attorney. She’s an aerobics instructor. She gets to show up in a tight leotard with a cute pony tail. But the lawyer has such a nice wife and a house in the suburbs and a comfortable sofa in pastel colors. What do you think he should do? The movie is packed with action. The prostitute is blond and beautiful. The policeman is ethnic and down to earth. The lawyer doesn’t know if he really should tell his wife about the other woman or not. The other day she almost ran into them in the neighborhood diner. The district attorney is corrupt. The sheriff is tough, but fair. The lawyer’s wife is a good person, but she’d better work out; she needs to have a makeover. Do you think he should leave her for the woman he loves? They 292

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don’t have children. What has he got to lose? The sofa in pastel colors? He got it on sale in Little Odessa. No. It was in Chinatown. Chinatown? Last April? I see. Now it all makes sense. Nina’s story would never make a good movie. It’s weak on the detective part. The murderer is so likable. He sings well, the victim doesn’t. She’ll be “too intellectual.” She doesn’t live in the real world. Poltavsky-Rizhsky’s poems also wouldn’t make the cut. And with whom will the viewer identify? We can’t even sympathize with the lawyer who’s seeing another woman. Meanwhile, someone knocks at the door. Clearly, this isn’t the murderer. The murderer, we’re told, is not supposed to knock twice. But it’s him. Oh no! He’s here to spill some blood. I order another tomato juice with lime and then it’s all over. I spend the next two hours of my interminable flight looking at the sky and writing notes in my diary. My suffering neighbor sleeps peacefully like an angel. I decide to start a new life, good and beautiful. I’ll do something useful. I will no longer travel in the past in search for mythical origins. Maybe I’ll uncover conspiracy plots, or I will be a real detective and put murderers to justice. Maybe I’ll be a scholar who would understand human ills (so old-fashioned, really) and the therapeutic powers of imagination. I will continue Nina Belskaya’s project and explain the dangerous nature of twentieth-century paranoia and the paradoxes of exile. Exile and alienation can affect people in opposite ways producing the extreme forms of national nostalgia and a creative antidote to it. The latter, of course, was always a balancing act, most difficult to preserve in the precarious historical moments when extremism triumphs. Nina Belskaya was a passionate skeptic, Ninel Blank was a passionate ideologue. Their stories are two alternative forks of fate, both incomplete. From contemporary hindsight, it appears that Nina Belskaya had better insight into the situation of the world, yet she wasn’t fated to survive, and Ninel the Communist survived against all odds and at the end learned to laugh. One had more insight, the other better survival skills, or maybe a touch of luck. Did I betray my heroines by sinking to the temptation of a biography and detective tale? So few details of their lives that I managed to unearth ended up being clues in the murder mystery. 293

Svetlana Boym The murder was kept secret for fifty years, yet it was refracted in the movie plots and song rhymes that move Russian people to tears. The murderer comes out of it all clean as a whistle, a gentle creature, a kind father, a patriot. Historical injustice, that’s it. “What’s the meaning of our lives?” I remember in the literature classes in my high school. We learned that the heroes in the nineteenth-century Russian novel seek neither happiness nor selffulfillment. They seek the meaning of life. Twentieth-century heroes can rarely afford such a luxury. They are lucky to just get by and take meaning as they go, or to escape into movieland happy endings on Saturday nights and try not to look for any sense or meaning of the current events because they seem so contrary to common sense. And yet . . .

The flight seemed neverending. I had much more to say there about the meaning of life but I have lost that notebook. The smiling flight attendant might have thrown it into trash together with the dirty paper cups and disposable forks.

39

Which tells you that there is no place like home “Are you Russian?” asks the cab driver who drives me from Kennedy airport. “Sort of.” “You have sort of a Russian accent.” “Well, I left a long time ago. It’s been ten years. And where are you from?” “I’m from Eritrea. From Ethiopia. I speak Russian. Svetit solntse. Dozhd’ konchilsia (The sun is shining. The rain has stopped.). Tovarishj’ uchitel’nitsa, ia segodnia dezhurnyi (Comrade teacher, I am on duty today.). My Russian is good.” “Very good. You have a good accent. Did you visit Russia?” “I studied in Moscow ten years ago, at the Patrice Lumumba Institute.” 294

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“Did you like it there?” I ask. “Moscow was good,” he said, “but we had to study the History of the CPSU (Communist Party of the Soviet Union). It was a little boring.” “Do you like New York?” “New York is good. People from all over the world live here. Of course, I can’t work as an engineer in New York. I am taxi driver.” “What’s it like?” “It’s good. We’re safe, and we’re all working. We have a little house in New Jersey with a garden. It’s more like a yard, but my wife likes to call it a garden. It’s nice. Life in Ethiopia is very difficult now.” “Did you ever go back?” “Go back? I have no relatives left, no brothers, no aunts, no grandparents. All dead. No graves. My house was burned to the ground. If I go back I am a dead man.” We drive in silence for a while, and then he puts on Ethiopian songs quite loud and doesn’t talk to me anymore. “Welcome home,” I tell myself as I take my vintage New York elevator to the fourth floor. And you, dear unfaithful reader? You look like you’re in a rush. You can’t wait to blow me a polite good-bye kiss. Would you like to stop by and have a drink? I know, I know, you have to get up early and you have a headache. Maybe just for half an hour? I like my little New York apartment. It’s almost sunny and has a high ceiling with floral molding. It reminds me of my parents’ room in our communal apartment in Leningrad. Russian immigrants don’t like white walls. White walls remind them of old Soviet hospitals and the waiting rooms of government offices. They move into subsidized apartments in Queens and cover the anonymous white walls with cheerful wallpaper of their personal choice. Somebody could do a good business customizing the wallpaper for ex-Soviet immigrants in colors and patterns of their youth. One would need to recover modern geometrical designs of hard-to-get Yugoslav and Hungarian wallpaper as well as floral ornaments of the cheaper Bulgarian counterpart. It is preserved somewhere in the warehouse of collective memory. In the homes of immigrants, one finds exact replicas of their rooms in Leningrad, Moscow, Kiev, Odessa, overcrowded with objects and tchotchkes, each with a claim to uniqueness. 295

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There are many teapots there on display behind the glassed shelves—dark blue with golden flowers, white porcelain with roses— teapots and samovars that are used for decoration, not for the practical purpose of drinking tea. The Soviet souvenir trade aimed at getting hard currency from the foreign tourists, and then in the late 1970s and early 1980s it provided souvenirs for departing immigrants who were pronounced “traitors to the motherland.” “No, no, it’s not like that,” says my mother’s friend Rita. “It’s not nostalgia. It’s not what you think. You see in Moscow I would have never displayed all those matreshka dolls, wooden spoons and blue tea pots. I would have considered it kitsch. In the 1960s I used to read that magazine America with glossy paper and amazing photographs. They showed an apartment of radical students from Berkeley who had white walls in their apartments and minimal furniture, just a mattress covered with red cloth and bookshelves and a table.” Rita wanted to live like that, and in the 1960s she, too, threw away her Soviet furniture. But after the first years of exile, when living on the mattress was a necessity not a mark of good taste, she changed. Her perspective was different. The mattress with a red cloth was no longer a mark of radical chic, but of immigrant poverty and tchotchkes no longer signified bad taste. They were domestic pets that helped her survive exile. Not the souvenirs of the motherland, but memories of friends and of the story of her own departure. I’m chatting away just to make you feel at home. I just wanted to say how much I like my bright, white walls that are empty, light, liberating, opening into alternative spaces. But now I notice that my little apartment is also crowded with tchotchkes, just like those of other immigrants—a miniature Eiffel tower on a gilded chain, a Gorbachev nestling doll, seven Mexican cows made of clay with bright stripes. This is what makes it homey, right? To tell you the truth, sometimes I, too, would like to have a house with a garden. Maybe not even a whole house, just half of a house with some outdoors. “Perennial garden,” as the real estate agents put it, is not for me. What I can afford is “a charming yard.” If I had my own “charming yard,” I might quit smoking and traveling and write a real American novel. “A real American novel has to be about real estate,” my American friend said. Maybe I’ll write something about a son of Russian immigrants who buys and sells real estate. 296

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“Was he implicated in that credit card fraud I just read about in the New York Times?” “Oh yes, thank you very much. Yes. My heroine, Natasha Jones-Rabinovitz, is in love with a man, Alex Smirnoff (he is stooping and a little shy, but very witty and a lion in bed). Alex was unjustly accused of credit card fraud and connections to the Russian Mafia. ‘These goodfellas from Brighton Beach had better watch out,’ said police inspector James (Teddy) O’Grady as he sipped his bourbon. ‘But Alex Smirnoff isn’t from Brighton Beach, Your Honor. He’s from Queens. He was just visiting!’ ‘Irrelevant speculation. Counselor is badgering the witness.’ What a good idea! This way I will get both real estate agents and lawyers into one novel, a guarantee of success. No Eurasianist could beat that. They were dreamers. They knew nothing about real estate. I hope they won’t win the elections in 2018. It’s sad, but I have to postpone my novel about real estate because I don’t have any. I wouldn’t be able to make a realistic description of it. I have my rented apartment with a laptop and an answering machine, and I can always go to the movies and hang out there for only nine bucks. So farewell for now, my house with a garden, where I would dirty my hands in my own land and gaze at tiny ants crossing the screen of my portable computer. Some other time. Now. I’d better dust my living room with a wet rag. What’s that? A bug? Sorry, my place isn’t very clean. But you shouldn’t think that I’ve got roaches. Not at all. It’s a moth, a brown New York moth who didn’t quite make it into a butterfly. The blinking red light on my message machine demands my attention. You can’t escape it—wherever you go, you can be reached. What a nightmare! There are many messages. My form for the grant report is missing, my bills are due, my mother called, one stranger with an unpleasant voice wanted to sell me discounted life insurance, the other mispronounced my first name and offered me some home improvements at a good price. Life goes on as usual, as if I had never left. Then there is a message from Miklos:

“Taniusha! Welcome home. You see New York is still here and your apartment hasn’t been confiscated in your absence. I wanted to see you at the airport, but as you well know, it didn’t 297

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work out. I was having condo blues. I’m calling to see if you’re free tomorrow night, if you aren’t too exhausted to go to the Forum for a Lubitsch double bill, Ninotchka and To Be or Not to Be. Eh? It’s research, right?”

40

Greta Garbo’s Last Smile So we meet at the movies, yet again, Miklos and I, but it’s not what you think. We barely hold hands. “To Be or Not to Be,” I read in the program notes, “is a comedy about the Warsaw ghetto.” “It’s a frightening film,” says Miklos. “It was made in 1942. Lubitsch had no idea at that time what was really going on in Europe. As usual, he tried to think of it as a good-hearted comedy. He hoped for the best. After all, even the relationship between Jews and Nazis had its comic moments.” In the film, Jewish actors from the Warsaw Ghetto theater decide to escape from the Gestapo by impersonating Nazis. It seems that they are playing the Nazis better than the Nazis themselves, who resemble ham actors in drag, nothing more. Their Aryan prowess doesn’t get a flattering cinematic treatment. The virile uniforms don’t fit them all so well. The film is terrifying, if well-intentioned, slapstick. The happy ending is disturbing and eerie. The Jews outsmart the Nazis and make a narrow escape. The story of the Warsaw ghetto ends with good cheer and plenty of Jewish jokes. So much for the delusions of cinematic power. But I don’t blame Lubitsch. He wasn’t the only one who couldn’t imagine the worst. “Good acting,” whispers Miklos ironically and leans towards me so I can feel his hair against my cheek. “After this film Lubitsch really lost touch with Europe. Europe was no longer the same place that he knew. He resisted going back until his death.” We walk out in the intermission and get ourselves refills of diet Coke and popcorn. Why not? We’re as American as you are. 298

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“So how is your new home, Miklos?” “What do you mean?” “Your condo. I thought you had become a proud property owner.” “It didn’t work out. Our broker double-crossed us. And then we called a house inspector, and he discovered that something was terribly wrong.” “What was wrong?” “It was the foundation. The foundation was leaking. Victoria put her heart into that house. She was crying when she saw the leak.” “I’m sorry.” “Well, I thought that maybe we weren’t ready for it. Somehow it’s easier for me to rent homes.” Ninotchka begins with the same revolving door that pushes the three comic Bolsheviks into the Grand Hotel of Hollywood splendor. The Western world never looked better. To Miklos’s great surprise I laugh. “It’s funny. It’s really ridiculous. Kopalsky has a great mustache.” I wonder if Greta Garbo knew anything about Soviet Russia and its special envoys. Why does it matter? She could have been anyone—Queen Christina, Mata Hari or Camille. Just as long as there is a train station where we can spot her melancholic figure from a distance and then move into an intimate close-up. She lent her image to the others from 9:00 to 5:00. It was up to them to dress her in period clothes and create historical settings. She fulfilled their demand. She was silent, when that was what the movies were all about. She began to talk to please MGM and promote the new technologies. Garbo laughed, as advertised, on the eve of the war. People wanted a romantic comedy, and she delivered. She played the same role over and over again. There was something vulnerable and inhibited in her, and she tried to fight it in every film. She acted out her performance anxiety with a touch of delightful imperfection. We always end up on her side. We identify with her vulnerability and blame those evil, all-powerful film moguls who exploited her at the studios, silly scripts and intolerable directors who never gave her a chance to become a great actress. Like her desperate lover Leon, we look for glimpses of intimacy. We cherish 299

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every move of her eyebrows, every chortle. If we could only glimpse behind the scenes, just once, through the dusty keyhole. One day an indifferent young fellow from the future will discover a few revealing outtakes of hers in the attic of an old house in the Berkshires. “It used to belong to that film projectionist who lived till the age of 93 and never learned to speak English properly,” a neighbor will say. “His prepositions were completely out of hand.” The young man will have no use for this schlock of the bygone era. At best, he will recycle Greta’s face and never look back. For now her face still haunts me. It is tantalizingly responsive. You’re sure that she looks at you, she returns your gaze, she understands. How is it possible? Maybe that pained interiority of hers, that dim Nordic light of her inner being—all of that was just another cinematic confection? Her cameraman might have been a poet or a conspirator, not she. Does mystery exist in the absence of mystery? Wasn’t there a secret, at least a secret outside of movie magic, that produced that winning combination of disarming intimacy and ultimate unattainability? She wants to break through her shell, her refuge, her frame, but she always gets caught in the depth of the cinematic field or in the shallow close-up. She is imprisoned in each film. She looks for an exit, an opening, a chance. Here she rushes to the window of the Royal Suite with a dash of hope. “You look so wintry, Comrades. And why do we always keep the windows closed? (She opens the windows.) Isn’t it amazing, at home there is still snow and ice and here . . .” Oh yes, let’s break all that ice, let’s escape our wintry hometown into the spring of our love. “You’re not really paying attention,” whispers Miklos. “How do you know?” “You are cuddled too comfortably in your chair.” “And so what?” “And your eyes are at best half-open.” “Shhh . . .” I always get worried when Ninotchka boards the airplane. Those clouds over the Eiffel Tower look suspiciously thick. I doubt she will ever return. I feel dizzy with the thought of what’s ahead. You don’t want to be in her place at that moment, you really don’t. I can’t see Leon marching around sun-drenched Moscow 300

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and singing, “A spring wind is blowing over Moscow. It’s more joyful and merrier to live . . .” I’d rather close my eyes to what happens in that room in the NKVD when Bela Lugosi, alias Commissar Razinin, goes out to get his coffee. And, alas, that youthful General Savitsky in his elegant white uniform won’t be dancing for long in the Parisian café. So, I’m glad it ends well. I’m glad it’s only a comedy. They meet abroad, Ninotchka and Leon, in the enchanting city of Istanbul and we’re promised that they’ll be together—maybe not forever, but at least for the duration of the shot. We can be sure that they will have a fine dinner at the Russian restaurant: Ukranian borscht, chicken “Sankt Petersburg” with stuffed artichokes and chocolate potatoes for the dessert—all fattening and high in calories. They will no longer fear that some overzealous assistant producer could expose them in compromising poses to the yawning and giggling audience. Take my advice, don’t doubt the happy ending. It’s already precarious and ephemeral. In a matter of seconds, those dim screen shadows that you have patiently absorbed into your memory, endowed with fragile humanity and loved for a whole hour and a half, will dissolve back into darkness. I feel better at the end of the film, but Miklos looks tired. We walk out of the movie theater on a warm and bright New York night with the neon lights of the deli “Lox around the Clock” shining in our faces. The streets are alive with energy. All the languages spoken around us sound refreshingly foreign. Even the homeless person speaks with an accent. “Miss, honey . . . Will you buy me a cup of coffee?” he asks. “Please, with cream and sugar.” Miklos can’t relax. He looks at his watch all the time and smiles reluctantly when I try to humor him. “Let’s face it, Miklos, it’s not going to work out between us. You’re late, you’re terribly late.” “No, no,” he answers. “Victoria’s gone to a conference. She’s not home. It’s just that Istvan was supposed to call on some urgent business.” “Don’t lie, Miklos. I understand. She is at the dacha today. But she can’t be at the dacha all the time. You’re buying a home together, you’re building a life.” “Not really. That was a nice house, half a house, half of an attached single. It wasn’t bad, but the foundation really needed work.” 301

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“You know what I mean.” “You see, I thought that if you move to another country, permanently, you need to be with someone from that country, to form a permanent attachment there.” “Listen, you really don’t have to explain anything. We don’t have much time. “See that dog?” exclaims Miklos all of a sudden. “What dog?” “Right there.” “Where?” “Not again!” At that moment I see a chow with a lavender coat gracefully raise his leg to urinate right near us. “It’s a good sign,” says Miklos.

And they laughed, and walked hand in hand on the merry and dirty streets of New York, and it seemed to them that the solution would be found, and a new, beautiful life would begin. But both of them knew very well that the end was still a long, long way away, and that the most difficult part was only just beginning.

Postscript Two years later, when Tanya completed her research, “Red and White: Russian Women between Two Wars,” and moved on to her next project, she received the following letter from Andrei Mikhailovich. Dear Tanya, As you might well know the opening of the KGB archives had unleashed a flood of welcome and unwelcome revelations. I happened to have a dear friend working there, a reliable and sober fellow whose job for the past thirty years consisted of dusting and wrapping the only remaining bone from Hitler’s skull. (Don’t smile. My friend is a good man.) He came across the file of the celebrated artist of our people, Valentin Kachalsky. He read it, just to check 302

Ninochka it out in preparation for the singer’s great anniversary. He published his findings and stirred up a scandal. Kachalsky was recruited in Paris in 1935, that is, my dear, when your grandmother was still polishing her French and your obedient servant worked on the second version of the Manifesto of the Kinopeople and called himself an anarchist. In short, it was four years before our paths crossed. He knew it all, the old fox. I didn’t convert him after all. He was among the first Bolshevik-Eurasianists and served as a key liaison for them all. That is before Ninel Markovna was sent on her mission to Paris. She didn’t seem to know anything about him, at least as far as I know. Was she sent to supervise him, since he drank and smoked so heavily, or the other way around? Did that unfortunate film Ninotchka prompt him that the new Soviet special envoy might have been sent to watch over him? (Greta Garbo, as you remember, is quite convincing in that role.) Did he think of her as a fearful Inspector General who would send him to a remote corner of the Eurasian steppes—Siberian tundra? I can’t be sure of anything anymore. One thing I remember for sure, he was very drunk that day. His vomiting was for real. And he seemed to believe he killed the Soviet special envoy. Who knows! It might amuse you to know that Kachalsky met with the future script writer for Ninotchka, Melchior Lengyel, in 1936. The outcome of the meeting is reported as “negative.” There is no file on Nina Belskaya, at least it hasn’t been found so far. As for your grandmother and me, forgive me, I didn’t check. Why open old wounds? You should come back, my dear, and take another fresh look at it all. What else is new? Old Kaganovich died last year and the yard looks lonely without him. Nobody plays dominos anymore. I hope you return to Russia soon. We miss you here. I feel much better and have an idea for a new film script. I’ll tell you about it when you come. But it’s hard to finance things these days. Our cinema is dying. It would be already dead if it weren’t for those dreadful co-productions! Yours, Andras Kovac P.S. I am sending this letter through my Hungarian great-nephew. He is new in New York and might call you sometime. His name is Andras, like mine. Please forgive the intrusion, but I think that you two have a lot in common.

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