Russian Treasures

21. THE ART OF LIVING

On the day of the anniversary of the revolution, Sablin was given a day off and found himself alone in the house for the first time in a long while. His former father-in-law had gone to a gala concert, his surrogate for marital duties had been summoned to Moscow again, and Lubochka had gone out to watch the Bolshevik parade.

Sablin had become accustomed to doing everything at a frenetic pace, and now, he felt himself at a loose end. Deciding to go for a stroll, he put on his overcoat, took his cane, and went outside. He walked for twenty minutes without meeting a single living soul.

It’s like a city after the plague, thought Sablin.

To him, there was a remarkable similarity between the Bolshevik revolution and the pandemics of Black Death in the Middle Ages. The plague of ideas—like the plague bacterium—were passed on by contact with infected individuals, and both were incurable unless steps were taken quickly. The Black Death had destroyed around a half of the population of Western Europe, leaving its cities and village empty, its moral standards in decline, and riots breaking out all over the countryside. The same was happening in Russia now. In both cases, nobody had known the cause of the disease, and people blamed demons or foreigners for their misfortune. In Nizhny Novgorod at the moment, there was much speculation about which members of the Bolshevik government were Jewish and which were from the Baltic provinces.

People had tried all sorts of remedies against the plague, from drinking raw vodka on an empty stomach to going to mass, but all of them had proved useless. In any case, prayer meetings—like political demonstrations—only helped the disease spread faster.

Bolshevism is a malignant virus, thought Sablin. When somebody becomes infected, one thing leads to another: hallucinations, fever, and a burning desire to cut the painful swelling—the “bubo”—out of the body even if it only makes things worse.

Sablin knew that he too was infected. He could feel nothing but hatred toward those who had brought Russia to its knees and were now finishing it off for good—Trotsky signing death sentences for his fellow countrymen without batting an eyelid, Osip Drugov, who had stolen Sablin’s wife, and Lubochka herself.

Once Zhora Kupin had written a poem about Comrade Drugov:

Zhora and others like him were always the first to die in the troubled times. He was too principled; he stood out too much to survive. Would it ever be possible to forgive his murderers? The Cheka had wiped out an entire generation of youngsters who could have been the flowers of the nation. Passionate, talented boys with a burning desire to make the world a better place, these were the young men who had volunteered for the White Army and performed heroic feats for a cause they had believed in. Who was there now to replace them? Of course, there were enthusiastic, dedicated young men among the urban working class and rural poor. But while the Whites had culture and knowledge behind them, these young Reds had to start at the very beginning from a position of medieval ignorance.

How will we survive the plague? Sablin wondered, walking down the street. Some people will develop immunity—they’ll remain untouched by the disease or not be badly affected. Those who survive will have to rebuild everything after the epidemic, which could drag on for years.

Three people were coming around the corner: a man and two women. Sablin peered at them and, to his great surprise, saw that it was Lubochka with Klim and Nina.

Sablin limped toward them. “Good God, you’re alive! How are you? What are you doing here?”

Lubochka looked around anxiously. “Let’s go home. Nina and Klim have nowhere to go, and I think they should stay with us. I’ll arrange everything.”

Lubochka clearly couldn’t resist showing her guests how much she had achieved. It was a great pleasure for her to act the hostess, boasting of the fine food at her table.

“Pelmeny should be made as they are in the Perm Province,” Lubochka said to Klim and Nina as she ladled out the meat dumplings. “About the size of a walnut and wrapped in dough as thin as linen. The stuffing should have finely minced onion and cream mixed with the ground pork and beef, and they should be cooked in a veal broth and served with red vinegar, ground pepper, and parsley.”

It was the first time in months that Nina and Klim had enjoyed a good meal in peace, warmth, and comfort. Nina sat on the sofa with her hands under her knees. She was ashamed that the skin around her nails was black with deeply ingrained dirt.

Nina felt overwhelmed by the opulence that Lubochka lived in, but the overriding feelings that she was currently experiencing were shock and indignation. How could her old friend possibly serve the Bolsheviks? How could she have possibly abandoned all her ideals for these pelmeni? However, Nina felt she had no right to condemn Lubochka as she herself was eating her meal courtesy of her former friend’s hospitality. Nina’s self-righteous anger would have appeared to everyone, including herself, as bitter and petty envy.

“Come on. I’ll show you your room,” Lubochka said and took Nina and Klim to a small, wood-paneled room above the porch. It had once been used by Anton Emilievich as a storage room.

“Are you sure your father won’t mind us staying here?” Klim asked when Lubochka told him about everything that had happened to Anton Emilievich.

“What are you talking about? You’re his nephew.”

“And what will your new husband say?”

“Nothing.”

“So, you have all of them under your thumb?”

Lubochka rolled her eyes. “Oh, you—you’re incorrigible!”

While Klim was taking a bath, Lubochka brought Nina a set of bed linen.

“Will you be sleeping together? Unmarried?” Lubochka asked, pretending to be scandalized. “But I really don’t care. Osip and I didn’t have a church marriage either.”

“So—what’s going on between you and Sablin then?” Nina blurted out, unable to help herself. “He must see everything… and I’m sure it’s breaking his heart.”

“I love him too,” Lubochka shrugged. “I love them both in different ways.”

“How is that possible?”

“I’ve come to realize that one man can’t provide you with everything you want. Take Klim as an example. He is a nice guy, but he’s let all his opportunities pass him by.”

“It’s not his fault there’s been a revolution,” Nina objected.

Lubochka laughed. “That’s not what I meant. Klim is vain, and all he needs to be happy is for someone to pay him a compliment. He hasn’t the slightest interest in money and power, and he’s always been that way. He’ll never be rich again. He doesn’t know how to make money and doesn’t want to learn.”

Don’t argue, Nina told herself. Let her believe she’s in the right.

“I’m sure you won’t have to go begging,” Lubochka said as she plumped up the pillow, “but I don’t imagine you’ll do very well for yourselves either. One day, you’ll remember Mr. Fomin and your dreams of a beautiful life. If he was alive and you were with him, you’d be living like a queen, no matter who was in power.”

“If the Bolsheviks hadn’t confiscated my mill, I’d have provided for myself pretty well,” Nina said.

“I don’t think so.” Lubochka laughed. “There are flowers that can’t grow without support. You know you would never achieve anything without Fomin.”

Nina was at a complete loss as to what to say.

“You know what’s your problem is?” Lubochka asked in a confidential tone. “It never occurred to you that Klim is the one who’s responsible for your present penury. If you had found yourself a more capable man, you wouldn’t have been starving and hiding from the Cheka, and you could always keep a man like my cousin by your side just for the sake of pleasure. After all, he does bring you pleasure, doesn’t he?”

Klim returned from the bathroom clean-shaven and wearing a new shirt and trousers provided by Lubochka.

“That’s much better!” Lubochka said. “You look like yourself again.”

He smiled. “All I needed was some hot water and a bar of soap, and suddenly, everything is right with the world.”

Lubochka gave Nina a folded towel and one of her dresses. “Your turn.”

The mirror in the bathroom was misty with condensation. Nina wiped her hand across it and stared at her reflection.

A couple of well-directed blows were all it had taken to get right under Nina’s defenses. Lubochka had immediately sensed that Nina did not approve of her and couldn’t help enjoying her little revenge.

“Here you are, little countess, so noble and scrupulous… but who has been more successful in life? You or me? Who has come begging to whom with their arms outstretched? So, be quiet, and I’ll preach a couple of home truths to you and say whatever mean things about your man that I like.”

And there was nothing Nina could do about it.

All those months she had been tormented with anxiety about what the future would hold. Would her life ever go back to normal? If the Reds won the war, the only way for her to have a half-way decent life would be to serve the same people who had killed her brother.

Even if the Whites prevailed, Klim would never get back his inheritance, and there would be next to nothing left of the mill at Osinki or the rest of the property confiscated by the Bolsheviks. Without a visa, Nina wouldn’t be able to go to Argentina. So, what should she do? What should she hope for?

Nina had expected her former friend to show them some sympathy and even admire their courage and fortitude, but for Lubochka, they were just a couple of fools who only had themselves to blame for all the unnecessary misery they had experienced.

Lubochka was ready to play any game according to any rule as long as there was a guaranteed prize for her at the end of it while Nina still insisted on playing the old game that she had always used to win. It was little surprise that she had been so unceremoniously kicked out from the table.

It’s not Klim who’s responsible for our trouble but me, Nina thought.

Her reflection misted over again, and now, all she could see of herself was a shapeless smudge.

When Anton Emilievich arrived home, he was amazed to find the new visitors.

“Good Lord! Klim, is that you? Where have you been?”

Klim told him what had happened.

“So, Nina has no documents?” mused Anton Emilievich. “I think we can do something about that. She should go to the Regional Executive Committee and tell them her papers were stolen on a tram. It’s important she gives a different name—then she won’t have to answer any awkward questions. When they ask her about her place of birth, she should say she was born in Kiev. The local registry archive was destroyed by fire last year, so she’ll be issued with a temporary ID card that she can use for two years.”

Klim was stunned. “Is it that simple?”

“What did you think? That all the people working in the Bolsheviks’ offices have great minds? Most of them are just ordinary women. All they care about is keeping their jobs and pleasing their bosses. When they get instructions from other women just like themselves, they don’t question them; they simply follow them to the letter.”

Nina and Klim lay side by side in a clean bed in the warm room. It was impossible to sleep; everything seemed so unreal. They were worried about what would happen when Lubochka’s new husband came back. What would he say about his new tenants? And what would they do for money now? Whatever happened, they wouldn’t be able to rely on Lubochka for long.

Klim leaned on his elbow and looked at Nina for a long time. “Will you marry me?”

She smiled bitterly. “Don’t you think I’ve already dragged you down far enough?”

“My love for you is boundless and bottomless, and I want to dive down to its most profound depths.”

“If it weren’t for me, your life would have been completely different.”

“That might be. But in the current circumstances, you’re my only hope. There’s no other woman who would marry me anyway.”

Nina laughed. “All right then, but I’m keeping my maiden name, Kupina.”

“Why?”

“I want you to have a better chance of surviving if I’m arrested.”

They were married in the Church of St. George on the high bank overlooking the Volga River. It was the most beautiful church in the city with its white walls coated with lace-like stucco and its two golden domes gleaming against the cloudy gray sky.

“Glory to Thee, our God!” the choir sang.

Lubochka gazed at the newlyweds standing in front of the lectern. The bride was dressed in Lubochka’s old dress—not white, of course, not white. Against the background of the rows of candles that lit up the church, Nina’s head looked like a dark silhouette cut from paper.

“You’re nobody,” Lubochka whispered to herself. “An empty space.”

A young black-bearded priest looked up at Klim.

“Have you, Kliment, come here to enter into marriage with this woman, Nina, without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?”

“I have,” Klim said, and as he said so, it seemed to Lubochka that he quickly glanced at her.

Finally, he had given in and acknowledged her preeminence. Indeed, Klim treated her with a deference so pronounced that sometimes Lubochka felt he was mocking her. But then again, how could he mock her when he was entirely dependent on her charity?

Lubochka felt particularly sorry for Nina. In no more than a year, she had changed beyond recognition not only in appearance but also in character. Once an elegant, business-like young woman, she was now little more than a skinny scarecrow. Nina seemed to see signs of ill will everywhere around her, and that was why Lubochka had been unable to resist the urge to tease her.

It would be nice, for example, to seduce her husband. Nina was no match for pretty, pampered, and perfumed Lubochka. Surely, Klim would never risk refusing the irresistible lady of the house and being thrown out into the freezing cold.

Lubochka smiled at her sinful thoughts and sighed. No, she wouldn’t cheat on Osip, at least for now. But then who knew what the future might bring?

After the church ceremony, Lubochka took the newlyweds to the registry office in the basement of a former merchant’s house. The Soviet Republic only recognized civil marriages.

“Father and I have decided to make you a wedding gift,” Lubochka told Klim when the formalities were over. “He’s going to give you a job in his newspaper. You’ll get ration cards and a union membership card and the right to use the canteen at the Journalists’ House.”

“What will I have to do?” he asked.

“Write me a sample article.”

“Something along the line of a Passionate Appeal to the Workers?”

“Exactly. But don’t try to be clever. Nowadays, journalism isn’t about bringing readership and profits. All that matters is to get the approval of the Regional Executive Committee.”

After much thought and numerous edits and revisions, Klim brought Lubochka his work. “I think I’ve done a reasonable job. It’s full of nonsense and ‘comrades,’ ‘long lives,’ and exclamation marks.”

Lubochka read the article and patted Klim on the shoulder.

“Very good. You have a special gift for nonsense.”