The Summer Guest (10 page)

ANA LOOKED AROUND AT
the snow-covered fields and forest. For a long time she didn't move, until the chill began to penetrate her light jacket. Then she lifted one foot after the other, stomped her skis on the ground in readiness, and set off along the trail.

She had decided to give herself the day off. She hadn't been skiing since she started on Zinaida Mikhailovna's diary; she needed the air, the movement, the silence. The forecast was good—slightly overcast for now but sunshine later on. It had snowed the previous day, and the boughs of pine and fir were heavy with Christmas-card perfection.

For a good quarter of an hour, she simply moved with the progression of the trail—slight inclines, nothing steep that would require too great an effort or instill a fear of speed going downhill. Ana had found a fairly flat trail in the Jura Mountains that she liked coming to; the drive was long, but she listened to music, singing out loud—opera, Irish folk, nineties pop songs, whatever was on her aging cassettes—and once she was here, the trail was worth it, because there weren't many other skiers, especially during the week, and the geography was sublime. None of the drama of the Alps, but old farms tucked in hollows between forests and sloping fields, with the occasional brief sighting of the lake in the distance and, above all, a stillness and serenity that filled her each time with gratitude and wonder. She was alone with the sound of her breath, the smooth swish of her long skis, the occasional crisp reaction of the snow to her passage.

Once she was warmed up and no longer needed to concentrate on the trail and her rhythm, her thoughts began to wander, as they
usually did, to the reasons why she loved this simple sport. She might never have tried it, might have followed friends and fellow students to the downhill slopes in a resort near Grenoble, had she not met—just after Moscow and during what was meant to be her only year in Paris—a dark boy with a poetic allure who, almost on a dare, invited her for a weekend of cross-country skiing in the Morvan. Her friends had been teasing him, saying that cross-country was for old people, and where was the excitement, where were the bars and the places for parties—but this boy was unflappable, criticizing them in return for their snobbish bourgeois values, launching into a long tirade about how downhill skiing destroyed the environment and contributed to class warfare. At which point the other students whooped with laughter; only Ana sat there quietly, almost gravely, wondering if he didn't have a point, and concluding that he was certainly brave to express it, and her silent approval earned her the defiant invitation to the Morvan in his battered Deux Chevaux. You can't tip these things over, he said, taking the bends at breakneck speed. You want me to try? Ana was terrified, and euphoric. Before they even passed Fontainebleau, she knew she would go anywhere with this boy. His name was Léo.

Now she paused in the first spray of sunlight, her breath rising in a cloud. Léo had taught her how to ski; she still had that. Mathieu, on the other hand, used to hire a chalet in some high alpine resort, and Ana would have to drive back down the mountain, often in an abortive quest for a well-groomed cross-country trail. They would meet again in the evening, and Ana would listen to Mathieu's long descriptions of his exploits off-piste, the thrill of it, and at least once a year he would say, That damned lover of yours, teaching you cross-country.
Quel con,
what was he thinking? And even now, as Mathieu's remembered taunts resonated in her inner silence, she thought of Léo and wondered if she skied for his sake, as a kind of tribute to their time together.

No, of course not. It had ended badly, he had hurt her, but with
the years, in his case, she had learned to separate the good memories from the bad, to be grateful to have had him in her life. To those memories she affixed the label
Love of My Life,
though he would not have approved, not Léo, with his adamantine dislike of emotion. Love was sex; love was skiing on a bright morning through a forest of lace-strewn evergreens, turning every now and again to smile.

She set off again; she could feel her heart working; her left thigh was beginning to ache. I'm becoming too sedentary, she chided herself.

She came out of the forest into a clearing and caught her breath as she slid to a halt. The sky was blue; she could hear the first dripping of melting snow. The clearing was sparkling, blanketed in white, with a ragged fringe of pine trees. The absolute stillness enveloped her in something beyond mere reverence or well-being. Ana, for all her words, could not define it, but she also knew this was why she came here—rarely, but often enough not to forget. She liked to think of these moments as pure distillations of solitude, as a necessary communion with self and nature of the sort that mystics and hermits practiced. There was no loneliness, no longing to be with anyone. She breathed deeply, closed her eyes, flung her head back, and let the sun pour over her.

Once he knew she'd gotten the hang of her skis, Léo had started going far ahead, leaving her behind, instructing her in a skill beyond mere skiing. When, both angry and elated, she eventually caught up with him, she invariably found him smoking in the sun, and he would say something teasing, like, Well, did you find your God?

Now there was no one to catch up with, no one waiting, casually smoking. And that was fine. Yet for a split second Ana thought she would like to see Léo again, or someone like him, with whom to exchange cryptic, teasing remarks.

But then she would lose the silence, just when she had learned how to listen for its message.

There was a dreadful argument over dinner. Mama had made some religious reference, as she is wont to do, something about Our Savior and the afterlife.

Pasha turned to her and said, Mama, you've been listening to the priest again, it's all just superstition, you know that. How can you read your scholarly journals and yet believe that nonsense? Don't you realize the church and the government conspire to enslave the people?

She sputtered a few words of protest: But it's faith, Pashenka, how can you not understand this? You must just let God's goodness—

Goodness, shouted Georges, if God were good, would He have let this happen?

There was a heavy silence in the room, and I sensed he might be pointing at me. Then he cried out, almost in tears, What compassionate God would allow our sister to, to— How can He exist, how can He call himself God if He does exist and yet He sends this terrible disease? It's not as if she were some Petersburg flibbertigibbet, she has been a useful member of society, actually saving lives, not taking them away! What, Mama, what can you say to that?

Elena was trying to break in, her voice soothing, her words unintelligible. Mama was sobbing. I felt quite uncomfortable crushed between Herr Marx and Christ the Lord. Of course Georges is right, and I know from witnessing medical proof of the suffering of others that God is not compassionate, if He even
exists—but does that mean He does not exist in Mama's soul? Even if He does not exist in mine or in Georges's?

I held out my hand, waved it, tried to attract their attention. Then I turned to Georges and said, Just because you don't believe, does that mean Mama cannot? Or must not? Your Marx is telling you
not
to believe, and that is no different from the village priest telling Mama
to
believe. Can't truth be relative, or selective, in matters of faith? Does truth even apply to faith? It isn't science . . .

Exactly, shouted Pasha. Which is why it must not be credited. It is superstition, Mama, that is all there is to it. You are afraid of death, so you believe that dying is just going to another place. There is no other place.

Stop it, please, both of you, shouted Natasha, this is cruelty, you are being cruel to Mama, cruel to Zina. Are you so proud that you aren't afraid of death? With your high-minded intellectual proof that God does not exist, you think it makes you immortal? Why can't you see that other people have a right to believe? What difference does it make to you if Mama believes?

Because we love her, shouted Georges, and we want what's best for her. Religion will deceive her, you'll see, Mama, there will be no consolation.

Oh no, my dear boys, said Mama firmly, roused from her tears, I will be saved, and I'll have the satisfaction of knowing my poor daughter is in heaven. And that
she
is saved.

I did not have the heart to contradict Mama openly; I know she wants me to believe in an afterlife, it makes
her
feel better. Georges and Pasha know what I think and that I generally agree with them. But what I feel? As I go toward greater darkness, might I not begin to crave the so-called light of God?

There was a scraping of chairs, and Pasha grumbled that he'd heard enough. He left the room with Georges. We women sat on in silence for a while. Natasha reached over and held my
hand. Stupid boys, she muttered, then laughed, more nervously than in amusement.

As I write and think of God and solitude, I find myself sharing my thoughts—too rapid to commit all of them to paper—with an absent Anton Pavlovich. What would he say? What would he make of our discussion? I know he teased Mama gently for reading Schopenhauer; on the other hand, he is friends with that right-wing press magnate in Piter, that Suvorin man he mentioned, with his villa in the Crimea, so he cannot wholly defend my brothers' socialist point of view—or can one somehow reconcile such conflicting loyalties?

Perhaps that is the gift of his writing, why he pleases his readers so—to be able to take on all of life's contradictions with equanimity, befriend people of every station and every creed. He is friends with Artyomenko the factory worker; he is friends with Monsieur Suvorin the Petersburg press magnate. He is friends with little Panas and with the venerable Pleshcheyev. Would Anton Pavlovich agree with everything we say or simply refuse to be drawn? He does not share his opinions easily, I have noticed.

June 6, 1888

According to Natasha, Elena seems quite taken with Aleksandr Pavlovich, Anton Pavlovich's widowed brother, even after only a few days' acquaintance. They go for long walks in the evening; they were caught in the thunderstorm last night. Elena came home so drenched, you could hear the water in her clothes and shoes. She didn't seem to mind.

Anton Pavlovich has confirmed to me that his brother drinks but that he has had a very hard life. His parents never approved of the woman who became his wife, and their first child died; now she, too, has died, so recently. He tries to act normally, but I can sense, from the few times I've been in the same room with him, a kind of frenzy, a terrible restlessness trying to hide grief and expiate it at the same time.

What did Aleksandr Pavlovich's wife die of? I asked Elena later that day.

Consumption, she replied. After a pause she continued, The brother has it, too, did you know? Although I'm not sure he knows it.

Which brother?

Nikolay, the artist.

We fell silent. We both knew, we have seen more than our share of the disease. Some sufferers live a long time and are able to fight it; others succumb well before their time, like Aleksandr Pavlovich's wife. I asked Elena her opinion regarding Nikolay; she did not answer. We spoke of other things.

June 8, 1888

Elena came to see me earlier on her way back from a house call. She seemed relieved—a child with scarlet fever who is doing much better—but once she had shared this information, she lapsed into a hesitant silence of sighing and throat clearing. Finally, I said, do you have something on your mind, Lenochka?

(I was beginning to suspect what it might be, as Natasha has made a few comments, but Elena has always found it difficult to speak openly.)

She said, I'm rather confused. I cannot decide whether Aleksandr Pavlovich enjoys my company.

Clearly he does, or he wouldn't be seeking you out—there's no lack of company at the moment.

Oh, but you know, Zina, I'm a doctor, and he needs one. But I'm not sure I'm the right sort. Of doctor.

What do you mean?

Well, he talks endlessly, and he's had the most wretched time of it with his wife dying, and it seems his little boys are very slow in developing, and his life is such chaos. He says so himself. But he seems talented, and intelligent, as they all are. I think he has come to me for consolation, because I listen when others don't. I mean it is a bit much, here his wife died not two weeks ago, and all the others think of is going fishing.

Well, then you, at least, are helping him.

Yes, but you see, I wouldn't like my good nature to lead me astray . . . if you see what I mean.

I paused, then said, Do you mean that you enjoy his company for reasons other than listening to his misfortunes?

Oh, Zina, that's what I don't know! Sometimes the doctor in me is so dominant—the need to care, to heal—that I can't see anything anymore of the person I am, or once was, of my own heart or mind; perhaps the doctor has gone off with them. Perhaps I have become my work.

Bluntly, I said, Would you like to feel something for Aleksandr Pavlovich? Is that the problem?

Oh, it's not a problem! Please, Zina, I've said too much already, but you can see what the situation is: a young widower with two difficult children, and an unmarried doctor with few prospects beyond her work. It's glaring, isn't it?

And the children?

I don't know them! I love children, but I don't know
them,
I
hardly know their father! What should I do, Zina? I would hate to let him think something that isn't true.

She reached out and took my hand. Her palm was warm and damp.

I'm not really the right person to ask, I ventured. Have you spoken with Mama?

But she'll only tell me to go after him, as if I were Anton Pavlovich on his way to the river with his fishing pole and basket! She can be such a contradiction—fighting for our education, proud of our achievements, then thrusting us at widowers and bachelors.

I'm not sure she would do that, don't anticipate. I think you needn't do anything, Lena. Give him time. So recently bereaved, he's not seeing things clearly; he's turned to you because you listen. I expect that's all he wants from you at the moment. Don't you think?

She squeezed my hand and put her arms around me and held me for a long time.

Neither of us mentioned the fact that Aleksandr Pavlovich has been drinking vodka almost constantly since arriving at Luka. It would have seemed callous, perhaps, given his recent loss.

June 10

Aleksandr Pavlovich left quite abruptly during the night, said Natasha. It's not very clear why.

Elena does not seem upset, did not even comment on the fact. Perhaps it's all for the best.

June 12, 1888

Monsieur Pleshcheyev departed on the morning train. Mama sighs, consoles Vata, and they wander around the house like two restless children. They have come to me on the veranda no fewer than three times each to say things like, How quiet it will seem without him (totally untrue, you've never heard noisier than the Chekhov brothers); or, Just think, this great man was staying
here
and we rowed him around the pond; or, I shall reread all of his poetry, and perhaps Georges could set that sonnet to music. I don't know quite what's overcome them, they were not so ridiculous when he was here. Perhaps they worried he might surprise them at any minute. He did have an odd way of suddenly being there, his voice booming into the room.

June 14, 1888

I hear the birds; I hear the river, like a whisper reminding me of other things. Otherwise, Luka is silent. Georges, Natasha, Vata, and Anton Pavlovich have taken Roman and the carriage and set off for Sorochintsy, among other places; they will be staying with the Smagins, who have an estate not far from there. Once I would have joined them. I could have told them a lot about the region . . . Never mind, Natasha knows even more, and is not shy, and will ensure them of a good time.

Maria Pavlovna often comes to join me for tea, as we are quite alone and dull without Natasha. She is shy with me; she brings books with her, and when silence weighs on us, she offers to read. We take advantage of her brother's absence to read more from
In the Twilight
. When he is here, if he recognizes his own words, he
tries to snatch the book away, tickling Maria Pavlovna, pleading, Stop reading that rubbish.

But we both know that in a deeper place, he is proud of his work; it is the attention he does not like. I can understand that, just from writing these lines. Perhaps he is inventing people and situations, but nevertheless they have come from somewhere inside him, and not just his brain. He has taken close, secret feelings and worked them into a form he can reveal, but he is giving some part of himself to be examined, scrutinized, approved, or condemned . . . It is the same with Georges and the piano: When he first started playing as a little boy, he would chase us all out of the room if he had to practice, and he would say, How can I practice if you are here listening to me? And Elena or Mama would say, How can you want to perform for others someday if you don't let them listen? And he would get red in the face, almost as if he were about to cry, and he would say, You are trying to steal my notes. There won't be any music if you steal my notes. Now go away.

Fortunately for Georges and for us, with time he overcame this fear of attention, though I suppose the notion of performing is a kind of nakedness—soul-nakedness. We are listening, taking words and music into our souls. It is such a dangerous openness, it requires so much trust to give that to another person . . . it's a wonder anyone dares to be so open, and yet thankfully, most of us do open our selves . . . otherwise how would we ever know what is inside another person's soul? What we say when sharing our thoughts is not the same.

For example, Maria Pavlovna talks about her brothers, gives me all sorts of information about them—I have completely muddled up the details of their lives—but what she doesn't say (and that I hear the loudest) is that it is Anton Pavlovich she is closest to; she is very proud of him and protective at the same time. Her Antosha. She is sharing him with my family, but she
misses him, and I know she worries—about his future, whether they will be parted, would he be happy with a wife—although she doesn't talk about it. She speaks little of herself, and that, too, is telling.

I believe that she has forfeited a life of her own to devote it to her brothers. Or rather, she has chosen to make them—Anton Pavlovich in particular—her life's work. She is the only girl; her mother is solid yet often overwrought, and Maria Pavlovna knows no selfishness.

June 16, 1888

This afternoon it rained; it grew too dark in the room for Maria Pavlovna to read to me, so she told me of a dreadful—yet comic—incident that occurred last week, shortly before Monsieur Pleshcheyev and Aleksandr Pavlovich left and the others set off for Sorochintsy.

A magician was performing at the summer theater in Sumy that evening, and after dinner Natasha persuaded all the Chekhov siblings, along with Ivanenko and Vata and Elena and Georges, to go to see the show. I could hear their laughter and merriment long after they departed, a kind of echo on the still air. One or two of the brothers were already well into their vodka. I sat with Mama on the veranda—such a night, warm and full of other sounds of insects, and the hoopoe, and the nightingales. She held my hand and reminisced about our childhood; it was sad. I wanted to go to sleep, but I knew she wanted me there with her.