The Summer Guest (16 page)

The sun rose, and it was hot. I was grateful for my big hat. I turned my face to the sun, felt a burning brightness—reddish black—behind my dead eyes. An aching of blood vessels strained beyond capacity: I would pay for this beauty, I could feel the headache coming on. I did not care. In that moment I felt as if I had waited all my life to be there, in that silence on the river Psyol. I could feel their heartbeats quicken as they caught their first fish, could hear their whispered excitement; I could picture their smiles, the gleam in their eyes. Have you brought us luck, Zinaida Mikhailovna? asked Anton Pavlovich quietly. Come, feel it, said Ivan, and I reached forward, and he placed the fish's slippery scales just beneath my fingertips. A moment of sorrow for its destiny in Anya's pot. I raised my fingers to my nose and smelled the fresh river smell. And knew that I had last smelled it, without realizing, on Anton Pavlovich's outstretched fingers when he came to greet me at home.

I hope they were not looking at me when the time came to row back to our pier, their basket quivering with the morning's catch. It would have spoiled it for me if they had seen my tears. Fortunately, the brim on my hat was wide, and they were laughing and teasing each other in their bantering way, referring to me as impartial judge, guileless witness.

I was handed safely ashore. Rosa was there, panting with excitement, sniffing the river on my clothes. I thanked them—awkwardly, my throat still seized with emotion—and my dog led me home. The land seemed unsteady, perhaps rocking gently with the recent memory of the river.

Afterward, I lay in my dark room and waited for the headache to pass. I saw Anton and Ivan in the boat as clearly as if my sight were restored. As if somehow the movement of the boat on the river defied the immobility of land and conjured their supple forms to me. Their sleeves rolled up; their bare feet against the wooden planks; the sweat on their brows, their cautious expressions of delight when the catch was confirmed. In retrospect, in my dark cell, I could see it all.

August 20, 1888

I dreamed I went fishing.

It wasn't a dream, Zinaida Mikhailovna. You did come fishing with us.

And then last night I dreamed of it again. Only I was alone in the boat, and I was looking for you and Ivan Pavlovich.

Had we fallen overboard?

No, no, it wasn't that at all, somehow I was alone on the boat and searching for you both. And I could see—that's often the case in my dreams—but you simply weren't there to be seen.

A pause, then I added lightly, I suppose you'd gone back to Moscow.

He sighed and said, Which is true, in Ivan's case.

What a pity. And I didn't say goodbye.

He came last night, but you were already in your room, and your formidable mama would not let him go by.

She protects me . . . I suppose that may have been when I was dreaming.

And did you catch anything in your dream? Despite our absence—or perhaps thanks to it?

No, because I was looking for you and Ivan. And wait, there was something else, you weren't in Moscow, because I could hear your voices, but I couldn't see you. As if you were hiding on the island. But your voices were as loud and clear as if you were in the boat with me.

So your dream was remarkably true, in fact. You could see the river because you have seen it, but in the restored sight of your dream, you were unable to see us because you never have seen us.

I suppose that is why I felt disappointed, why I felt I'd lost you. I wasn't afraid of being alone on the river, but I absolutely had to find you, and I couldn't.

What were our disembodied voices saying?

I don't know . . . nothing important.

As usual. Well, that's all right, then! He paused and said, I don't often remember my dreams. I have such insomnia at times, it seems to chase all possibility of leisurely dreaming from my brain. The dreams I recall are of strangers—warm, benevolent strangers. Strangers who make me feel very safe. Women who love me, men who respect me. Like characters waiting to find their place in one of my stories. It's odd. Perhaps I didn't dream them at all.

Perhaps your characters are like the people in your dreams. Waiting in your imagination or your sleep—could that be the same thing?

So if you dream about me or my handsome brother Ivan, are we the characters in your story?

Of course not. I'm not making up a story, you're very real.

Are you sure? How do you know I'm not in your imagination?

Some of you is, to be sure, but—

How do you know, incontrovertibly, that I exist?

Because you have physical substance, a voice, words—

You know that, but do I? Does Grigory Petrovich?

We laughed; we could hear Grigory Petrovich scolding Georges as if he were still a small boy, for cutting a bouquet of flowers from the border without his permission.

Ah, enough of philosophy, sighed Anton Pavlovich. It's obvious we're alive, God has spoken in the form of your brother's bouquet, which will gladden my sister's heart.

Your sister?

Just imagine that I am winking at you. She is rather taken with Georges. I don't know that it's mutual; Georges seems to have eyes for nothing but his fortepiano.

Poor Masha, the bouquet was not for her. Mama had asked him to choose some flowers for the entrance, as she is expecting visitors later.

Just after Anton Pavlovich had taken his leave and gone to join his family, an exhausted Elena came onto the veranda and flopped into the same wicker chair. She was hot, and perspiring, and breathless.

She updated me on the epidemic of scarlet fever in the village, then asked after my own health. We talked about other things—Georges's application to the conservatory, Tonya's baby: robust and rosy, she tells me. And naturally, the subject of our guests came up, and we speculated whether Natasha might have fallen in love with Anton Pavlovich. Elena tells me she has found her particularly mopey lately; reluctantly, I agreed with her—what else could explain the odd behavior I've noticed? My normally reasonable, cheerful sister, now all sighs and slamming books
onto tables and shouting vulgarities at Grigory Petrovich in Ukrainian until he went to Mama and complained politely that at least if she would shout in Russian, it would not hurt his feelings so much, because then he could understand how bad the insult was. We laughed—poor Grigory Petrovich, in all these years since Papa brought him to us from Sevastopol, he has never learned Ukrainian—but in fact he adores Natasha and willingly submits to her tender abuse. Still, none of us has known her to be so nervous and high-strung in months, if not years.

The sad thing, concluded Elena, is that Anton Pavlovich does not seem to be smitten with her to the same degree at all. He laughs with her, enjoys her company. She's clever and not boring, so men do like being around her, and then she mistakes their attention for love.

Surely not. She's more instinctive than that. We all are, Elena, Mama has raised us well.

Are we, Zina? Is it not our instincts that betray us?

What do you mean?

As women, we listen to our feelings, we value them—and you know as well as I do that the study of the body, as perfected by our male colleagues, allows no room for the study of feelings. And the drawing room is no different from the surgery: We women follow our instincts, respect them; they brush them aside, except to flirt and pass the time.

I hesitated for a long time, thought carefully about my recent conversation with Anton Pavlovich. I felt uneasy, as if she had thrown a light on something I did not want to see. My blindness would not leave me impervious to certain truths.

She may feel for Anton Pavlovich, said Elena, but I doubt she can see that it is not mutual, so her instinct has betrayed her.

Does she love him? I asked worriedly.

I don't know—is it that strong? Or just an attraction? A delight in his presence?

I was silent for a moment, then, recalling what Anton Pavlovich had said about his brother, I decided now might be an opportunity to broach the subject with my sister as bluntly as I could, without giving anything away.

How do you define love, Elena?

I don't, dear Zina; other than the love I feel for my family, for my work. This love that we got so worked up over as girls, this thing Anton Pavlovich describes in his stories between men and women—an attraction for biological ends, of course that exists, but some exalted closeness, the need to possess and be possessed—spare me! There are more important things in life, as you know.

And would you ever marry without love in the hope that it might follow as a matter of course?

She reached over and squeezed my arm. Zina, what a thought! I am married to my profession! Just because I have fingers does not mean I must have rings!

You've changed, Elena. I thought you wanted a family, children—

Perhaps I did. Yes. I did. You are right. Her voice softened and she added, I've grown wiser. I've observed my patients, I've observed the wider world. I've seen myself through the eyes of men I might have loved, and I've encountered my own humility, my own reality. We can be blind to it for so long, when society pulls us in the opposite direction with such force. Yes, I would have liked children, but I fear the price I would have to pay. Look at Tonya, poor girl, her youth and beauty fading, already she works so hard—for Pasha, for the baby—and that is her entire life. What thanks does she get!

Pasha loves her, Elena. And she is happy.

Of course he loves her. But there is no one as good as Pasha for me; I know that, I accept it. I must be useful elsewhere. Leave love for Monsieur Pleshcheyev and his sonnets.

She had answered Anton Pavlovich's question but not mine; for only then did I realize I had, indeed, a question of my own.

After that conversation a headache came on, and I was sleeping when Anton Pavlovich came this afternoon. I am better now, but just the thought of my conversation with Elena makes my head throb. She must not read what I have written. Perhaps I should tear up these pages. Or find a hiding place for the diary.

ANA READ KATYA KENDALL
'
S
message:
I might not be here
. She gave an exasperated sigh—really, what nerve, she had not even been paid—but she decided to remain upbeat.
Not to worry,
she replied.
I'll try to get in touch. Either way, it would be wonderful to discuss Zinaida Mikhailovna's diary.

No reply.

She called the Kendalls when she arrived in London, once she had checked in to her bed-and-breakfast: voicemail.
You have reached the offices of Polyana Press. No one is available to take your call . . .
She left a message and her cell number. If she didn't hear back by ten o'clock the next morning, she would go to Cambridge for some simple tourism and much-needed distraction.

Ana had scarcely left the house for the past three weeks, working steadily on the diary and a few other small but lucrative projects that had come in. Every so often she would feel a pleasant flutter in her belly, thinking about the Fleur Mailly prize, which would be announced in New York in a few weeks' time: The days were passing, and just her presence on the shortlist had led to a small flurry of articles online, of praise for the novel and the translation. She wanted to believe; the competition was not too stiff, she was in with a chance.

For the first hour or so, Ana felt the thrill of iconic strangeness that strikes all visitors when they realize they are actually in London: the double-decker buses, the black cabs, the glimpse of the real Big Ben on the horizon. Gradually, the novelty faded to the simple
delight of hearing English all around her, seeing different faces, being on an adventure.

She went to the reception at the writers' organization. An old Victorian terraced house, indistinguishable from the others on the street, but as soon as she stepped through the door, Ana recognized, from her years in Paris, the unsettling false bonhomie of literary gatherings: the assertive male voices; the female laughter; the jostling for position by the wine and the hors d'oeuvres. There was already a good crowd, of the sort that invites a protective hand around a full wineglass when trying to move through the room. Ana suddenly wished she were in one of the cozy living rooms she had glimpsed on her way here, reading by lamplight or talking to a friend, rather than nodding hello to these people she didn't know. As far as she could tell from the name tags and the books on the display table, she was the only translator there. With a mixture of shyness and curiosity, she approached the few people who stood on their own and asked them about their books. They answered her with the pride, the author's glow, that says,
Look what I've done, who I am
. She talked about her work and felt vaguely fraudulent. Not that she was—she had every right to be there, the association was open to translators, and she had paid her dues. She would have liked to be more visible, to make even a faint impression, but these strangers did not seem particularly interested in the work of translation; nor did she want to chatter about herself. She began to question the sound of her own voice—polite, inquisitive, insincere. She thought about Zinaida Mikhailovna and Anton Pavlovich. They were her secret, and she guarded them. Her ambivalence surprised her in the end. She could have conveyed her enthusiasm without giving anything away, without betraying the Kendalls' injunction.
I'm translating this wonderful nineteenth-century Russian journal, full of literary figures . . .
But she felt a sudden kinship with the child Georges Lintvaryov, reluctant to play the piano when others were within earshot.

She spotted a refuge in a corner, an empty folding chair next to an older, tired-looking woman sitting on her own. Ana hesitated: Perhaps the woman was a bore, or perhaps she wanted a lap on which to put her napkin and her plate of little sandwiches. Go for the lap, thought Ana, taking a deep breath as she sat down. The woman greeted Ana as if she had been waiting for her all along; she had a faint Slavic accent and turned out to be of Polish origin, and although she was a writer with a newly published, well-received book, Ana quickly understood from her ironic laughter that she felt as out of place as Ana did. Her English was beyond perfect, in the way that certain foreigners—immigrants—have of inventing a sharper, more colorful idiom, and Ana sensed that the networking nature of the gathering depressed and exhausted her. They exchanged ideas about cultural differences between Europe and the United States, where the Polish woman had lived as well, nodding or shaking their heads with equal enthusiasm; she shared Ana's concern about the crisis in Ukraine, from experience, she said. Ana wished she could keep more of this gentle woman in her life than a business card. (She promised herself she would buy the woman's book: like a postcard or print from a museum shop, a desperate bid to retain, just a little bit longer, the real painting's incomparable light.)

Ana began to make her way through the crowd toward the coat rack. She felt abruptly very tired, weary, sorry she had come all this way for an event that, in the end, did not have much to do with her. She had exhausted her supply of smiles and polite formulas; it was time to go for a proper bite to eat—she'd spotted a sushi place near her B&B—and prepare her strategy for meeting the Kendalls. Or finding them.

She was reaching for her coat when she noticed a young woman pinning a name tag to her jacket. Ana glanced at the tag and flushed when she recognized the name—Isobel Brookes, the other woman shortlisted for the Fleur Mailly literary prize.

Ana took a breath. I was about to leave, and now you're here—finally, another translator!

The young woman (oh, that smooth skin, those bright eyes) looked at her, slightly taken aback, then said, You're a translator?

Ana said her name, and Isobel broke into a smile. Of course, we're both on the shortlist for the Mailly prize, aren't we? The only women, too, if I'm not mistaken. Are you leaving already?

I was about to, but I can stay a bit longer, now that you're here. Ana felt genuinely relieved, as if her presence at the reception had been legitimized at last.

When they were both settled at a table by the window with their glasses of white wine and small plates of smoked salmon, Ana looked around the room and said, I don't know anyone here. I thought there'd be more translators, but they're all authors.

Yes, that's odd. Usually, there are more of us. I know a fair number of people here, but only through my partner.

As if to prove her point, she nodded to a man standing nearby and said, Catch you later.

Ana instantly worried she might be keeping Isobel from the people she had come to meet, and she took too big a sip of wine and sloshed some onto her jacket, leaving a slow-spreading stain. Oh, dear, she said.

Don't worry. When it dries, you won't see it, said Isobel.

Again the clear eyes, the smooth skin, occupying Ana's field of vision like a bright glow.

What are you working on at the moment? said Ana, flustered.

Isobel went into a long explanation about a male French author Ana had never heard of; when she'd finished, Ana said, I get so discouraged that there are not more women getting translated.

Isobel held her wineglass at a jaunty angle and raised her eyebrow, as if surprised by Ana's remark, unaware that she too was about to splash wine on her lap.

Careful, said Ana, pointing, and they both laughed.

Isobel then returned her question, and Ana started to explain, almost reluctantly. A historical document . . . a diary from nineteenth-century Russia—Ukraine, actually . . . I had my doubts to begin with, but now I'm really enjoying it.

She hesitated to go further, but in any case, Isobel said, It's terrible what's been happening in Ukraine.

Yes, said Ana, I'd been hoping to go to Crimea. But suddenly it's all very complicated—putting it mildly.

(As she said this, she realized she was being somewhat disingenuous, that her desire to go there had increased retroactively, with enhanced difficulty and Yves's prodding.)

Isobel nodded politely, looking around the room. Yes, that's right, they voted to be part of Russia again, isn't that it?

Voted,
said Ana, that might be a bit of a stretch by Western standards. She gave a curt laugh and added, I even translated a guidebook to Crimea a few years ago! How ironic is that. I don't suppose it will be of use anymore.

Oh, don't say that, you can probably still go to Crimea, though you're right, it will be more complicated. Russian visas, that sort of thing. You'll have to update your guidebook.

Ana nodded and frowned.

Isobel shifted in her chair to look at Ana more closely and said, I can't keep up with the news these days. The world seems to be spinning out of control. I feel like I'm clinging to my family so we don't go hurtling into space. She gave a faint, slightly affected laugh.

Ana shrugged and said, And I'm too well informed. I suppose I spend too much time on my own—I live in a small village—and the world news has become disproportionately important. If I lived in the Balkans or southern Europe, I'd be one of those old women hanging out her window watching the world go by, but in my village, everyone gets in the car and drives off to the shopping mall.

Isobel sat back and held up her wineglass. How sad, she said.

There was an awkward silence. Ana didn't know whether Isobel was referring to her neighbors' lifestyle or her own, so she turned to look more closely at her and said, Do you live in London?

Yes, I'm here with my partner, he's French—I was his translator. Well, I still am. Franck Fabiani, perhaps you've heard of him?

Ana nodded. Of course.

(Heard of him, but not read him; his books were meant to be pseudo-intellectual thrillers with a lot of violence against women and children, counterbalanced by the deep humanity of a gruff, disillusioned male detective. They sold well and had the critics on their side. Well, more power to Isobel, thought Ana, she had a job for life, or at least as long as the relationship lasted.)

Why don't you live in France? Ana asked.

Franck came here when he was writing the first book in the series; they're set in the UK. We met, and he stayed on. We have a two-year-old daughter now.

Ana nodded. The wine stain had dried. Isobel smiled and said hello to a smartly dressed young man with a shadow of a beard.

Isobel laughed and said, Franck is trying to grow a beard, too. It doesn't suit him, he's too old, it makes him look ever so rough, you half expect to see a big piece of cardboard under his arm.

Ana looked at her, puzzled.

You know, like a homeless person. Most of the time he's far too well dressed, but still. Even Chloe seems scared of him. She says, Papa, you're scratchy! Isobel shrugged and smiled.

Ana hooked her bag over her shoulder and stood up. I'd better get going. I'm hoping to go up to Cambridge tomorrow, so I want to make an early start.

How lovely. Pity you can't stay and meet Franck, he'll be here any minute.

Yes, it's too bad, but I'd better go. I'd like to stop in the bookshop before it closes, too.

They shook hands and wished each other luck for the Mailly prize. Ana made her way through the room; when she looked back, someone had already taken her seat at the table with Isobel.

At the front door, she brushed past a man on his way in, a blur of thick gray hair, Burberry, and umbrella. She supposed this was the famous Franck, but by the time she turned back to get a better look, he had vanished inside.

Ana browsed. As if she were rowing on the surface of a lake and all the books were floating just below, illegible, out of reach. Confused, slightly drunk, she could not concentrate, upset by her conversation with Isobel Brookes in a diffuse way she could not clarify.

She came upon Isobel's translation almost immediately, the one nominated for the prize, prominently displayed. Ten copies in a neat, alluring pile.
The Lemon-Rind Still Life
. (
Nature morte aux écorces de citron,
said the copyright page. Ana thought petulantly,
Still Life with Lemon Rind
.) The reproduction of a Flemish still life on the cover; the author photo on the back flap, the young French writer with classic dark good looks, the crisp white shirt; a lovely edition, hardback, with deckle-edged pages.

From there Ana went to the crime section and hunted for Franck Fabiani's novels. She found one, visibly the latest. The usual superlatives,
Spellbinding . . . Best-selling French author . . .
Even one concession to cross-cultural translation:
Franck Fabiani knows the Brits better than we know ourselves. A must-read revelation in every regard.

She turned the book over and opened it from the back to read the author flap.

At first she thought it must be a mistake, a joke, a cosmic prank. An uncanny resemblance. But even time had no power to alter the shock of hair, now gray, the dimpled half-smile.
French author of the best-selling DCI Hartley series,
said the flap,
Franck Fabiani is translated by his partner, Isobel Brookes. They live in London.

Léo. Not in La Paz or Lille but right here in London.

Ana liked to think she did not believe in coincidence. It had played no significant role in her life, although she did know of friends who had suffered, mostly in their relationships, from untimely coincidences. Meeting someone—an erstwhile lover—where he had no business being, when you were in the presence of your partner; more happily, missing a plane at an airport halfway around the world only to run into a long-lost friend. No, thought Ana, this was logical: In the small world of literary translators, you were bound to run into your colleagues if you went to professional events.

As for Isobel being his partner, that, too, did not seem implausible. Networks were formed between authors and translators. It was odd that Ana had not seen his picture before now, but it was less common in France, the author mug shot, and she tended not to read crime novels, or watch the literary programs on television or the Internet, where he probably appeared on a regular basis.