The Summer Guest (25 page)

NOT ANOTHER WORD ABOUT
Anton Pavlovich's novel? Ana felt a surge of despair. Zinaida Mikhailovna in such a privileged position, and she agreed to keep the book all to herself, at his almost whimsical request?

Of course this was normal and natural in a friendship, to respect trust, to keep secrets. What was more puzzling to Ana was why Anton Pavlovich was so loath to let anything out into the world about the novel. He spoke quite openly about the story he was writing that summer (“A Boring Story”), or the play (
The Wood Demon
), but he seemed to want to hide everything about the novel.

Perhaps it was too personal or too challenging. Perhaps he was revealing things about himself—in an autobiographical way
—
that could be found nowhere else in his work, so until he was sure of the novel's viability, he did not want to share it with anyone; or perhaps he was not always pleased with the book, so the less he said about it in general, the less explaining he would have to do if he abandoned the project altogether. Which, historically—until now—seemed to be what he had done.

Zinaida had made the completion of his novel her purpose, something she could reasonably strive for. She wanted to do what she could to encourage and support him, to inspire him.

Ana had seen her offering friendship, trust, consolation, insight. Now she saw that, through gentle urgings, Zinaida hoped to be a muse. Not the ethereal-goddess-on-a-pedestal type of muse, inspiring the artist through beauty and unattainability; no, merely a plain woman who, through her open, giving, and utterly
disinterested spirit, could encourage him to continue and find the resources in himself to persevere.

But the excessive secrecy on Anton Pavlovich's part meant that precious information regarding the actual fate of the manuscript would be lost. Supposing it was last seen under Zinaida's mattress, a hundred and twenty-five years ago, supposing he left it with her at the end of the summer? Even if it were still there—even if the estate were standing, and the original furniture existed—how could fragile sheets of paper in a heavy box survive two wars, revolution, foreign occupation, climate, silverfish, mice, damp, and mold, and simply the fading of ink over time?

The same way Zinaida Mikhailovna's journal had survived.

Ana could only hope the manuscript had been found along with Zinaida's notebooks and was being kept in a safe secret place until it was ready for publication.

It was time to write to Katya Kendall for an update. Ana sent suggestions for the title and added casually, Any news about the other novel you mentioned at lunch?

KATYA SAW THE MESSAGE
from Anastasia Harding in her inbox.
Update?
said the subject line.

My poor girl, she thought, you do not want an update. Unless you are writing to give me an update, and what will I do with it? I trust you; I know you are reading, translating, living at Luka, and that is all I need to know.

The titles seemed meaningless; as for the other novel . . .

What a pity, thought Katya, that I can't confide in Ana Harding.

We got along well, those few hours. She seems well acquainted with solitude. I have joined her there lately, in trying to understand it myself, given Peter's absence. She seems to have a sort of faith—not a religious faith but an openness, a preparedness, something we share with Zinaida Mikhailovna: a faith that life might come through. Even if it ends up being something we have to look for inside ourselves.

But I keep everything to myself and retreat further. It seems easier this way; easier to keep a handle on Peter, on myself. Soviet womanhood, indeed. Women keeping it together, is all. As usual.

Katya walked into the kitchen, stood at the sink rinsing her coffee mug, and looked out the window at the garden. It was raining, a light spring shower with droplets of sunshine. What in Russian we might call a mushroom rain, she mused, a notion unknown to unimaginative English weather forecasters. A cultural nuance, virtually untranslatable. How will Ana be coping with such nuances, with the relative poverty of the English language? It had been a perpetual and often virulent, although good-natured, debate with Peter from the moment they had met. He would go
on and on about Shakespeare and tease her about Pushkin (
Pushkin, Pushkin, what is Pushkin?
like a child's rhyme); he refused to believe that Russian—that any language—could be richer than English. It dismayed her, infuriated her—he had studied Russian, after all, though he never attained complete fluency—and she would call him a retrograde linguistic imperialist, somewhat in jest, but in the end, they both clung to what they knew, to the faith of the tongue they had heard as infants while learning to love the world; they clung to what they believed in. Peter to his country, even though, lately, it had let him down so badly; and Katya to her language, her greatest comfort and pride. Pushkin, Pushkin, what is Pushkin, indeed.

If only they'd had children. That abortion before she knew him; before wanting was possible. The orphanage, too, that dreadful place, the sweet infant with his face smeared with dirt and tears, what was his name, Mitya? Misha? All for nothing, defeated by bureaucracy.

Well, it was too late for children, but perhaps it was not too late for poetry.

She went and sat at the desk in Peter's study. She did not know where he was. Perhaps he really had found a mistress. If so, she would not mind so much, provided he remained considerate. What a strange thought, so unreal. Everything was unreal these days; everything glittered, like the mushroom rain. Yes, she could begin there. She could write these poems for Peter, so he would know. So he would understand that her anger and silence had been to protect him. That she had known of no other way until now. She had tried to drive him away, to make it easier for both of them. Perhaps she had succeeded; he had seen she had no answers for him. Sometimes she said to him, It's only money. We still have each other. Wasn't that what couples said when times were bad? Each other. She was not even sure the notion had currency in this day and age, when a man's identity was so bound to money and
success, and a woman's to independence—anything rather than be bound to a man.

She picked up a pen, stared at the blank sheet she had taken from the printer. Imagined Zinaida Mikhailovna, scribbling blindly across her ledger.

Katya began to write.

I often wake early, before the rest of the household. It is the birds, at first light: I like to hear that day-waking song, jubilation at dawn, before they subside into their ordinary conversation. I lie for a long time in bed, listening, and I'm glad I do not have to hurry to rise. I remember the cold mornings in Piter as a student, when I had to tear myself from a warm bed, barefoot, teeth chattering, to dress in the frost for the eight o'clock lecture. Or not so long ago, rising in the dark to harness the horse and drive off on a house call, my fingers so cold by the time I arrived that I would have to thaw them in the horse's warm breath before going inside to examine my patient.

I wonder if Anton Pavlovich is awake yet. I picture him at the table in his room, by the window, listening to the same chatter of birds. But he'll be hearing another chatter, of voices, dictating his story, his play, or his novel; and he'll hear the silence, too, the interludes of thought, deliberation, before each image becomes clear and brings the words to lie upon the page.

These have been fine days. Warm, not hot, with the occasional short rainstorm to freshen the air. Grigory Petrovich tells me the garden has recovered somewhat from the drought in June. There are massive sunflowers, and pumpkins, and the woods are full of raspberries and mushrooms.

Every day Anton Pavlovich comes for me in the late afternoon. He reads to me, we discuss what he has read, and then he takes me for a walk around the pond or to the river. He is my eyes, as always; he describes the ever familiar, ever changing landscape
as if it were an introduction to a story. In fact, he often teases me, casts me as the heroine of a tale in which the bittern swoops down to abduct me and carry me off to a land of firebirds and boy princes. I could try to retell his stories here for Ksenia, but so much would be lost, I am no storyteller and his odd tales consist in large part of his grave voice rising, falling, now tender, now threatening, then a burst of laughter or a falsetto imitation (of me or Natasha). It is what his words leave me with that must be told: a sense of sight, a puzzled wonder. How does he do this? How does he see the tiny detail that restores sight and, with it, an impression of being somehow closer to my own life—and at the same time, I see everything as if from high above, from the broad back of my bittern-firebird, soaring briefly with exhilaration and delight? He restores a fractured loveliness to my blind world, recalling remembered scenes and suggesting others blurred by time and loss. Or he might give me a shimmering underwater tableau, all clarity on the surface and yet deeper, colors running together in the confusion of waves and currents. He takes my elbow, explains, exhorts; he leads me to touch things on our path: a log, a bush, a wildflower in the shade, a mushroom, and even—poor man!—Grigory Petrovich asleep beneath the cherry tree, his bushy beard moving as he grumbles in his dream.

I know the days are passing. I feel the first chill in the early morning. Grigory Petrovich wakes when I do, and fumbles about, lighting the fire downstairs in the kitchen. I would like to stay longer in the security of these recent summer memories, find a better way to crystallize them, so that I can return to them again and again for sustenance in the weeks and months to come. But I fear I can do no better than what the pen allows; and the moments are transformed irrevocably by memory's hopes and failures. In any event, I cannot read what
I write—although perhaps I shall ask Mamochka in a spare moment to reread bits of these journals to me; a spare moment when life is dreary and hibernal and it seems incredible, impossible, that such days ever existed.

Mama would prefer, no doubt, to take me to church—chanting, candles, incense, the smells of unwashed bodies, the shuffling and moaning. No. I can worship right here, without ever leaving my room.

What do I look like these days, Anton Pavlovich? How do you see me?

There was a long silence. Then he leaned forward in his chair, the wicker creaking, and took my hand. Before he spoke, I blurted, I was never a pretty girl, but now—

Shush, shush. He put a finger on my lips. Then he touched my brow. You have three lines of worry across your forehead and two more along either side of your nose—perhaps they were not there before. But your eyes, Zinaida Mikhailovna . . . your eyes are a lovely dark blue, full of expression and innocence, like a child's, as if you see a world all your own, and you worry that you might not find someone to share it with. Your mouth, too, hesitates—you have a pretty smile, but too often you keep it to yourself. You have some freckles, did you know that? Across your nose and cheeks—here, and here, and here. Your hair is wild and thick—you shouldn't pull it back so tight, it's too severe, you must scold Ulyasha, tell her you'll send the Chekhovsky brigade after her for treating your hair so cruelly.

You are teasing me, as usual, Anton Pavlovich.

But it's true! Don't you know I now have a diploma from the Yalta Curl and Ringlet Association, that when I was not stuffing myself with ice cream, I attended classes with the eminent Professeur Salon de Coiffure, a French aristocrat.

(If only it were true! I had a mad urge to take him completely literally, to remove the pins from my hair and let him brush it.) But I changed the subject and said, Ice cream, how lovely.

The only way, Zinaida Mikhailovna, that I could keep all the aspiring writers and admiring ladies from coming up to me with a million flattering, egotistical remarks was to keep my mouth full. If my mouth was constantly full, I could not dispense any pearls of Shponkian wisdom. But enough nonsense, Zinaida Mikhailovna, we have work to do, and then we'll have some tea.

August 27, 1889

Yesterday we celebrated Natasha's name day.

We went to picnic on the island, something we have not been able to do for a long time because of the frequent thunderstorms at the end of the day. I remember last year, when it was Pasha's name day and we were preparing to row over, how the wind suddenly blew like a gale on the sea, and there was that poor fisherman caught in his boat in waves so violent he could not reach the shore, so he spent the night on the island. And Anton Pavlovich and I, in the early days of our friendship, talking of death as if it were impossibly far away.

Mama settled me on a blanket in the shade. She kept me company for a while, then went off to stroll with some of our guests—Vorontsov was there, and Yefimenko, and others who do not visit as often. I was alone. I suppose it is not something that afflicts only blind people, but it is a terrible thing to be alone when others can see that you are alone. I can sit for hours by myself, peacefully, on my veranda, or by the river or the pond, and even Rosa might abandon me to follow Grigory Petrovich on
his rounds, but I am not lonely or self-conscious; on the contrary, Luka belongs to me, and everything around me seems to resonate with that knowledge—not in a material way, no, but in the joy I have in hearing, and smelling, and yes, after a fashion, seeing that world of mine.

But if you take me and put me on a blanket under a tree, and all around I hear laughter and loud conversation, and Rosa barking, and Ksenia crying (oh, why doesn't she come to me! I'd soon comfort her), and there is no one to talk to me or make me laugh, I feel horribly, desperately, visible, as if I were naked.

What have I written! Of course everyone was ignoring me, not deliberately, they'd forgotten about me, that's all. Mama and Evgenia Yakovlevna and Masha were emptying the hampers and preparing the food with Anya and Ulyasha, and Anton and Misha were fishing, and I think Elena and Natasha went with them or with the other guests—I heard voices I did not recognize, and I waited in vain for introductions.

So when Georges brought me a glass of wine, I was more than usually eager to retain his company, and I begged him to sit for a while, although I'm sure he wanted to be with the others by the river, swimming and fishing. I could hear Natasha's shrieks of laughter.

Anton Pavlovich is trying to push her in the water, said Georges.

But he mustn't! She's got a new dress, she'll ruin it!

(Typically for Natasha, she had agonized over the dress, gone into Sumy to the dressmakers' half a dozen times to be sure it would be ready. I had felt the cloth, a lovely summer muslin with a touch of lace
—
not too much, lace does not suit Natasha. But the matching parasol has lots of lace. She goes around poking Anton Pavlovich with it, I'm told, or opening it suddenly and waving it like a shield as he tries to grab her.)

Georges laughed. Don't worry, Zinochka, he's only doing it as a pretext to hold her, because he knows she likes it. She is bright red, and Anton Pavlovich has the most devilish expression on his face—it's all in fun, I assure you. No harm will come to the dress.

We sat for a while and talked of this and that, and Georges got up to fetch us some more wine, and I felt a sudden darkness, as if he had taken my sight again. And then I realized it was not sight he had taken but, rather, given: something I did not want to see, that had been for some weeks or even months on the periphery of my vision, and why it should irk me I don't know, but it dazzles and throbs, like the effects of the wine, and when Georges came back, he did not sit down, and I knew he wanted to go off with the others, so I said, Find Elena for me, will you?

She came and apologized for leaving me for so long, so I reassured her that Georges had kept me company, but then I took a swallow of wine and said, Lenochka, do you suppose, could there be something between Anton Pavlovich and Natasha?

Her ironic laugh was barely audible above another of Natasha's screams of delight. That depends, dear sister, upon what you mean by
between
. A few layers of linen and muslin, surely, and perhaps a few drops of spilled wine and human perspiration. That much, yes.

Although you could not hear what Natasha and Anton Pavlovich were saying, the tone of voice traveled like their laughter through the air, teasing, inviting, close.

Quite bluntly and not a little bitterly, Elena said, lowering her voice, Natasha is completely infatuated with Anton Pavlovich. I'm surprised you hadn't realized. She has been discreet, and I don't think even Masha is aware of it, although she may be finding out now. Naturally, Natasha didn't want you to know. She
both envies and respects your own affection for Anton Pavlovich, which is very different from hers.

And Anton Pavlovich? I said, unable to hide the hesitant catch in my voice.

Elena said nothing for a long time, then sighed—a long, impatient, almost resigned sigh. Finally she said, He finds amusement in her company. It is exactly like what happened just a while ago: He tries to push her in the river, goes as far as he dares, then steps back just in time, holding her to make sure she doesn't fall. She would fall if he asked her to, if he let her, but he'd never get his own feet wet. No, Zina, he does not love her. He enjoys being with her, he trusts her, they are great friends—

She paused, then continued, As he is with you and me, too, in different ways. Natasha flirts with him, so he flirts, too. To her, it means everything; to him, nothing.

I am both dismayed and relieved by what you say, Elena—

As I am. Because we know that if she loves him, she will suffer.

Elena brought me more wine, and meat patties, and chicken, and some blinchiki, and then a glass of vodka, and the air was cooler and a breeze brought a moist tang from the river. There was singing, and someone had a guitar, and I must have lain down and slept, and in all that time Anton Pavlovich did not come to talk to me. Even in my sleep I heard Natasha's laughter, and I could not begrudge her this happiness, especially on her name day, and I knew that if Anton Pavlovich did not return her feelings—and she is smart enough not to be deluded—then in her laughter there would be notes of defiance, courage, and stoicism, and those are things with which I am well acquainted.

Thus reconciled to what I cannot change, I drank too much and was taken home and gently put to bed by Pasha and Tonya.
I slept too long and dreamlessly, and now I have returned to the veranda, with tea and Rosa and a fresh supply of ink.

September 1, 1889

Anton Pavlovich and his family will be leaving soon. He came to see Mama about some preparations for the trip; he came to pay his bill, which Mama refused to even consider. You are our guests, she said repeatedly, you are welcome, we'll expect you next year. She told me he went away shaking his head in bewilderment. I expect Mamochka was not dry-eyed.

We had supper together, the two families, one last time for this year. Georges played, and Natasha sang folk songs she has adapted. Masha read some poetry; I was going to recite Lermontov's “Tamara,” but I've been feeling unwell these days and thought it best not to risk it. Anton Pavlovich read from a short story he has been revising, “Volodya”; Elena asked him how he had progressed on his new work, and he was typically evasive and effusive, by turns.

And the farmstead, Anton Pavlovich, I asked later, as no one had mentioned it in weeks, have you found anything?

There is a marvelous shack about two hours' ride from here, on the way to the Smagins', with a dirt floor and a fireplace and a pigsty right next to it, worthy of your own honorable beasts. Just think, Zinaida Mikhailovna, the wonderful roast pig I could prepare! Forget crayfish, pork's the thing! I've made an offer, three rubles for the shack and ten for the pig, when I sell my next story.

What are we to do with you!

Because, he said, sighing, I am disappointed that I have not found anything. The farm I saw last year would have been perfect. But . . . farmerly greed. For a few hundred rubles less, it could have been mine. Lately, I have not had the time or the heart to look. But Sasha Smagin has said he'd continue to look for me, in the Poltava region, at least.

Ah, Zinaida Mikhailovna, I feel . . . I feel I could do such good work if only I had a farmstead. A place where every member of my family could live and work if they wanted to; where I could be useful to the community as a doctor; where I would not have to go out and parade for the Moscow and Petersburg snobs. And the writers' colony, do you remember, Zinaida Mikhailovna? My idea? A creative utopia in a little corner of Ukraine. Natasha would laugh to keep the writers cheerful, and Elena would treat the writers for all sorts of ailments—writer's cramp, writer's block, inflammation of the coccyx, excessive melancholia—and you, Zinaida Mikhailovna, you would listen to the fruit of their endeavors and encourage them with your quiet devotion and expectant smile, and they would call you the Muse of Anton Pavlovich's writers' retreat.