The Summer Guest (5 page)

ANA DOUBLE-CHECKED THE SPELLING
of
Santurini.
It was not a typo in the Russian; in any event, that was how Chekhov himself spelled it. In her research, she found there had been a large Greek community in Russia in the nineteenth century, many of whom had settled along the shores of the Sea of Azov, to the northeast of the Black Sea. These Greeks had settled, too, in Taganrog, the small coastal town where Chekhov was born. Nostalgia for that island in the Aegean, perhaps, had manifested in the name of the wine they produced or imported; somehow the vowel had changed in its emigration from one alphabet to another.

Ana pulled out an old atlas she had bought at a
brocante
and looked at the map. Still the Soviet Union in this volume. Taganrog was to the very south of Russia, tucked in the curve of the border with Ukraine, not far from Donetsk. Her finger traced westward along the coast from Taganrog, crossing the border, and down around the crooked thumb of Crimea as it curled into the Black Sea; back again eastward and south from Taganrog to Sochi, just before the border with Georgia, and where the Winter Olympics were due to start in a few days. She tapped her finger on Sochi, then traced the border as it went north, curved around to the west, and came to Sumy, north of Kharkov, halfway to the Byelorussian Republic—now Belarus. On the map, distances were deceptively short, but Ana had read that the journey from Taganrog, or Crimea, to Moscow used to take several days even by train, and it must still be an overnight journey, at least.

She decided to splurge and put in an order for several biographies, a few DVDs of the plays, and some fine editions of collected
stories in English and in Russian. A good project to speed her through the winter. Her memories of Anton Chekhov were mostly vague, with one exception:
The Seagull,
which had been her first contact with the plays. The old theater in the center of San Francisco. She'd gone with her parents, grudgingly, sullenly, convinced that she was too old to be seen in public with them, convinced that the play would be
boring
. It was one of their last attempts to do something together as a family; now, of course, she looked back and was grateful that her parents had insisted she go with them. Because not long thereafter, their marriage had indeed collapsed. And then there were the play's opening lines:

MEDVEDENKO
:
Why do you always wear black?

MASH
A:
I am in mourning for my life. I am unhappy.

Ana had instantly been drawn to this young woman in her habit of melancholy, even though she was not the central, more beautiful, heroine. Masha's words might seem worn and tired to her now, but they still held the warmth and familiarity that had endeared Chekhov to her once and forever. At the time, Ana had already intuited the self-ironic truth to the cliché; nevertheless, she took up Masha's mantra and began to wear black herself. In the 1970s, she was seen as stylish by the other girls at school and then at university; stylish yet vaguely suspect, mistaken more than once for a French exchange student. With hindsight, she could see how Masha's mournfulness might have colored—darkened—her own attitudes during the significant years: She felt misunderstood and prone to inexplicable melancholy of her own. Perhaps it was hormones, or her parents' protracted divorce; perhaps it was all those Leonard Cohen songs she listened to, locked in her room. Until finally, she realized the potentially destructive irony of Masha's stance and her own: While it might be fashionable to wear black, the display of melancholy—as if you were some early
nineteenth-century Romantic—had definitely gone out of style. As Ana grew older, she learned to keep it to herself, for momentary lapses of Rachmaninov's
Isle of the Dead
or wistful nostalgia; wine made it worse, as did crowds; long walks in autumn or afternoons skiing through a forest in winter condoned it and told her there was nothing wrong with her, that she was merely in harmony with the seasons.

I am learning to find my way around the house and the garden on my own. I have been too dependent on the others—their kindness, their availability—and now that the good weather is here, I cannot be bound to my bed or my chair. Mama worried at first and followed me until I finally had to scold her. Grigory Petrovich has found me a solid stick to help me feel my way. Best of all, Rosa guides me out of doors; she walks patiently by my side, and I can hold her by the collar.

I have learned Luka all over again. No longer a place of colors and shapes; it is measured, surveyed, assessed by my feet, my stride. By space and an odd awareness of bulk or objects in my path. I usually go as far as Pasha's cottage or the guesthouse, but tomorrow I will try to go to the river. This morning I sat for a short while with Madame Chekhova, Evgenia Yakovlevna. She is soft-spoken and patient; she talks about her sons with a mixture of exasperation and pride. Anton Pavlovich is clearly the good boy, the one who makes sure his parents and sister lack for nothing; the two older brothers, Aleksandr and Nikolay, are as gifted as Anton, she says, but ever so troublesome; the two younger boys, Ivan and Mikhail, are good boys, like her Antosha, but not as brilliant, still finding their way.

And Maria Pavlovna, her only daughter, is the image of patience and devotion. Evgenia Yakovlevna sighed and said she was fortunate to have such a good girl helping with the upbringing of all those boys. Masha and Antosha are very close, she said.

Her husband, Pavel Yegorovich, will arrive at the end of June. In time for his name day, she said happily; I told her we should celebrate together, as it is also my brother's name day. It has been agreed, and we drew up a list of zakuski and dishes for Anya to prepare.

We have had a mountain of crayfish for dinner, courtesy of our fishermen guests. They did not join us, however, too tired and smelly, they protested. They ate out in the garden like farmhands.

I went this morning to sit under the willow by the river. I had a restless night, my brain clattering with thoughts about our guests. I was listening to the birds when I heard footsteps. I sat up straight, put on a ready expression, and waited. It was not a step I recognized—in any case, it's difficult to tell on the path, in the house it's something else. It wasn't Pasha or Georges, they would have called to me much sooner. A man's step, I supposed. Solid, no rustle of skirts.

He called my name, tentatively. I answered, Anton Pavlovich? He asked to sit beside me.

Naturally, there were pleasantries, the things you say when you don't know a person very well. He complimented us on the estate, the beauty of Luka, the kindness of the people; I asked him a few polite questions about Moscow, about his medical studies and practice. And all the time I was actually aching to ask him about his writing. He had seemed so self-deprecating the other night when we touched on the subject with the others, but I hoped today he might be more forthcoming with me. So when I thought we had dwelled long enough on pleasantries and I could sense an impatient fiddling of his fingers with the cloth of his suit, I plucked up my courage and said, So, you would like to write a novel.

It was a statement, not a question, but he said, As I told you the other night, where can I find the time, the concentration? I have so many pressing obligations.

Forgive me, this might be rather forward of me, but you must be sure it is what you want and not what others want for you, or what you feel you ought to do, and if you truly want it, then you must be sure you are not using your obligations as an excuse for your fear of beginning. Do you understand my point, Anton Pavlovich?

He was silent. I was afraid I had offended him. So I blundered on: I'm sorry, that's just my point of view, or not view, if you'll forgive the poor humor.

I paused, and as he had still said nothing and I felt a terrible blush coming over me, I tried to apologize: Anton Pavlovich, please forgive me, it's none of my business! It's just that if I had talent—a gift, like yours—I should not want to waste it on trifles—oh dear, that's not what I meant either, I'm sure your stories are wonderful and I'm eager to hear them—

I stopped, and heard his silence and the birds and the terrible echo of my blunt words. It is at times like this, thankfully not frequent, that I am particularly sorry to have lost my sight, for I could not see his expression or understand what effect my words might have had on him. On the other hand, perhaps that is a blessing, for it keeps me honest.

Very briefly and surprisingly, his fingertips grazed my wrist, and he said, Dear Zinaida Mikhailovna, we have just met, but people are rarely as honest with me as you have just been. You are quite right that I must not make excuses to delay what I genuinely want to do—perhaps I am afraid after all. You know, a novel is rather like a marriage, committing oneself to months or years of work, whereas a story is, yes, rather like—

He paused. I finished his sentence: A flirtation, an affair?

He laughed. You don't know me, but you know me well.

Like you, Anton Pavlovich, I am a doctor; perhaps it has nothing to do with art, but one develops a certain ability to diagnose not only the body but also the spirit, don't you think?

Very true, Zinaida Mikhailovna.

We were silent, then he changed the subject, asked about my medical studies and Dr. Chudnovsky, where had I been practicing, when had I stopped?

I've been completely blind for over a year now. It isn't getting better, clearly. Nor will it, I'm afraid.

And did any of the doctors—or you yourself—have any explanation for your illness?

I bent my head as if I could see my hands folded in my lap. No, Anton Pavlovich, alas, there is no explanation; why does lightning strike the oak and not the birch? Some religious person might point to a long-ago sin, but we are not like that in my family. The random cruelty of nature, that is all.

I am sorry.

You needn't be. You're a doctor, you know what life is.

The prognosis? Treatment?

I waved my hand. I am strong, I have always been in good health, I might live for a long time. But there is no treatment. Family. Luka.

Again I waved my hand to include everything I could no longer see.

I must apologize again, Anton Pavlovich, for my bluntness just now, my illness has made me too honest, on occasion to the point of rudeness, although I try not to—

Don't apologize, Zinaida Mikhailovna. You are right. I'm going to give serious thought to starting a novel. I know you will be an ally. But please don't mention it to the others—my sister Masha, or my friends when they arrive. They'll only badger me, in their way.

Rest assured, I'll say nothing.

We sat pleasantly for a while longer, talking of more trivial things. He is very impressed with our porcine menagerie. He has never seen robust pink and brown pigs wandering in and out of a human dwelling. He wanted to know their names so that he could tell his friends. I begged him not to make fun of us and our country ways. What is wrong with treating well-behaved porkers with the same respect you give to the dogs and cats?

He began to laugh uproariously. I should have been annoyed, for Pasha's sake—his prize pigs—but I could not help myself. I saw myself and my family as if we were onstage, seated around the samovar, talking about literature and politics, suddenly visited by our grunting beasts, the dogs running after them, eager to nab them by the ear.

Elena seems to have made quite an impression on Anton Pavlovich today.

They went out on house calls around the countryside, Anton Pavlovich very cheerful and teasing as they departed—how sad I was to be left behind! This was once my daily life, too, in almost any weather. We would take the sleigh in winter, and there was such a light across the fields at dusk, pink and golden on the snow; steam of the horses' breath, blankets across our laps . . .

But this is summer, and they took the small trap with Roman driving, just one horse, a new one that Pasha bought in the spring at the fair. Roman says the horse is the nervous sort, and he's of the opinion that Pasha has wasted his money and there'll be no end of problems with this mare, Agrifina. I remember the fuss at the time. Pasha countered that she'd be an excellent brood mare and would calm down in due time. Why they took her today, I have no idea—perhaps Grusha was lame or overworked—in any event, the mare grew
skittish on the road between Luka and Tokari in the typically mysterious way of animals, we don't know why there, more than elsewhere, but Elena suspects there must be a bull in the fields to the north of the road. Agrifina stopped this side of the small bridge over the stream and would not take another step. Roman made some Romanish groans and shouts and was reaching for the whip when Elena jumped down and went to the nervous mare, stood by her with one hand on her neck and the other on her nose, and just talked to her. In a calm, sweet voice, as if speaking to a child, was the way Anton Pavlovich described it, and after a minute of Roman grumbling and Anton Pavlovich offering to help and being told she could manage on her own, Elena took Agrifina by the reins, close to the bit, and led her over the bridge, talking all the while, looking back at the two men
as if we were useless children,
sighed Anton Pavlovich, and then she climbed back up into the trap and took the reins and drove them the rest of the way.

I see her: head held high, back arched, arms ramrod-straight before her, a proud nervousness about her, and something she would share with the animal before stepping aside for the men. I did not say as much to Anton Pavlovich, but clearly, he had never seen a woman so capable with a trace horse, and he even said as much. Then you haven't spent much time in the country, I countered, and he protested that he had spent many summers outside Moscow and had grown up in a fairly provincial sort of town where the countryside was never far away, but the ladies were generally afraid of horses and not about to deal with an animal's fear in addition to their own.

To me, Elena's behavior was not at all unusual; I have seen her react with equal courage and determination on numerous occasions. We have grown up with our beasts, we live with them. I felt a moment of bemused sympathy for Anton Pavlovich, that he was so poorly acquainted with this rich world of country life,
or knew it only for tea parties and fishing expeditions. I think he was rather annoyed when I said, It's only normal, it's what we do here. There was a moment's silence, and then he said, Well then, Zinaida Mikhailovna, if I write a novel and it is a success, I shall buy my own country estate and cultivate an understanding with my equine fellows, just as your sister has done.

He went on to tell me he'd met our regular lodger Artyomenko, the one who works at the Kharitonenko factory who is an avid fisherman; they would be going that evening to explore the waters around the islands. A grand fellow, he called him.

Before taking his leave, he asked me about the water bittern. Like many visitors to our region, he is intrigued by the bird's peculiar call and wonders if I know what it looks like, as he would like to see it while he is here. I tell him that it is difficult to get a proper sighting; moreover, if he asks the peasants, each one will describe the most fantastical creature, something like the Firebird, the Zhar-ptitsa, but never two versions alike.

May 20, 1888

Monsieur Pleshcheyev has arrived, and he has brought some scores for Georges! So in addition to poetry, we shall have new works by Tchaikovsky. When Anton Pavlovich learned of Georges's talent and his love of Tchaikovsky, which he says he shares, he wrote ahead and arranged for Monsieur Pleshcheyev to bring the scores.

Georges wants a few days to practice, and then we shall have an evening of words and music. Mama is terribly excited. I believe she feels all of Saint Petersburg—the good side, that is—has come to our drawing room.

Natasha, bold as ever, said to Anton Pavlovich that if we were
to have Pleshcheyev and Tchaikovsky, then we must surely also have Chekhov. He gave a short laugh, and there was a moment of silence until he agreed that he would read a story from a collection he had just had published, called
In the Twilight.

Later she told me he seemed almost annoyed, but flattered in a way as well, that he looked down at his feet before agreeing, as if requesting the consent of his toes.