After Love (3 page)

He was an actor at the Lenkom, the Komsomol Theatre, in Moscow. He had pneumonia too, but not as severe, and after a week he was parading up and down the ward cheering everyone up. Like most good actors he wasn't particularly handsome but he had charisma.

One evening he offered to paste mustard-strips on my back. I agreed only because I didn't want to offend him. But he didn't know the right way to do it. Within ten minutes there were burns all over my back.

Maria Fyodorovna was very annoyed. ‘Don't let that idiot come near you again,' she warned me.

But Vladimir was quite likeable. Everyone in the ward loved his funny performances, especially the poems about Catherine the Great and her lover, Prince Grigori Potyomkin. ‘Call me Volodya,' he told me, rejecting the formal Vladimir Vladimirovich.

‘How about V V?' I asked.

‘That sounds good. Very American.'

I found out later that he was a third-grade actor in the Lenkom. The grade wasn't a measure of his talent; it just reflected his current position in the theatre hierarchy. ‘Little roles in big plays and slightly bigger in smaller ones,' he would complain. He had considered giving up acting but the fear of turning into a petty bureaucrat or an alcoholic stopped him. ‘There is magic in your voice,' his friends often told him. ‘Don't waste it.' Fortunately he didn't and had turned himself into a compelling reader and performer.

‘You don't have a girlfriend, do you?' he used to pester me. ‘I can find you one.'

Luckily Natasha saved me from further harassment. Her appearance one Sunday convinced him that I wasn't so lonely after all.

I had met Natasha in the drawing class at the University. She was a good painter but preferred sketching and watercolours to oils. She had noticed how unsure I was with my own drawing and started coaching me.

I was grateful for her help and enjoyed our weekend trips in the countryside around Moscow.

‘You have a visitor,' I heard Vladimir saying at the door. ‘He's missing you,' he told Natasha.

‘I know,' she said as she approached my bed carrying armfuls of folders and plastic bags. I wondered why she looked so happy as she took off her blue coat and removed her
schapka
, her fur hat. She shook her head to release her long brown hair and kissed me, full on the lips. Her nose was cold and her breath sweet as morning dew. Her eyes had a warm glint that made me want to snuggle up to her.

‘I hear you've been very sick. Didn't I tell you that this country isn't good for you? It's too bloody cold. Go home, you idiot.' She paused and regarded me again. ‘And take me with you.'

She kissed me once more. ‘Look at you,' she laughed. ‘Haven't you been kissed by a girl before? I always wanted to do that, you know, but I wasn't sure how you'd react. But let me warn you: this won't happen again. That was your last kiss. Don't be scared; I won't come with you. I may hate the cold but I couldn't live without snow.'

‘Show me your lungs,' she then demanded. As she examined the X-rays she whispered: ‘
Bozhe moi!
(My God!) How beautiful they are. Tell me, why are they sick?' I pointed to the white splotches. ‘You mean these tiny buggers. Aren't they horrible?'

She abandoned the X-rays, opened her bag and pulled out presents: a big sketchbook, a few old issues of
The Times of India
and
The New York Times
which she must have got from Emma, my Scottish neighbour at the hostel, and a bag of red apples. ‘The apples are from
Beryozka.
' This is the shop used by tourists and rich Soviet apparatchiks, that only takes dollars. ‘I went with Emma and got myself a pair of stockings and a nice little bra. Here, you can feel it.' She pulled my head close and let me have a quick peek at the black bra under her white silky blouse.

She opened her bag again and took out a box of watercolours and brushes. ‘You know I like watercolours and I want you to like them as well. Don't be afraid. Once you've learnt how to use them you'll never look at oils again.'

She paused and looked round the ward. ‘Am I talking too much? Tell me honestly. Should I shut up?' I was speechless. I was still recovering from the shock of her sudden visit. ‘Oh, I almost forgot,' she continued. ‘I have something to show you. My real love is Saint-Exupéry. You know that, don't you?' She undid the strap of a large folder and spread before me illustrations she had drawn for
The Little Prince
. ‘They're for you,' she said. ‘My special present. I'm sure they'll gladden your heart.'

I examined the drawings but before she could get in another word, I told her about Anna. ‘Is she pretty?' she asked, quite unfazed. ‘I bet she is.' I said that I didn't know much more about her than that she was an archaeologist, that she wore glasses, and that the last time I had seen her she was carrying a beautiful Hungarian scarf her father had brought her from Budapest.

‘Shall I ring her for you?' asked Natasha.

‘No, please don't,' I hastily replied. ‘I can wait.'

‘But I can't. I'll go to the library and have a look at your Annushka from Leninka.'

Natasha wrote down the details: where the reading room was, the location of the table, the time Anna arrived and left, the number of coffee breaks she took, and the type of perfume she wore.

‘She sounds rich and bourgeois,' she announced. She noted Anna's phone number and added: ‘And she lives in Medvedkova. My sister's dreadful boyfriend lives there too.'

I was confined to the hospital for six weeks, twice as long as Vladimir. The day before he was discharged, he asked about the newspapers Natasha had brought in for me. He wanted to see them regularly.

‘I can't promise,' I told him, ‘but I'll try and get them for you.'

He gave me his address and phone number. Then he shook my hand and said: ‘
Dogovarilis?
(Agreed)

‘
Dogovarilis
,' I replied.

Anna

Vasu had mentioned to me once that he liked second-hand books, and this shop on Kuznetsky Most was one of the best. I had come to look for something on Bach for Aunty Olga. He was standing outside examining the books spread across the pavement. Just as I left the shop, he looked up, saw me and smiled.

I liked the way he smiled, closing his eyes a little. His smile lit up his face. There was a scar on his chin which quivered as his lips parted, a blemish I found endearing. His smile didn't last long. It quickly faded and he became serious again, as if not sure he should have smiled at all. I was intrigued by his reticence. Why was he so unsure of himself, so insecure? But he seemed intelligent, honest and sincere and his shyness suited him.

Perhaps he didn't think that women found him attractive. He was wrong. He was attractive enough to invite more than casual glances, and then you felt you wanted to talk to him, draw him out. At least that's what I had felt when I first saw him in the library.

‘I need a cup of coffee,' I told him and we found a café on Gorky Street. It had started snowing, those light powdery flakes that melt as soon as they fall.

That walk was special, he would later confess. So special that he used to relive it over and over in his dreams, in slow motion. He would remember the smallest details: my ponytail sticking out of my reddish cap; my opal earring; the tiny hole in my leather glove; the little flowers on my umbrella; snow sliding over my black boots. And the scarf, of course.

As the dream unrolled, he told me, he would be overcome with the desire to put his hand in the pocket of my coat. ‘I was happy then,' he would say.

‘Haven't seen you around,' I said. ‘You must have finished your work in the library?'

As usual, he hesitated.

‘You look so pale.' I prompted.

‘I was ill. Pneumonia. But I'm feeling better now.'

‘
Bednyashka
(Poor lonely man),' I thought. I raised my hand to touch his face, but stopped halfway. ‘Why didn't you phone?'

‘I did. Three times.'

‘And …?'

‘No one picked up the phone.'

‘I don't believe you,' I said and stared at him to let him know that I knew he was lying.

The café was crowded with people in wet overcoats, caps and boots. The air inside was hot, humid and stuffy. We found a table near the window and I offered to get the coffee. I brought it back, then left again for the bathroom. I was there a long time.

When I finally rejoined him, he looked subdued. ‘You didn't have to wait for me,' I said. ‘You thought I'd gone, didn't you?'

‘But you left your cello.'

‘I could have gone without it. Then you would have had to phone me.'

Again he was silent.

‘Did you miss me when you were in hospital?' I asked.

He didn't answer but the tentative smile and the quiver of the scar on his chin told me that he had.

‘You should have phoned and asked me to come and see you,' I said. ‘I would have.'

Again he was silent and I realised that if I wanted to get to know him I would have to learn to endure his non-replies.

I fiddled with my scarf and gazed out the window. He followed my glance and we both saw a fountain, its round stony basin full of snow and a couple of pigeons having a snow-bath. Suddenly I felt a slight movement from his hand.
Come on, don't be afraid
, I wanted to tell him, but his hand remained where it was.

‘Do you love playing the cello?' he asked abruptly.

‘Of course,' I answered, still watching the pigeons. ‘You know, I think I knew you were ill. Something strange happened to me one night when I couldn't sleep. I got up, picked up my cello and started playing. I sat near the window, looking out. And I felt I saw you. You were lying in a hospital bed. Your face was pale and resting on a raised pillow, illuminated by a cold white moon.'

He didn't say anything. I looked at my watch. I was late for the rehearsal. ‘I have to go,' I said, and got up.

We left the café and walked to the Metro station. On the escalator I asked if he would like to come to the concert. ‘I'd love to,' he replied and I quickly scribbled down the address. I told him that the concert was free and that I would wait for him in the main entrance hall.

My train arrived first and I rushed on. Didn't look back, didn't wave.

Vasu

I stood near the cloakroom watching the audience leave. Slowly the lights were turned off and the cleaners arrived with brooms, pans and brushes. Anna had told me to wait for her.

The concert had been wonderful. At least that's what I would have told Natasha, but the music I had enjoyed wasn't the most important part. As soon as it started and I saw Anna onstage I not only lost track of what I was hearing but failed to take in a single note.

I had read the programme beforehand and been ready to enjoy it all, especially the second piece, Shostakovich's String Quartet No. 12, because in it the cello took the lead. But my desire to keep watching Anna, every tiny movement she made, was so strong that I was forced to look away. I searched for something else on the stage to distract myself, but failed. Anna, beautiful and intense, was all I wanted to watch.

As I waited for her near the cloakroom I knew I had to calm down before she reappeared. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to talk to her properly and my stupid smile would make her angry and spoil the evening.

Perhaps I should just walk away? I even turned towards the door. Then I heard her call: ‘Wait for me.' She was rushing down the stairs, her cello bobbing up and down. ‘Sorry!' she said. ‘I had to say goodbye to my friends. They've gone to the café. Would you like to meet them?'‘I really don't know,' I said and Anna quickly saw my hesitation and changed her mind. She said she would phone them later.

It was already late on a cold and windy night. There was not a sniff of snow in the air nor a speck of star in the sky. She let me carry her cello, put her arm through mine and spoke very softly. ‘Let's walk together. I know you walk slowly. You do everything slowly; but I like your slow ways. I should slow down as well. “Don't rush”, my Aunty Olga is always scolding me. She's my father's sister. Strict, but deep down very kind. She loves me very much and I love her too. She taught me the cello, you know.'

She peered at me closely. ‘I hope she likes you. I know Papa will.' She paused and glanced in my direction.

‘I liked your playing,' I said

‘Why?'

I didn't know how to explain it.

‘Come on – you should know. Give me at least one reason.'

‘Maybe because of the way you were holding it, tucked between your knees and thighs, embracing it, and—'

‘And?'

‘The way you stretched your neck, then bent it to one side, smiled and—'

‘And?'

‘Breathed in. I could feel the breath go in and out and—'

‘And?'

‘Oh – I almost forgot.'

I suddenly remembered the bouquet I had put into my coat pocket. I pulled it out. The cellophane wrapper had slipped and one of the flowers was hanging precariously from its stem.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Don't be silly.' Anna stopped, snapped the broken flower off and ate it. Then she started to laugh and cough.

‘Do you need a drink?' I asked.

‘No. No,' she laughed. ‘But I want to know who told you to bring me carnations?'

‘No one,' I lied.

An old woman who sold flowers at a kiosk at the University had recommended them. ‘Take these, boyfriend,' she had told me. ‘They're beautiful. I'm sure she'll like them. Don't be shy; give her the bouquet and kiss her hand.' When she saw my reluctance, she repeated it: ‘Yes, kiss her hand. Do you understand?'

The woman warned me not to be out too late that night. I knew why: a maniacal killer was roaming the streets, attacking women and their companions. Eleven women, mostly young and wearing wedding rings, had been raped, killed or mutilated. As usual, nothing had been reported in the newspapers, leaving people free to spread wild rumours about the victims and the killer. Some thought he was an escapee from a mental hospital, while others suspected a runaway from a convict train passing through Moscow. Others believed there were two or even three killers, trying to outdo one another. The most bizarre theory was that the killer was a transvestite who dressed and behaved like a woman during the day but at night turned into a man.