Flight Without End

VII

I have already mentioned that Tunda was attracted to the quiet girl in the Caucasus named Alja, niece of the dunder-headed potter. Of all Tunda’s actions and experiences which sometimes seem strange to me, the one I can most easily understand is his relationship with Alja. In the midst of Revolution, of historical and personal chaos, she lived like an emissary from another world, an ambassador from an unfamiliar power, cool and curious, probably as little capable of love as of intelligence, stupidity, good or evil, of all the earthly qualities which go to form a character. It was mere chance that she happened to have a human face and a human body! She betrayed no sign of emotion, of joy, anger or sorrow. Instead of laughing she showed her teeth, two white rows, neatly locked, a beautiful prison for any utterance. Instead of crying — she rarely wept — she allowed a few large bright tears to flow from wide-open eyes over a friendly placid face, tears which could not possibly be thought of as salty like all the common tears of this world. Instead of expressing a wish she indicated the desired object with her eyes; it seemed as if she was unable to long for anything outside her field of vision. Instead of refusal or rejection, she shook her head. She only displayed evidence of great agitation when, at the cinema, someone in front obstructed her view of the screen. In any case the surface of the screen was too small for her; she had to see every detail; she was probably more interested in the clothes of the characters or the impersonal matter of the furnishing of a room than in drama or catastrophe.

My description of Alja must be confined to conjecture. Even Tunda knew little more about her, though he lived with her for almost a year. That he came together with her seems obvious, as I have already said. He did not, alas, have what is described as an ‘active temperament’. (However, it would be just as false to speak of his ‘passivity’.) Alja received him like a quiet room. Having renounced all desire for exertion, struggle, excitement or even annoyance, he lived away from the main stream. He did not even have to be in love. He was spared even the minor domestic strategies. By day Alja helped her uncle, the potter. When evening came she slept with her man. There is no healthier life.

Meanwhile a deputy was appointed in Tunda’s place. He himself had to go to Baku with his wife to make films for a scientific institute.

It seemed to him that the most important part of his life lay behind him. The time to give himself up to illusions was over. He had passed his thirtieth year. In the evenings he went down to the sea and listened to the sad scant music of the Turks. Every week he wrote to his Siberian friend, Baranowicz. During this period when they did not see each other, Baranowicz really became his brother. Tunda’s name was not a fiction. Tunda was really Franz Baranowicz, citizen of the Soviet state, a contented official, married to a silent woman, resident in Baku. Perhaps his homeland and his earlier life returned to him sometimes in dreams.