Solovyov and Larionov

14

The next morning did not portend scandal. The surface of the sea looked polished, without ripples. The wind that had been blowing in the evening had been replaced by conciliatory airy waves. Those waves blended a morning coolness with a barely discernible smell of fish, and Solovyov liked that mix very much. But scandal did come to pass.

Kvasha and Schwartz led the morning session. More precisely, Schwartz led it and Kvasha sat next to her. She took the microphone at the very beginning and then did not let it out of her hands. Kvasha did not protest. Initially, he contemplated the crystal chandeliers in the hall, but then he began quickly writing something on the papers lying in front of him.

Just before the first presenter came on, a rather short man wearing a tracksuit appeared on the stage. Swaying slightly, he walked to the moderators’ table and leaned his hand on it. He stood motionless for a while, gazing at the floor.

‘Who are you?’ the good-natured Schwartz asked him in her choppy, accented Russian.

‘Me?’ The man paused. ‘Well, let’s say I’m the lighting technician.’

He crouched and placed his elbows on the table.

‘You look very tired,’ said Schwartz.

The man calling himself the lighting technician nodded.

He reached for the pitcher, poured himself some water, and drank.

‘I’m just a little tired.’

He rose to his feet and slowly walked away. Moscow researcher Papitsa was already standing below, by the stairs, waiting for the stage to free up. The small Papitsa cast a contemptuous glance at the lighting technician then flew up the stairs. He was wearing a tuxedo and his bow tie peered out only occasionally from underneath a long beard that seemed to be the wrong size. His icicle-like mustache scattered threateningly in various directions. This made him look simultaneously like Don Quixote, Salvador Dali, and Felix Dzerzhinsky. Taken individually, those figures had nothing in common with Papitsa. The presenter’s beard, tuxedo, and abrupt motions reminded Solovyov of the puppet show that came to his school before each New Year holiday.

He’d loved those performances for the puppets’ spiffy costumes, the spangles on the curtains, the aroma of a holiday tree that had already been placed in the corner of the assembly room but was not yet decorated, and the thought of an upcoming vacation. He loved those performances even in high school, when completely different things interested him, when he stealthily squeezed Leeza’s hand while they were in the assembly room and thought about how they were sitting at a children’s show but were connected by a relationship that was not childlike; that made him unbelievably turned on.

Solovyov cautiously turned his head and scanned the room for Dunya. She was sitting two rows away from him. She was sitting very straight, and not taking her eyes off the stage. That, thought Solovyov, must be how an outcast woman sits. For the first time, he felt something like sympathy for her.

The audience awaited Papitsa’s paper with impatience. This was not related to the researcher having some sort of high standing in historical science. Papitsa did not have high standing. This was not even connected with Papitsa’s beard, which made his oral presentations far more attractive than the written ones. The reason for the interest lay in generaliana’s fundamental question, which was expressed in his paper’s title: ‘Why Did the General Remain Alive?’

There was movement in the lighting balcony, just as Papitsa began his paper. The face of the man who had gone onstage came into sight behind the balcony’s steel structure; a moment later, spotlights began shining, one after another. Backlighting was coming only from the right balcony, causing sinister black shadows to form onstage. Two colored beams—green and dark blue—were directed at the co-chairs.

Papitsa read with an energetic delivery, gesturing and stamping his feet as he stood. He was reading in the literal sense, without taking his eyes from the text. His gnarled fingers slid along the edge of the lectern, sometimes coming away from it, sometimes falling still. Papitsa leaned on the microphone from time to time, deafening the audience with the crackling of his beard. Then he would push himself sharply away from the lectern so his body would stretch up perfectly straight, inclining and then freezing at that unnatural angle.

Papitsa painstakingly enumerated the reasons why the general should have been shot. There were, in the researcher’s assessment, twenty-seven reasons. At the same time, there were only two alternatives for avoiding execution. The general did not use either; implied were escape to Constantinople or going underground. From this, there followed the existence of a third alternative, hitherto unknown. This alternative for escaping the firing squad was—and here the presenter straightened up and looked into the audience—collaboration with the Reds.

The researcher’s argumentation was not new. Papitsa repeated conjecture about the general meeting with Dmitry Zhloba, things that had been stated back in the day, both in the émigré and the Soviet press, in Krivich’s Ten Years Later as well as Drel’s At the Front Line, but he did not draw in any additional evidence. Papitsa did not know the results of Solovyov’s work, showing that on the night of June 13–14, 1920, from 23:55 until 03:35, Zhloba’s and General Larionov’s armored trains stood facing each other at the station in Gnadenfeld. Going further than his predecessors, Papitsa also surmised that Dzerzhinsky (at this moment, the presenter looked, extraordinarily, like Dali) had recruited Larionov back in 1918 and that Larionov fulfilled all the Cheka’s assignments to the letter from then on. The researcher explained the general’s resounding victories as tactical considerations. He surmised that they were launched with the goal of deflecting attention from the decisive battle in the autumn of 1920 at Perekop, which the general allegedly lost under an agreement. Papitsa called all the battles waged before that ‘staged’ and appealed for them not to be taken seriously.

‘General Larionov was a Cheka agent for the entire Civil War, from beginning to end,’ concluded the presenter. ‘And there’s your answer to the question of why he was not executed.’

‘He’s lying,’ rang out a female voice in the auditorium.

A lady was moving toward the stage along the center aisle of the parterre. A click sounded in the lighting balcony and Papitsa found himself in the center of a red beam.

‘If I may,’ said Kvasha, moderating, ‘The general had better alternatives for helping the Reds, though. Why, then, one might ask, would he wait around until November 1920…?’

The lady walking through the hall went up on the stage and approached the presenter. Solovyov recognized her when she turned toward the audience. She was Nina Fedorovna Akinfeeva.

‘He’s lying,’ Nina Fedorovna repeated into the microphone.

She was exactly a head taller than the speaker. Papitsa ran a hand along his red beard, ‘I’m open to counterarguments. Prove to me that I’m wrong.’

Without saying a word, Nina Fedorovna took him by the beard and led him out from behind the lectern. Papitsa did not resist. As they walked through the parterre, another spotlight came on and followed them right to the exit. Nina Fedorovna’s face expressed rage. Papitsa’s face (it was turned upward) was devoid of expression. Once the two of them had disappeared behind the velvet drape at the exit, Alex Schwartz announced Solovyov’s paper. The emancipation of Russian women had exceeded all her expectations.

Solovyov felt close to desperation. This was the second time he had seen Nina Fedorovna Akinfeeva and the second time she had eluded him. Even as he began his paper, he kept glancing at the velvet drape, hoping Nina Fedorovna would return after all. But she did not come back.

Solovyov handled himself calmly behind the lectern. He had read this paper for the small Yalta circle so felt no anxiety now. He did not even glance at the text. As he was presenting, he noticed everything taking place in the audience and on the stage. The cannery director nodded sympathetically from the first row of the parterre as Solovyov spoke. Schwartz occasionally said something to Kvasha, who shrugged in reply. The lighting technician’s face flashed again somewhere among the spotlights and then, drawn by some outside force, disappeared from the balcony forever. Papitsa, who had returned to the room unnoticed, was sitting in the back row. Only Nina Fedorovna was missing.

Solovyov looked around again after finishing his paper. He had always been interested in how actors feel onstage. Do they hear chairs creaking? A cough? Whispering in the parterre? Now he knew: they hear it. They see when someone is leaving the hall, half bent over. That is annoying. At Kvasha’s nod, Solovyov left the podium. Deliberately and with dignity, as a person not in a hurry.

Solovyov heard the next presenter begin as he walked past the first half of the rows of the parterre. He thought he should stay in the auditorium a few more minutes, if only as a courtesy. He thought that but did not stop. He felt fatigue. Without slowing his pace, Solovyov walked to the end of the parterre and exited the hall. Nina Fedorovna was smoking nervously by one of the columns. She was watching the door intently, obviously believing Papitsa had gotten out of this too easily. Deliberating whether or not to repeat her impressive performance with the researcher.

Solovyov felt unrestrained by gravity. It seemed as if he would be carried away by the very first gust of a sea breeze and his meeting with Nina Fedorovna would, again, not take place. But he was not carried off. After sensing solid ground under his feet, Solovyov took a step toward the elderly woman. He touched her arm with the gesture of someone capturing the Firebird. He knew she would not escape now.

‘That was great… how you got him.’ Solovyov smiled, lost. He had waited a long time for this conversation but had not imagined it would begin like this.

‘Uh-huh.’

Surprise replaced indignation. Nina Fedorovna took a deep drag on the cigarette.

‘I’m writing my dissertation about the general… I need your help.’

Solovyov began speaking quickly and muddledly, as if he were afraid Nina Fedorovna would refuse. He told her about what he had already accomplished in Petersburg and even named most of the corrections he had made to Dupont’s data. Nina Fedorovna listened to him sympathetically, though a bit absently, too. Clearly, she could not keep up with the abundance of figures Solovyov cited. Nina Fedorovna went to the waste bin (Solovyov went with her), put out her cigarette butt on its concrete edge, and shot it into the urn’s maw like a catapult, with two fingers. Nina Fedorovna lit another cigarette when Solovyov began telling her about his Yalta investigations. She livened up noticeably during the story about his searches with Zoya. After some hesitation, Solovyov decided to describe it all.

After hearing him out to the very end, Nina Fedorovna said, ‘But the general’s memoirs about his childhood were with us, at home. Why did you have to get into Kozachenko’s?’

Solovyov looked closely at Nina Fedorovna. She was not joking.

‘It’s just that Zoya said…’

‘Zoya’s a difficult girl.’ Nina Fedorovna smiled. ‘I was the same. You don’t believe me?’

Solovyov did not answer. After a pause, he said, ‘So that means none of the general’s memoirs are lost?’

‘What the general dictated to me was kept…’ Nina Fedorovna went silent. Her tone assumed further questioning.

‘So then what has been lost?’

‘Not long after the general’s death, his son came to visit. He asked what of his father’s was left. I gave him a notebook the general himself wrote.’ Nina Fedorovna leaned against the column and closed her eyes. The corners of her lips turned up.

‘And where’s his son now?’

‘I don’t know.’

Solovyov leaned against the column opposite her. Atlantis and a caryatid. His fatigue had returned.

‘I remember. He went to some little settlement. He left an address.’ As before, Nina Fedorovna kept her eyes closed. ‘Not even a settlement, a railroad station. A platform.’

Solovyov felt the column begin wobbling behind his back.

‘And what…’ he was already listening to himself from a distance, ‘what was the station called?’

‘I don’t remember. Some woman there took pity on him

so he stayed.’ Nina Fedorovna opened her eyes and her face grew serious. ‘She simply took pity on him.’

‘Maybe it was Kilometer 715?’

A street-cleaning truck emerged out from behind a bed of nasturtiums. A rainbow began developing in the droplets that hung over the flowers.

‘Maybe… May well be. That’s where he went.’

Solovyov went back into the hall. He listened inattentively to the other papers. The presenters and the conference and Crimea itself had suddenly lost his interest. He was thinking about the only spot on earth where everything that had been significant to him at varying times in his life had come together: the general’s manuscript, Leeza Larionova (Leeza Larionova!) and, finally, his own home. He was thinking about Kilometer 715.

Solovyov understood that this coincidence was not accidental. It was no longer a coincidence but a coalescence. The more unbelievable the joining seemed, the more non-accidental it became. This non-accident proved the correctness of the direction that had opened up for the searching, but its importance—the sudden realization of Leeza’s importance in his life made him shudder—was the main proof. On top of everything else (Solovyov remembered this in the final moment and felt drops of sweat on his brow) Leeza’s patronymic was Filippovna. This final proof was already unnecessary—it was superfluous—but Solovyov accepted it gratefully, too. He did not understand why he had not written to Leeza once in all those years. That was inexplicable.

No matter what a person studies, he is studying himself. Thus spoke Prof. Nikolsky. It fascinated Solovyov that the direction of his search was approaching, closer and closer, the line of his own life. He was stunned by the interweaving of material from his research and his own fate, and by their indivisibility and harmony. If he had ever genuinely loved Leeza, then that was what was happening at this very moment.

Stroking the armrest of his seat on the bus every now and then, Solovyov imagined her hand. He remembered the freshness of her lips as his temple sensed the coolness of the window glass. He thought only of Leeza the whole way to Yalta. He wanted her as never before. Wanted her as the general’s granddaughter. As the one to transform him into a relative of her important grandfather. And, of course, as Leeza, his first woman. The scholar’s coalescence with his material had reached its apogee.

What did he know about Leeza’s parents? Her mother was a railroad track inspector. A weary woman with hair as coarse as wire that was always coming out from under her headscarf. Melting snowflakes glistened on it when Leeza’s mother came in from the cold. Leeza had different hair. Very soft. Smelling of sweet smoke because she dried it over the woodstove. Leeza’s mother smelled of fuel oil. She did her rounds of the tracks depending on her mood. She could be out for the whole day. Or an hour. It was impossible to guess in advance how long she would be absent. It was he who had thought to place the pail by the garden gate as a signal. It could not be used all the time; it would have raised suspicion.

Her father… Solovyov remembered him vaguely. Remembered he was tall. Unshaven. He began all his sentences with well. Well, hello. Well, a blizzard. Not an especially distinguishing feature; nobody would have noticed it, if not for Solovyov’s grandmother. You don’t have to say ‘well’ all the time (she would say). He would smile. Ask for three rubles until payday. Don’t worry, everything will turn out well anyway (said Solovyov’s grandmother). She would give him three rubles. Moistening her fingers with saliva as she counted out each ruble. Rarely did she give just one bill, a three-note. Banknotes over one ruble made her leery. Sometimes change popped out of her fingers and he would gather it off the floor. Occasionally, he would ask permission to sit for a while on the bench. Well, I’ll rest a bit, okay? He smelled of alcohol. Solovyov did not yet know it was alcohol. It was the smell of Leeza’s father. Leeza’s father would not go home. He would sit down on the bench, not taking off his coat. His rabbit-fur hat would slide down his face. He would sleep and be calm. Finally, he disappeared somewhere. Completely disappeared.

Solovyov arrived in Yalta late that evening. It began to rain as he was standing at the trolleybus stop. It was raining even though there did not seem to be clouds in the star-strewn sky. Solovyov decided against waiting for the trolleybus and headed home on foot. The rain was nice after the afternoon heat. It was not a heavy rain; its fine drops reminded him of a thickly condensed fog. By the city market, Solovyov turned on Kirov Street, formerly Autskaya Street. Music carried from the embankment and every so often a spotlight beam appeared somewhere overhead. The beam slid along the tops of the cypress trees and the wet cupolas of the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral.

Everything on Palmiro Togliatti Street was just as it had been two days ago. The creaky staircase, the dim bulb under the canopy over the door. It occurred to Solovyov that this resembled a homecoming. After many years. Coming home as another person. He lingered as he was turning on the light in the room, as if he feared seeing something unexpected there. No, everything was the same. Everything.

Solovyov took the bag off his shoulder. It was heavy. The cannery director had handed him some examples of their products when they said their goodbyes. He had called Solovyov ‘the very same Solovyov’ again and said he was proud to know him. Neither the director nor Solovyov clarified the meaning of ‘the very same.’ Solovyov was, for himself, always ‘the very same.’ He had taken the cans so as not to offend the director. Now he decided to sample them.

Solovyov pulled out one of the cans at random and opened it. The right-angled can with the lid flying up over it reminded him of a grand piano. It was goby fish in tomato sauce.

Someone rang the doorbell.

It rang again. Solovyov continued looking, focused, at the fish. Their understated tomatoed existence seemed like the height of orderliness. It did not allow even the thought of having chaos in one’s life. But chaos existed. It had raced into Solovyov’s life and carried him away, into its vortex. Flinging him into the Kozachenko apartment, into the Vorontsov Museum, and into the insane nighttime rowing amidst raging waves. That chaos was Zoya. Solovyov had no doubt it was Zoya ringing. He stood and looked at his reflection in the china cabinet. Went to the door. After one more ring, he moved the bolt aside. Taras stood in the doorway, ‘I knew you were home. I’ve been watching the windows.’

Solovyov silently invited him in. Taras moved toward the center of the room fitfully, as if he were sidestepping. He set his hands on the back of a chair. He stood crookedly, his head bent toward his shoulder.

‘I have a favor to ask you,’ said Taras. ‘Leave.’

Solovyov remained silent. Somewhere outside, a door opened, spilling out the sounds of clattering dishes, music, and guests’ cries. A moment later, everything went quiet.

‘Leave. She’s impossible to handle. You’ll be done for with her.’

‘What about you?’

Taras kept silent.

‘Did you know about the searches in your room?’ asked

Solovyov.

‘I put the papers there myself, where she said to.’

Taras lowered himself slowly onto the chair. For a moment, Solovyov was afraid Taras was losing consciousness, but he was not.

‘Did you know we’d go to the Vorontsov Palace, too?’

‘Of course. I was there that night.’

Taras looked Solovyov in the eye for the first time. There was nothing in that gaze but sadness. Solovyov turned away,

‘So why did you agree to it?’

‘That’s what she wanted.’ Taras’s fingers touched the fish can. They slid along the rim of the lid, as if symbolizing Taras’s own rather difficult journey. Solovyov felt like he had become a witness to some sort of drama that he did not quite understand but that was undoubtedly a drama, and he started to feel sorry for the man sitting before him.

‘Do you want some tea?’

‘I got you a ticket for tomorrow, to Petersburg.’

Taras said this without taking his gaze from the fish in tomato sauce—Taras himself (it occurred to Solovyov) was essentially one of those fish. Why was he suffering like this with Zoya? Why was he enduring all these passions? Taras hesitated, then took the ticket from his breast pocket and placed it in front of Solovyov. It was curled. Not wanting to flatten out.

‘I’m not going to Petersburg,’ said Solovyov, sticking the ticket back in Taras’s pocket. ‘But I am leaving. Tomorrow. And I’ll try not to see Zoya.’

Taras silently offered his hand. It was limp and damp. Of course, with hands like those Taras could not count on Zoya’s love.

Solovyov left the house early in the morning. He truly was going. He did not feel that he owed anything since he had paid for more days than he had stayed. He left the key to the room with the neighbors.

Solovyov turned onto Chekhov Street instead of going to the trolleybus. Despite the weight of his bag, he felt like walking part of his route to the bus station. He was saying goodbye to Yalta. Without knowing it himself, Solovyov was walking along the same route as General Larionov walked one evening in August, around the 24th, in 1938. He was walking around in military-style trousers, albeit without stripes. And a tunic. The general did not stand out in the crowd wearing that clothing. Many people dressed like soldiers during the thirties. The military style was fashionable in that epoch.

The general was walking around without stripes on his trousers, but of course it was obvious to everyone that this was a general. His army bearing could be sensed in how he held his head, the way his shoulders turned, and the confidence with which he treaded, from his heel to his toes. A military man through and through. Upper echelon of the officer corps. His arms moved in time with his gait: lightly, confidently, but not swinging. The general displayed restraint in his every action.

At the corner of Botkinskaya and Chekhova Streets, he stopped at a kiosk selling carbonated water. Water cost ten kopecks without syrup, thirty with syrup. The general asked for water with syrup. He took the glass, which sweated instantly, and observed the swirling bubbles for a few seconds. The foam on the surface was exploding with thousands of the very finest droplets; they could just barely be felt when the glass came close to the cheek. The general delighted in how little bubbles rose behind the thick glass, after springing up within each of the glass’s facets. Oleander blossoms pinkened through the bubbles as if they were in a magic lantern. Pedestrians slipped past. A bicyclist rode past. A cart with milk canisters. The sharp smell of a horse.

It was hot in Yalta despite the evening hour. The general delighted in drinking his carbonated water. His Adam’s apple moved in time with his swallows. He took a handkerchief from his tunic pocket and wiped his sweaty brow. Noiselessly placed the glass on the wooden counter. Elongated contours of growth rings retained remnants of paint. Wasps crawled along round syrupy spots. The general lifted his glass again, slowly turned it over, and covered one of the wasps. Both he and the water saleswoman observed the insect’s behavior. The wasp slowly took flight, made several circles under the glass, and touched the top with a buzz. Fell. Clambered up again, climbing along the side, and went still. The general turned the glass over (the gesture of someone releasing doves), allowing the wasp to fly out. The wasp was in no hurry. Moving in a spiral, it reached the edge of the glass. Flew off, dignified. The drinking glasses jingled finely when a truck drove by. The water saleswoman wiped her hands on her apron.

‘Another glass?’

The general looked pensively at the saleswoman. The carelessly styled hair, the starched headpiece. He was looking through the saleswoman.

‘No,’ the general said. Focus returned to his gaze. ‘There’s no need.’

Yes, this was August 24. There was no doubt. 1938. Judging from the stuffiness of the evening, there would be a thunderstorm during the night. The first clouds were gathering over the Oreanda Hotel. The sun was shedding its final rays on the St. John Chrysostom Church. The general was walking along Chekhov Street. He watched holidaymakers with beach bags, parasols, and towels on their shoulders. Some were wearing pajamas.

The tango. So light, as if from afar. Swelling. A high male voice soared over an orchestra. A band stage revealed itself behind wrinkled acacia trunks. Woodwinds glinted. And a banjo glinted. Musicians in white suits and Latin American hats just as white. A trumpeter soloed. He gave all his air to the trumpet, barely able to inhale on time. The embodiment of exhalation. His cheeks were like a caricature but his lips were refined and sensual.

People were dancing by the band stage. Little by little, they made way, yielding the space to one couple. He. A predator with hair the color of a raven’s wing. A belligerently straight part. A roomy, pleated shirt that hung over narrow trousers. A wet stripe on the back. She. A dove in a white dress. When he spun her, her head tilted back slightly. Weak-willed to some extent. All of her in his arms. His leg sank into the froth of her dress. She still managed to elude him.

From Chekhov Street, the general went to Morskaya Street. To his left, a two-wheeled cart turned with a clatter. Its wheels skidded slightly on the polished cobblestones. Grass was breaking its way through a stone drain gutter. The street led to the sea and the general’s heart filled with joy. Even as a child he had loved streets leading to the sea. He saw grounds for hope with the sudden appearance of blueness between two rows of houses.

The general walked up to a pharmacy. It occupied the first level of a squat two-story building. Oak door, copper doorknob, little bell. Art nouveau style. A spring pulled the heavy door back with a creak. The pharmacy seemed cool after the street. And quiet. The general appreciated coolness and quiet. He waited until the pharmacist, Kologrivov, came out after hearing the bell. There were small test tubes, little boxes, and vials behind the cabinets’ thick glass. The smell of liquid medicines and Extra tooth powder. The general wanted to have a talk with the pharmacist about causes of death. About death overall.

Kologrivov welcomed the general. He was a quiet, gray-haired man with a fleshy nose—the end of his nose looked bulbous. Blue eyes. The general came here to relax because he found Kologrivov’s calm pleasant. The general usually sat in the chair behind the dressing screen and listened as Kologrivov sold medicines. Those who came to the pharmacy required iodine, Vishnevsky ointment, diarrhea remedies, cotton wool, bandages, dried chamomile, condoms, and Condy’s crystals. Rarer: castor oil and fish oil. They required advice. Pharmacist Kologrivov gave it in a soft voice (he never raised his voice). This gave General Larionov a sense of coziness. He felt as he had in childhood when he would hide among the coats and furs in the entryway, listening to the servants’ leisurely discussions. Sometimes he would fall asleep. Sometimes the general fell asleep and Kologrivov would speak with clients in a half-whisper, so as not to wake Larionov.

It was nine in the evening. Kologrivov locked the pharmacy and invited the general into the adjoining room. There were educational posters hanging there, depicting the human body at various ages. Michelangelo’s David divided the ages up to thirty and the ages after thirty. Separate visual aids there highlighted the circulatory system, digestive system, nervous system, and male skeleton (front view). With pointer in hand, pharmacist Kologrivov intended to talk about each of the systems but began his story with the skeleton.

The skeleton, which supports everything, is composed of 206 bones. The skull—which had always seemed, to the general, to be something seamless—has 29 (for a total of 235, the general mechanically noted). As Larionov attempted to imagine himself as a skeleton, he groped at his eye socket with a finger. This was far from the first time he had acted this way, something the pharmacist was aware of.

The general interrupted Kologrivov, ‘People say the skull’s contours show through on a person’s face before his death.’

‘That happens when death sets in by natural means.’

The general nodded and looked pensively at the skeleton.

‘And what if death sets in by unnatural means?’

‘Then the skull’s contours show through only after death.’

It was darkening outside. Kologrivov spoke of blood circulation. In front of him was a yellowed diagram of lesser and greater blood circulation. Arteries were denoted in red, veins in blue. The general liked this combination of colors. He unbuttoned one of his tunic sleeves and examined his blue veins. This did not escape the pharmacist’s gaze. He continued his story about blood: a person has an average of five or six liters. It is pumped by the heart, (weight: around 300 grams), which consists of two halves, left and right. Each half has an atrium and a ventricle. Kologrivov circled them with the pointer. The atrium received blood, the ventricle pushed it out.

‘Cold metal pierces my living heart…’ the general softly declaimed.

‘The most perfect pump in the world.’

‘Piercing something so well thought-out,’ said the general, choosing his words, ‘a creation so refined and vital, is that not a crime?’

‘Instant unnatural death.’

‘What could be more unnatural…’

The general fell silent. He discovered there was a double ‘n’ in the last word he had uttered.

Pharmacist Kologrivov explained briefly about the digestive system and the nervous system. At the general’s request, he moved on to examine natural death. Now there were posters in the foreground depicting the body at various ages. After hesitating slightly, Kologrivov took out a depiction of a person’s development in the womb and hung that alongside the others. He scratched the back of his head.

‘I don’t see the one about conception,’ said Kologrivov.

‘You want to say that conception is the beginning of natural death?’

‘Perhaps. I suspect our delivery boy took that one.’

Kologrivov talked about conception without the poster. Addressing the time in the womb, he showed the embryo’s position. This pose was familiar to the general. His soldiers sat this way in Perekop during autumn 1920. The general ordered them to use their last supplies of kindling wood to light fires. He forced the soldiers to jump over them. He raced around that icy desert like a madman, saving the remnants of his army. He attempted to rouse his soldiers, prodded them under the ribs, pounded their cheeks…

Could an embryo be roused? As he listened to pharmacist Kologrivov, the general felt an understanding coming to him in hindsight. His soldiers had no longer thirsted for victory. They were not dreaming of women. Or money. They were not even dreaming of warmth. Their exhaustion was deeper than wishes like those. More than anything on earth, his soldiers wanted to return to their mothers’ wombs.

The transformation of a pink, wrinkled creature into a child. Adolescent age. Pubic hair growing in, enlargement of the member (for men), change of voice. Awakening of sexual instincts.

‘That was the age I suddenly realized I would die, too,’ said the general. ‘This was the time of first nocturnal emissions.’

‘Immortality leaves along with innocence,’ said the pharmacist. He moved the pointer again from the Adolescent poster to the Child poster. ‘Children don’t believe they’ll die.’

Complete rebuilding of the body. Intense growth of the skeleton and muscle mass. Changes in the hormonal realm, the metabolism, etcetera. The body begins having a smell, especially the soles of the feet. Socks have to be changed as frequently as possible. Pimples. Under no circumstances should they be squeezed with dirty hands. A child’s soft features sharpen, cheekbones become prominent. A beard and mustache begin growing (primarily for men). The human body develops—Kologrivov approached the image of David—until around the age of thirty.

‘And then?’ asked the general, admiring.

‘It develops then, too, but in the opposite direction.’

Kologrivov sighed and pointed to the poster Person at age 40–50 years (Male. Frontal View). The fat layer under the skin thickens. The skin stretches. The face becomes flabby and bloated. The body accumulates stores of fat, particularly in the stomach and hips. The torso seems disproportionally large, even caricature-like, compared to the legs. Round fatty lumps begin forming on the legs and arms. On other parts of the body, too. They distort the former rigor of its lines and speak of metabolic troubles. Increased growth of hair on the back, chest, brow ridge, and in/on the ears and nose.

It goes from bad to worse. Hair grays. The smell of an old person’s bitter sweat appears. The skin withers and bunches up in wrinkles. The body’s aging is accompanied by sclerotic thickening of the arteries. They become tight and fragile, and threaten to rupture. The teeth gradually fall out. This can be partially rectified with false teeth (if made carelessly, they make pronunciation whistle slightly) but even a measure such as this is not capable of breaking the general negative tendency. Discs flatten between vertebrae, the spine loses its elasticity and settles. The person shrinks in height. The organs become impossibly worn out. The brain starts to contain excess amounts of water, making its work more difficult. In the end, it becomes hard for the person to live. He dies.

The horns of the evening’s last boats sounded outside the window.

‘Does that mean,’ asked the general, ‘that life is the fundamental reason for a person’s death?’

Pharmacist Kologrivov sat on a chair and looked calmly at the general. ‘One might, Your Excellency, say just that.’