Stargorod: A Novel in Many Voices

The Real Life

1

“Life, especially for those over 30, hurls forward increasingly fast, as if to match the speed of our day’s new technologies, and one hardly finds a moment to simply approach a stranger and, looking him in the eye, say something non-trivial and pleasant. No, we have no moments like that, and even when we find them, we do something entirely different with them than we imagined. We talk about being charitable and merciful, and many join the recently resurrected societies of Friends of Animals and condemn with righteous rage the cruel dog-catchers. But would they act? Would they do anything, even if the action was humble and inconspicuous? Would I, myself, extend a helping hand to a homeless stranger, or at least to someone lost in this city – say, to that red-faced fellow sitting with his boxes on the park bench?..”

So, or approximately so, reasoned Rafa Stonov, a common office-worker, a road engineer. Rafa had always dreamed of erecting grand, leaping bridges and high-speed tunnels, but so far circumstances had prevented him from building any such thing, keeping him, for the time being, in the employ of the Asphalt and Tar Surfaces Department. To give him credit, he did develop a new method for laying concrete surfaces, and even defended a dissertation about it 12 years ago or so (his method is still being optimized for production at his research institute’s testing facility). But Rafa had faith in progress. He also had faith in humankind. And if occasionally he did fall prey to Russian angst, likely somehow associated with the state of the roads it was his job to inspect, such episodes were no more or less frequent for him than is common. In his dark moments, Rafa would think of something very complex. This feeling cannot be decently explained except perhaps by means of a penetrating joke – but it is likely to be familiar to many of our compatriots: it’s when life suddenly appears utterly unnatural and contrived, and one yearns for something hard to define, glimpsed once, perhaps, in childhood, through a crack in a fence.

That’s why, as he was about to turn homeward during his Saturday walk, in a state of extreme inner anxiety, Rafa had to force himself to look closer at the random, red-faced fellow with his boxes, who had initially inspired in Rafa only aversion, diluted perhaps with small doses of curiosity and empathy.

The fellow, whose clothes and carefully concealed sense of dignity immediately marked him as a non-Muscovite, looked about anxiously, exhibiting all the signs typical of the concussion that results from a sudden encounter with Moscow reality. He would attempt to stand up and grab all his cargo at once, which he could not possibly accomplish, despite his impressive dimensions, broad shoulders, and, even more importantly, his incredibly capacious paws, which called to mind stereotypical pictures of native Siberian bear-hunters, descendants of the peasants who had saved a besieged Moscow in the frigid winter of 1941. When he failed, he would curse fiercely at his load, fall back onto the bench and address the passers-by with the entirely rhetorical question of “So how are we supposed to go on living?”

The passers-by, naturally, gave him a wide berth. All except Rafa, who plucked up his courage and took a seat on the fellow’s bench. The fellow greeted him instantly, “I’m stuck, you see, with my girls here. I’ve got a return for tomorrow and nowhere to spend the night. Help us out, mate, or we’ll perish just like the Swedes at Poltava.”

Rafa smiled without saying much, and did not rush to offer customary Russian hospitality, although a small voice inside him already began to assure him that the fellow was not at all as dangerous as at first he appeared.

“Let me explain the disposition here,” the red-faced man continued, slightly calmer. “I’ve come to the capital on chicken business. You’d be surprised, mate, but we chicken-breeders are a bit off, all to the last man. If I as much as catch a whisper that, say, somewhere in Tallinn someone’s fixin’ to sell some Cochin-chinas, I’m there in a blink. Bukhara, Vladivostok – the money’s no object as they say. So, I got my return ticket well in advance, but now I’m stuck, after the deal went through lightning-quick. You go ahead, look, look into the box – I see you don’t get it, not at all, it’s written all over your face!”

He lifted a small flap cut into one of the boxes, like a window, and Rafa obligingly bent lower to see. A coquettish head popped up, attached to a creature that looked like a cross between a midget heron and a carrier pigeon. The head turned coyly, displaying itself, and hid back inside the box.

“Have you seen anything like this? Have you? In your eyes I can see you have not!” The fellow’s face melted into a boyish smile that scattered the last shreds of Rafa’s hesitation.

“So you’ll put us up for the night, for real? The girls and I are quiet – no worries, guaranteed not to make a mess. I have a bottle with me, just in case, but I don’t drink myself – I quit,” the fellow patted his bulging briefcase as a manner of proof.

Then he rose from the bench, but instantly turned and slapped his hand on his forehead, “What a fool! I forgot – I’m Vovochka.”

Rafa extended his hand and introduced himself informally, “Rafa.”

He did not like his full name, Rafael. Being by education and upbringing a very modern person, he frequently begrudged his parents for giving him the distinction of such an old-fashioned name.

“Jew, are you?” Vovochka instantly asked, not especially politely but with great glee.

“No, why should…” Rafa began to say in his defense, but his new friend slapped him on the shoulder and explained with a giggle, “Why I asked? It’s because your name’s Jewish. I don’t care – Greek, Tatar or Jew – I’ve seen all kinds of people, mate. For me – as long as the man’s alright! So, shall we?”

Flattered with the amazing congruence of their views and immediately reassured, Rafa bravely grabbed the boxes.

It was strange: he was absolutely certain that his wife and daughters would gladly welcome the unannounced guest – he had never had an adventure like this before.