The Dream Life of Sukhanov

TWO

It was raining in earnest now. Streetlamps swam through the liquid mist, their pale reflections drowning in an inverted world of running asphalt. The empty space before the Manège quivered in the wet darkness, and the gray monstrosity of the Hotel Moskva had melted away into a barely visible shimmer of lights. For a minute Sukhanov lingered in the shelter of the pseudo-Doric columns. He felt relieved that the mustachioed doorman was no longer there, having been replaced, he noticed, by another one, and a strange one at that—an older, slovenly man wearing a burgundy velveteen blazer. The new doorman was looking at him from the shadows. Probably amused to see me standing here, in my most formal attire, and without a chauffeur, Sukhanov thought with displeasure, and turning away, peered dejectedly through the wall of water.

Finding a taxi at this hour and in this weather would be almost impossible, and with a sigh he resigned himself to the inevitable; the metro station was, after all, very close, just beyond his field of vision. He had not the slightest idea how much it cost. Pulling out his wallet, he ruffled through a stack of bills, gloomily groped for some coins, and fishing out a couple, dropped them into his coat pocket. The night breathed damply, heavily in his face, and the doorman, he saw, was still staring in his direction. Irritated, he squared his shoulders and descended into the rain.

“Anatoly, is that you?” asked a halting voice behind his back.

He froze. The voice—the voice was unmistakably familiar. Water ran down his collar, sending one particularly persistent little rivulet all the way down his spine. Slowly he turned and walked up the steps.

The doorman in the velveteen blazer moved into a shaft of light.

“Lev,” said Sukhanov expressionlessly.

For the briefest of moments they regarded each other. Then, simultaneously, it must have occurred to both of them that, after so many years, something had to be done—an embrace, a kiss, some gesture of human warmth…. Stepping forward at the same time, they collided clumsily and, embarrassed, abbreviated their hug and shook hands instead, groping at each other’s cuffs. Another drop of water, originating somewhere at Sukhanov’s wrist, snaked icily down his arm.

“You’ve changed a lot,” the fake doorman said. “Gained weight, become all solid. This tuxedo… And the glasses too… You never used to wear glasses.”

“Yes, well, my eyes,” Sukhanov said vaguely, and added after a pause, “None of us is getting any younger.”

“No, it’s not just the age, it‘s—”

The thought remained incomplete. A car splashed by, stirring red zigzags in its wake; they followed it with their eyes. When it passed, Marx Avenue reverted to shiny blackness. Sukhanov felt his initial shock subsiding into dull discomfort.

“And you, you haven’t changed at all,” he said.

In a strange way, he meant it, and not as a compliment. Of course, Lev Belkin displayed plenty of wear and tear for his fifty-three, or was it fifty-two, years—he seemed unkempt and unsettled, with all the telling signs of age and hard luck about him, and was dressed like an old circus clown; the dreadful velveteen blazer had brown leather patches at the elbows, and an absurd maroon bow tie sat askew at his throat. But Sukhanov knew wretchedness and disorder to be essentially the qualities of youth, which was why most worthwhile people eventually outlived them. Belkin had clearly chosen not to do so. To Sukhanov’s eyes he looked just like the young man he had once known, only used, downtrodden, gone to seed….

“I haven’t changed, and yet you didn’t recognize me,” Belkin said.

“Well, you know what they say—if someone who knows you well doesn’t recognize you, you’ll end up rich,” Sukhanov joked humorlessly:

“I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that,” the other man replied with a short laugh. “Not all of us are destined for riches.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sukhanov said sharply. But immediately it occurred to him that, perhaps, Belkin had meant no offense and there had been no need to react with such hostility, no need at all. Belkin did not answer, and for an uneasy minute they watched the rain slash through Manezhnaya Square; and all the while Sukhanov searched for some friendly, casual words—yet none came to mind. It had simply been too long, and anything that could be said should have been said many years ago.

Presently a rectangle of brightness cut a patch out of the portico floor, and Sukhanov caught a glimpse of the real doorman in the vestibule, bending politely at the open door. The foyer yawned with an inviting warmth, and a well-known actor emerged, in the process of unfolding an enormous pink umbrella over his nineteen-year-old wife. The couple chirped “Good night” to Anatoly Pavlovich, stared at Belkin with unbridled curiosity, and ran to a Volga that had just pulled up. The girl was giggling, and Sukhanov distinctly heard her say babochka—“bow tie” or “butterfly”—but the night swallowed the rest of the sentence and he tried to convince himself she was discussing lepidoptery rather than Belkin’s unfortunate neck decoration. Still, that was unpleasant, very unpleasant—the tittering, the gaping, and God only knew what they had thought…. He considered Belkin darkly, and a sense of oppression descended on him.

“So, Lev,” he said, “how did I miss seeing you in there?”

“Oh,” said Belkin, “I wasn’t at the opening, I don’t have an invitation. I was just—”

The door was being pushed open again, and in the widening gap Sukhanov saw the massive crimson bosom of the theater critic’s wife, followed by her grasshopper of a husband. Suddenly frantic, he began to maneuver Belkin away from the entrance, down the steps, muttering as he did so, “People starting to leave… no reason to be in their way… might as well move…” Cold rain slapped his face as he rounded the corner; Belkin trotted after him obediently. Almost, almost, just a bit more—and finally, thank God, they were out of sight, pressed into the wall under the scanty protection of a narrow cornice. Mercifully, no one had seen—except for that long-haired what‘s-his-name with his pink umbrella and his adolescent bride, but no matter, he was not important enough. Trying to suppress a shudder of relief, Sukhanov wiped the water from his glasses.

“I mean to go when it’s open to the public, of course,” Belkin was saying, noticing nothing. “By the way, how was it?”

“Great. Very interesting works. A perfect space for displaying them too.”

“Perfect, eh?” Belkin repeated, and squinted at him good naturedly. “You used to say the Manège was better as a riding academy, that its architecture was suited for horses, not paintings—”

And then, without any warning, an incredible smile flashed across Belkin’s face. It was his unforgettable trick of old, that smile, the sort that very few people ever possessed; it transformed his ordinarily woebegone features instantly, brilliantly, imbuing them with rare humanity, with a kind of intense, radiant meaning. Smiling, he lightly touched a button on Sukhanov’s jacket.

“You also said that in a way it was appropriate, because most of the artists who exhibited here were fit to be displayed only in a stable. Do you remember, Tolya?”

It was astonishing, simply astonishing, that after all this time the man could still smile like that—and it was suddenly disconcerting to see how little his eyes had changed, how, in spite of the lines at the corners, the pouches underneath, the eyelids that had grown heavy, they could still dance in his face, they could still play with the same dark, fiery, infectious life.

“I don’t remember,” Sukhanov replied stiffly. “I don’t know… Perhaps I said something like that once. In any event, they’ve redone the place since—” He faltered and ended hurriedly, “It’s completely different now.”

Belkin looked Sukhanov full in the face, then twisted his lips, nodded, and released the button. The fire in his eyes dwindled away, and the tired creases around his mouth became more pronounced.

“Funny,” he said flatly, “it looks exactly the same to me. I visit almost every exhibition, you know. Staying abreast of the new developments and all that. Not that there are any, but one keeps hoping.”

“Yes,” said Sukhanov, not knowing what else to say, and righted his glasses.

The whole thing was awkward—awkward and unnecessary There was so little space under the cornice that with every motion their shoulders nudged each other softly, and the dripping, splashing, murky world kept creeping closer, invading their cramped refuge, lapping at the edges of dryness, already seeping into Sukhanov’s beautifully polished shoes. He ached to be away, to be home, where it was light, warm, and comfortable, to be drinking his nightly tea…. The encounter was stretching to nightmarish proportions, and he knew he needed to end it, end it now, this very instant—but strangely, he could do nothing, as if he were trapped in a tedious, helpless dream. A short-haired girl darted across their lengthening pause, and he thought he saw the edge of a yellow dress flash beneath the flapping fold of a flimsy coat, but she ran by so quickly he could not be sure. Belkin too watched her melt in the rain.

“So, is Nina here?” he asked when the water had erased the girl’s steps.

“She got tired and went home early,” Sukhanov said, and added, pointing across the street, “She took our car.”

“Ah… A pity. I was hoping to see her. I bet she hasn’t changed one bit.”

“We all change,” said Sukhanov. “None of us is getting any younger.”

God, haven’t I said that already, he thought miserably.

“And how is… er… Alia?” he asked, to prevent another silence.

“Oh, didn’t you know? She left me a long time ago. She’s married to a math teacher now. Has three kids. But she is doing quite well, thanks for asking.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know…. But apart from that… That is, how are you getting along in general?”

“Not too bad, thanks. Painting and all. And you?”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain…” He coughed, shifted his weight to the other foot. Their shoulders grazed again. “Well, it seems that the rain’s almost over.”

It was raining every bit as hard as before.

“Yes, certainly looks that way,” agreed Belkin. “So, where are you off to now? I’m heading for the metro. Shall we walk together? I have an umbrella.”

“I would, but… I need to go the other way,” said Sukhanov with a vague gesture.

“Of course, I understand,” Belkin said quietly. “Well, good-bye then, Anatoly. Good luck to you and everything.”

He turned up the collar of his burgundy blazer, produced a disheveled umbrella from his pocket (ridiculous, who in the world keeps a wet umbrella in his pocket!), and without another glance stepped into the darkness. Sukhanov noticed that he stooped. Strange, he used to carry himself so straight, he thought involuntarily—and all at once, this stray little thought released in him some echo of the past, a solitary trembling note whose sound rose higher and higher in his chest, awakening inarticulate longings and, inseparable from them, a piercing, unfamiliar sorrow. He watched as Belkin trudged away into the downpour under his lopsided umbrella with one spoke sticking out, and he thought bitterly, Here we are, two aging fools, and our lives almost over. His throat tightened, and for a second he was afraid he would not be able to call out, to say anything at all…. Then the spasm passed.

“Leva, wait!” he shouted.

He feared at first that Belkin had not heard, that the rain had snatched away his words. Then Belkin turned. He was struggling with the umbrella, which had grown unruly.

“Listen, Leva, why did you come here tonight?”

“Oh, I was just passing by when the rain started, and I thought I’d wait it out!” Belkin yelled back.

Sukhanov could not see his eyes—he was too far, it was too dark.

“But… you have an umbrella!” he shouted again.

“Not a very useful one, as you can see.”

“Oh yes, of course, I see! Well, so long now. Say hi to… I mean, take care of yourself!”

Belkin did not move. The umbrella flapped over his head like a demented bird. Several moments passed, dreary, endless as a lifetime. Then he muttered something under his breath and strode back, throwing up sprays of water with each heavy step. His face, as he stopped before Sukhanov, streamed with rain.

“All right, so that wasn’t true,” he said, scowling. “I came because I wanted to see you. You and Nina. I read about the opening, and I thought, What better chance will I have?”

Violently squashing the umbrella, he dropped it at his feet, then fumbled in his sagging pocket. A golden candy wrapper flew out, twirled in the wind, and drowned. Sukhanov observed his movements with strange anticipation. Finally Belkin extracted what looked like a glossy postcard and held it locked between his palms.

“I wanted to give you this,” he said. “It’s next Wednesday. Naturally, it’s not going to be a big deal, nothing to write about in the papers…. Anyway, I realize now it was stupid of me, you can’t possibly be interested, so—”

Wordlessly Sukhanov stretched out a slightly trembling hand. Belkin hesitated, then shrugged, and shoved the postcard at him. A jumble of multicolored letters leapt wildly, confusingly, in all directions, against a shocking neon-green background. Sukhanov took off his glasses, smeared rain all over the lenses, and tried again. The letters started to behave more predictably, and eventually, in a long minute or two, joined to form a few words—“L. B. Belkin (1932—). Moscow Through a Rainbow”—and, underneath, in smaller print, the address, the dates, the times…

And as Sukhanov looked in silence, he knew that his wrenching sorrow was giving way to some other, as yet unnamed, feeling, which was slowly unfurling its black, powerful wings inside his heart.

Belkin began to speak rapidly. “It’s my first, you see. True, I’ve had a few things displayed here and there, but this one, it’s all my own. Just a little gallery in the Arbat, but I’ll have the whole place to myself. The name, of course, is idiotic—it’s so cliché, it wasn’t my idea, but I let them do it, because my work is all about color studies anyway, so I thought… Oh, hell, what am I talking about?” Abruptly he stopped, pressing his fingertips to his temples. Then, in a different voice, quiet and oddly desperate, he said, “Listen, Tolya, I know we didn’t remain friends, but it’s been almost a quarter of a century, and… Well, it would make me really happy if you and Nina could come to the opening. It’s on Wednesday, at seven o‘clock, it’s all written right here, in the corner, see?”

Sukhanov started as if emerging from a trance. He had a broad smile on his face.

“Of course,” he said, twisting the card and smiling, smiling. “That is, I’ll have to check my schedule, but I’ll be glad if I can… Nina too, I’m sure… Most glad…”

Belkin looked at him closely, then averted his eyes.

“It would mean a lot to me,” he said softly “But I’ll understand if you’re busy, I know this is rather short notice…. Please say hi to Nina for me. Good night, Tolya.”

“Good night, Leva,” said Sukhanov, still smiling.

Belkin raised a hand in one last farewell and walked off, grappling with his glistening absurdity of an umbrella. Sukhanov remained where he was, crushing the card in his fingers, smiling the same frozen smile as he gazed into nothingness. In a short while the rain began to diminish, rarefy, slow down, until it reverted to the same innocuous drizzle with which it had started earlier—an hour or an eternity ago, depending on one’s point of view…. Sukhanov blinked, shook the water off his shoes, buried the wet invitation in his pocket, and briskly set off in the opposite direction from the one in which his former best friend had disappeared.

He was halfway across Red Square when it occurred to him that he had forgotten to say congratulations.