White Walls: Collected Stories

SWEET SHURA

The first time Alexandra Ernestovna passed me it was early spring, and she was gilded by the pink Moscow sun. Stockings sagging, shoes shabby, black suit shiny and frayed. But her hat!… The four seasons—snow balls, lilies of the valley, cherries, and barberries—were entwined on the pale straw platter fastened to the remainder of her hair with a pin this big. The cherries dropped down and clicked against each other. She has to be ninety, I thought. But I was off by six years. The sunny air ran down a sunbeam from the roof of the cool old building and then ran back up, up, where we rarely look— where the iron balcony hangs suspended in the uninhabited heights, where there is a steep roof, a delicate fretwork erected right in the morning sky, a melting tower, a spire, doves, angels—no, I don’t see so well. Smiling blissfully, eyes clouded by happiness, Alexandra Ernestovna moves along the sunny side, moving her prerevolutionary legs in wide arcs. Cream, a roll, carrots in a net bag weigh down her arm and rub against the heavy black hem of her suit. The wind had walked from the south smelling of sea and roses, promising a path up easy stairs to heavenly blue countries. Alexandra Ernestovna smiles at the morning, at me. The black clothing, the light hat with clicking dead fruit, vanish around the corner.

Later I came across her sitting on the broiling boulevard— limp, but admiring a sweaty, solitary child marooned in the baking city; she never had children of her own. A horrible slip showed beneath her tattered black skirt. The strange child trustingly dumped his sandy treasures onto Alexandra Ernestovna’s lap. Don’t dirty the lady’s clothing. It’s all right—

Let him.

I saw her in the stifling air of the movie theater (take off your hat, granny! we can’t see!). Out of rhythm with the screen passions, Alexandra Ernestovna breathed noisily, rattled foil candy wrappers, gluing together her frail, store-bought teeth with sweet goo.

Later she was swirled in the flow of fire-breathing cars by the Nikitsky Gates, got flustered and lost her sense of direction, clutched my arm and floated out onto the saving shore, losing forever the respect of the black diplomat behind the green windshield of a low, shiny car and of his pretty, curly-haired children. The black man roared and raced off in the direction of the conservatory with a puff of blue smoke, while Alexandra Ernestovna, trembling, bent over, eyes popping, hung on to me, and dragged me off to her communal refuge—bric-a-brac, oval frames, dried flowers—leaving behind a trail of smelling salts.

Two tiny rooms, a high ornate ceiling, and on the peeling walls a charming beauty smiles, muses, pouts—sweet Shura, Alexandra Ernestovna. Yes, yes, that’s me! In a hat, without a hat, with hair down. Oh, so beautiful—And that’s her second husband, and well, that’s her third—not a very good choice. But what can you do about it now…. Now, if she had made the decision to run off with Ivan Nikolayevich then…Who is Ivan Nikolayevich? He’s not here, he’s crammed into the album, spread-eagled in four slits in the cardboard, squashed by a lady in a bustle, crushed by some short-lived white lap dogs that died before the Russo-Japanese War.

Sit down, sit down, what would you like?… Please come visit, of course, please do. Alexandra Ernestovna is all alone in the world, and it would be so nice to chat.

…Autumn. Rain. Alexandra Ernestovna, do you remember me? It’s me! Remember… well, it doesn’t matter, I’ve come to visit. Visit—ah, how wonderful! Come here, this way, I’ll clear… I still live alone. I’ve survived them all. Three husbands, you know? And Ivan Nikolayevich, he wanted me, but… Maybe I should have gone? What a long life? That’s me. There too. And that’s my second husband. I had three husbands, did you know? Of course, the third wasn’t so…

The first was a lawyer. Famous. We lived very well. Finland in the spring. The Crimea in the summer. White cakes, black coffee. Hats trimmed with lace. Oysters—very expensive… Theater in the evening. So many admirers! He died in 1919—stabbed in an alley.

Oh, naturally she had one romance after another all her life, what else do you expect? That’s a woman’s heart for you. Why, just three years ago, Alexandra Ernestovna had rented the small room to a violinist. Twenty-six years old, won competitions, those eyes!… Of course, he hid his feelings; but the eyes, they give it away. In the evenings Alexandra Ernestovna would sometimes ask him, “Some tea?” And he would just look at her and say no-o-thing in response. Well, you get it, don’t you?… Treacherous! He kept silent all the time he lived at Alexandra Ernestovna’s. But you could see he was burning up and his soul was throbbing. Alone in the evenings in those two small rooms—You know, there was something in the air—we both felt it… He couldn’t bear it and would go out. Outside. Wander around till late. Alexandra Ernestovna was steadfast and gave him no encouragement. Later—on the rebound—he married some woman, nothing special. Moved. And once after his marriage he ran into Alexandra Ernestovna on the street and cast such a look at her—he burned her to ashes. But said nothing. Kept it all bottled up in his soul.

Yes, Alexandra Ernestovna’s heart had never been empty. Three husbands, by the way. She lived with her second husband in an enormous apartment before the war. A famous physician. Famous guests. Flowers. Always gay. And he died merrily: when it was clear that this was the end, Alexandra Ernestovna called in gypsies. You know, when you see beauty, noise, merriment — it’s easier to die, isn’t it? She couldn’t find real gypsies. But Alexandra Ernestovna, inventive, did not lose heart, she hired some dark-skinned boys and girls, dressed them in rustling, shiny, swirling clothes, flung open the doors to her dying husband’s bedroom—and they jangled, howled, babbled, circled and whirled and kicked: pink, gold, gold, pink. My husband didn’t expect them, he had already turned his gaze inward and suddenly here they were, squealing, flashing shawls; he sat up, waved his arms, rasped: go away! But they grew louder, merrier, stamped their feet. And so he died, may he rest in peace. But the third husband wasn’t so…

But Ivan Nikolayevich… ah, Ivan Nikolayevich. It was so brief: the Crimea, 1913, the striped sun shining through the blinds sawing the white scraped floor into sections… Sixty years passed, but still… Ivan Nikolayevich lost his mind: leave your husband right now and come to the Crimea. Forever. She promised. Then, back in Moscow, she thought: what will we live on? and where? He showered her with letters: “Sweet Shura, come, come to me!” Her husband was busy, rarely home; while there in the Crimea, on the gentle sands under the blue skies, Ivan Nikolayevich paced like a tiger: “Sweet Shura, forever!” While the poor man didn’t have enough money for a ticket to Moscow. Letters, letters, every day letters for a whole year—Alexandra Ernestovna will show them to me.

Ah, how he loved me! Should I go or not?

A human life has four seasons. Spring! Summer. Autumn… Winter? But winter was behind Alexandra Ernestovna—where was she now? Where were her moist, colorless eyes directed? Head back, red lid pulled away, Alexandra Ernestovna squeezes yellow drops into her eyes. Her scalp shows like a pink balloon through the thin net. Could this mouse tail have been a thick black peacock tail caressing her shoulders sixty years ago? Had the persistent but poor Ivan Nikolayevich drowned in those eyes—once and for all? Alexandra Ernestovna groans and feels around with her gnarled feet for her slippers.

“We’ll have some tea now. I won’t let you go without a cup. No-no-no, don’t even think about it.”

I’m not going anywhere. That’s why I dropped by—for a cup of tea. And I brought pastry. I’ll put the kettle on, don’t worry. And she gets the velvet-covered album and the old letters.

It was a long way to the kitchen, to another city, along an endlessly shining floor, so polished the red paste left traces on my shoes for two days. At the end of the corridor tunnel, like a light in a deep robber forest, glowed the circle of the kitchen window. Twenty-three neighbors were silent behind the clean white doors. Halfway down was a wall telephone. A white note tacked up once upon a time by Alexandra Ernestovna: “Fire— 01. Emergency—03. In case of my death call Elizaveta Osipovna.” Elizaveta Osipovna herself is long gone. No matter. Alexandra Ernestovna forgot.

The kitchen is painfully, lifelessly clean. Somebody’s cabbage soup talks to itself on one of the stoves. In the corner stands a curly cone of smell left by a Belomor-smoking neighbor. A chicken hangs in a net bag outside the window as if being punished, twisting in the black wind. A bare wet tree droops in grief. A drunkard unbuttons his coat, resting his face on the fence. And what if Alexandra Ernestovna had agreed to abandon everything and fly south to be with Ivan Nikolayevich? Where would she be now? She had sent a telegram {I’m coming, meet me), packed her things, tucked the ticket away in the secret compartment of her wallet, pinned her peacock hair up high, and sat in an armchair by the window to wait. And far south, Ivan Nikolayevich, agitated, unable to believe his good fortune, rushed to the railroad station—to run, worry, fluster, give orders, hire, negotiate, lose his mind, stare at the horizon enveloped in dull heat. And then? She stayed in the armchair until evening, until the first pure stars. And then? She pulled the pins from her hair, shook her head—And then? Why keep asking and then, and then? Life passed, that’s what happened then.

The teakettle came to a boil. I’ll make it strong. A simple piece for the kitchen xylophone: lid, lid, spoon, lid, rag, lid, rag, rag, spoon, handle, handle. It’s a long way back down the long corridor with two teakettles in your hands. Twenty-three neighbors behind white doors listen closely: will she spill her crummy tea on our clean floor? I didn’t spill, don’t worry. I push open the gothic doors with my foot. I’ve been gone an eternity, but Alexandra Ernestovna still remembers me.

She got out cracked raspberry-colored cups, decorated the table with doilies, puttered around in the dark coffin of a cupboard, stirring up bread and cracker smells that come out of its wooden cheeks. Don’t come out, smell! Catch it and squeeze it back with the cut-glass doors: there, stay under lock and key.

Alexandra Ernestovna gets out wonderful jam, it was a gift, just try it, no, no, you try it, ah, ah, ah, yes, you’re speechless, it’s truly amazing, exquisite, isn’t it? Really, in all my long life, I’ve never… well, I’m so pleased, I knew you’d like it, have some more, please, take it, have some, I beg you. (Damn it, I’ll have another toothache!)

I like you, Alexandra Ernestovna, I like you very much, especially in that photograph there with that marvelous oval to your face, and in that one, where your head is back and you laugh with those perfect teeth, and in that one, where you pretend to be pouting, and your arm is behind your head so the lacy festoons will fall back from your elbow. I like your life, interesting to no one else, passed in the distance, your youth that rushed off, your decayed admirers and husbands proceeding in triumphant parade, everyone who ever called your name or was called by you, everyone who passed and went over the high hill. I’ll come to you and bring you cream, and carrots, so good for your eyes, and you’ll please open up the long-closed brown velvet albums—let the Gymnasium girls breathe some fresh air, let the mustachioed gentlemen flex their muscles, let brave Ivan Nikolayevich smile. Don’t worry, don’t worry, Alexandra Ernestovna, he can’t see you, really…. You should have done it then. You should have. She’s made up her mind. Here he is— right next to you—just reach out! Here, take him in your hands, hold him, here he is, flat cold shiny with a gold border, slightly yellowed: Ivan Nikolayevich. Hey, do you hear, she’s decided, yes, she’s coming, meet her, she’s stopped hesitating, she’s made up her mind, hey, where are you, yoo-hoo!

Thousands of years, thousands of days, thousands of translucent impenetrable curtains fell from the heavens, thickened, turned into solid walls, blocked roads, and kept Alexandra Ernestovna from going to her beloved, lost in time. He remained there on the other side of the years, alone at the dusty southern station, wandering along the sunflower seed-spattered platform; he looks at his watch, kicks aside dusty corn cobs with his toe, impatiently tears off blue-gray cypress cones, waiting, waiting, waiting for the steam engine to come from the hot morning distance. She did not come. She will not come. She had deceived him. But no, no, she had wanted to go. She was ready, and the bags had been packed. The white semitranspar-ent dresses had tucked up their knees in the cramped darkness of the trunk, the vanity case’s leather sides creaked and its silver corners shone, the shameless bathing costumes barely covering the knees—baring the arms to the shoulder—awaited their hour, squinting, anticipating… In the hat box—impossible, enticing, insubstantial… ah, there are no words to describe it —white zephyr, a miracle! On the very bottom, belly-up and paws in the air, slept the sewing box—pins, combs, silk laces, emery boards of diamond sand for delicate nails; trifles. A jasmine genie sealed in a crystal flask—ah, how it would shine with a billion rainbows in the blinding seaside sun! She was ready—but what interfered? What always interferes? Well hurry, time’s passing—Time’s passing, and the invisible layers of years get thicker, and the rails get rusty, and the roads get overgrown, and weeds grow taller in the ravines. Time flows and makes sweet Shura’s boat bob on its back and splashes wrinkles into her incomparable face.

…More tea?

After the war she returned—with her third husband—here, to these rooms. The third husband kept whining, whining.… The corridor was too long. The light too dim. The windows faced the back. Everything was behind them. The festive guests died out. The flowers faded. Rain hammered at the windows. He whined and whined and died, but when and of what, Alexandra Ernestovna did not notice.

She got Ivan Nikolayevich out of the album, and looked at him a long time. How he had begged her! She had even bought a ticket—and here it was, the ticket. Hard cardboard—black numbers. If you want, look at it this way, if you want, turn it upside down. It doesn’t matter: forgotten signs of an unknown alphabet, a coded pass to that shore.

Maybe if you learn the magic word… if you guess it; if you sit down and think hard, or look for it… there has to be a door, a crack, an unnoticed crooked way back there to that day; they shut up everything but they must have missed a crack somewhere: maybe in some old house, maybe if you pull back the floorboards in the attic—or in a dead end, or in a brick wall, there’s a passage carelessly filled with bricks, hurriedly painted, haphazardly nailed shut with crisscrossed boards…. Maybe not here but in another city… Maybe somewhere in the tangle of rails on a siding there stands a railroad car, old and rusted, its ceiling collapsed: the one sweet Shura didn’t get into?

“There’s my compartment… Excuse me, I’ll get by. Wait, here’s my ticket—it says so right here.” There, down in that end—rusted shock absorbers, reddish buckled wall girders, blue sky in the ceiling, grass underfoot—that’s her place, right here! No one ever took it, no one had a right.

…More tea? A blizzard.

…More tea? Apple trees in bloom. Dandelions. Lilacs. Oof, it’s hot. Leave Moscow—to the seaside. Until our next meeting, Alexandra Ernestovna. I’ll tell you all about that part of the world. Whether the sea has dried up, whether the Crimea floated away like a dry leaf, whether the blue sky has faded. Whether your tormented, excited beloved has deserted his volunteer post at the railroad station.

In Moscow’s stony hell Alexandra Ernestovna waits for me. No, no, it’s all true! There, in the Crimea, the invisible but agitated Ivan Nikolayevich—in white uniform—paces up and down the dusty platform, digs his watch out of his pocket, wipes his shaved neck; up and down along the lattice work fence rubbing off white dust, oblivious and agitated; past him, without noticing, go beautiful, large-faced young women in trousers; hippie boys with their sleeves rolled up, enveloped in transistorized badoobadooms; farm women in white scarves with buckets of plums; southern ladies with plastic earrings; old men in unyielding synthetic hats; smashing right through Ivan Nikolayevich, but he doesn’t know, doesn’t notice, doesn’t care, he’s waiting, time has been derailed, stuck midway somewhere outside of Kursk, tripped on nightingale rivers, lost, blind in fields of sunflowers.

Ivan Nikolayevich, wait! I’ll tell her, I’ll give her the message; don’t leave, she’ll come, she’ll come, honest; she’s made up her mind, she’s willing, just stand there, don’t worry, she’ll be here soon, she’s packed, she just has to pick it up; she’s even got a ticket: I swear, I’ve seen it—in the velvet album tucked behind a photograph; it’s a bit worn of course, but don’t worry, I think they’ll let her on. There’s a problem back there, something’s in the way, I don’t remember what; but she’ll manage, she’ll think of something—she’s got the ticket, doesn’t she?—that’s important, the ticket, and you know the main thing is she’s made up her mind, it’s certain, I’m telling you.

Alexandra Ernestovna’s signal is five rings, third button from the top. There’s a breeze on the landing: the dusty stairwell windows are open, ornamented with easygoing lotuses—the flowers of oblivion.

“Who?… She died.”

What do you mean… just a minute… why?… I just… I just went there and came back. Are you serious?…

The hot white air attacks you as you come out of the passageway crypt, trying to get you in the eyes. Wait… The garbage probably hasn’t been picked up, right? The spirals of earthly existence end around the corner on a patch of asphalt, in rubbish bins. Where did you think? Beyond the clouds, maybe? There they are, the spirals—springs sticking out from the rotting couch. They dumped everything here. The oval portrait of sweet Shura—the glass broken, the eyes scratched out. Old woman’s rubbish—stockings… The hat with the four seasons. Do you need chipped cherries? No? Why not? A pitcher with a broken-off spout. The velvet album was stolen. Naturally. It’ll be good for polishing shoes. You’re all so stupid, I’m not crying. Why should I? The garbage steamed in the hot sun and melted in a black banana ooze. The packet of letters trampled into slush. “Sweet Shura, when will you?” “Sweet Shura, just say the word.” And one letter, drier, swirls, a yellow lined butterfly under the dusty poplar, not knowing where to settle.

What can I do with all this? Turn around and leave. It’s hot. The wind chases the dust around. And Alexandra Ernestovna, sweet Shura, as real as a mirage, crowned with wooden fruit and cardboard flowers, floats smiling along the vibrating crossing, around the corner, southward to the unimaginably distant shimmering south, to the lost platform, floats, melts, and dissolves in the hot midday sun.