White Walls: Collected Stories

HUNTING THE WOOLY MAMMOTH

ZOYA’S a beautiful name, isn’t it? Like bees buzzing by. And she’s beautiful, too: a good height and all that. Details? All right, here are the details: good legs, good figure, good skin, the nose, eyes, all good. Brunette. Why not a blonde? Because you can’t have everything.

When Zoya met Vladimir, he was stunned. Or well, at least pleasantly surprised.

“Oh!” said Vladimir.

That’s just what he said. And wanted to see Zoya very often. But not constantly. And that saddened her.

In her one-room apartment he kept only his toothbrush—a thing that is certainly intimate, but not so much that it would firmly tie a man to the family hearth. Zoya wanted Vladimir’s shirts, underwear, and socks to settle in, how shall we put it, to make themselves at home in the underwear drawer, even lie around on a chair. To be able to grab a sweater or something and soak it, into the Lotos soap with it, and then dry it neatly spread out.

But no, he didn’t leave a trace; he kept everything in his communal flat. Even his razor. Though what did he have to shave, with that beard? He had two beards: one thick and dark, and in the middle of it, another, smaller and reddish, growing in a narrow tuft on his chin. A phenomenon! When he ate or laughed, that second beard jumped. Vladimir wasn’t tall, half a head shorter than Zoya, and looked a bit wild and hairy. And he moved very quickly.

Vladimir was an engineer.

“You’re an engineer?” Zoya asked tenderly and distractedly on their first date, when they sat in a restaurant and she opened her lips only a millimeter to taste the profiteroles in chocolate sauce, pretending for some intellectual reason that it wasn’t very tasty.

“Exac-tic-ally,” he said, staring at her chin.

“Are you at a research institute?…”

“Exactically.”

“…or in industry?”

“Exactically.”

Go figure him out when he was staring at her like that. And had a bit to drink.

An engineer wasn’t bad. Of course, a surgeon would have been better. Zoya worked in a hospital, in the information bureau, and she wore a white coat and thereby belonged a bit to that amazing medical world, white and starched, with syringes and test tubes, rolling carts and autoclaves, and piles of rough, clean black-stamped laundry, and roses and tears and chocolates, and a blue corpse rolled swiftly down endless corridors followed by a hurrying sorrowing little angel clutching to its pigeon chest a long-suffering, released soul, diapered like a doll.

And king of this world is the surgeon, who cannot be regarded without trembling as, dressed with the aid of gentlemen of the chamber in a loose-fitting mantle and green crown with laces, majestically holding his precious hands aloft, he is prepared for his holy kingly mission: to perform the highest judgment, to come down and chop off, to punish and to save, and with his glowing sword give life… What else, if not a king? And Zoya very much wanted to fall into a surgeon’s bloody embrace. But an engineer wasn’t bad.

They spent a very nice time at the restaurant, getting to know each other, and Vladimir, not realizing yet what he could count on from Zoya, was generous. It was afterward that he began to economize, looking through the menu briskly, ordering only an inexpensive main course for himself, and not lingering in restaurants. There was no need for Zoya to sit languorously with a casual expression on her face, slightly mocking, slightly dreamy—her face was supposed to reflect the fleeting nuances of her complex spiritual life, like exquisite sadness or some refined reminiscence; she ate, staring off into space, her elbows delicately resting on the table, her lower lip pouting, sending lovely smoke rings up to the painted vaulted ceiling. She was playing fairy. But Vladimir didn’t play along: he ate with gusto, without a trace of sadness, gulped down his vodka, smoked without languor: quickly, greedily smelling up the table and squashing the butt in the ashtray with his yellowed finger. He brought the check close to his eyes, was horribly astounded, and always found a mistake. And he never ordered caviar: that was for princesses and thieves, he claimed. Zoya was hurt: wasn’t she a princess, albeit unrecognized? And then they stopped going out completely, and stayed home. Or she stayed home alone. It was boring.

In the summer she wanted to go south to the Caucasus. There would be noise and wine and midnight swims with squeals of laughter, and masses of handsome men who would look at Zoya and say, “Oh!” and flash their teeth.

Instead, Vladimir brought a kayak to the apartment and two friends, just like him, in stinky checked shirts, and they crawled around on all fours, putting it together and taking it apart, patching, and sticking sections of the smooth repulsive kayak body in a basin of water, exclaiming: “It leaks! It doesn’t leak!” while Zoya sat on the bed, jealous, annoyed by the crowding, and having to keep lifting her legs so that Vladimir could crawl from spot to spot.

Then she had to follow him and his friends on that horrible expedition to the north, to some lakes, in search of some allegedly glorious islands, and she got chilled and soaked, and Vladimir smelled of dogs. They hurried along, rowing fast, bouncing on the waves, along a grim, northern lake blown up with leaden dark waters, and Zoya sat right on the floor of the hateful kayak, legs stretched straight out, severely shortened without high heels, so pathetic and scrawny in jogging pants, and felt that her nose was red and her hair matted and the hostile spray of the water was melting her mascara, and ahead lay two more weeks of suffering in a damp tent on an uninhabited cliff covered with pine and bilberries, among offensively hearty strangers bawling cheerfully over their dinner made of pea concentrate.

And it was Zoya’s turn to wash the greasy aluminum dishes in the deep icy lake, after which they were still dirty. And her hair was dirty and her head itched under her scarf.

All the engineers had their own women, no one gave Zoya special looks or said “Oh!”, and she felt sexless, a camping buddy, and she hated the laughter around the campfire, and the guitar playing, and the peals of joy over catching a pike. She lay in the tent totally miserable, hating the two-bearded Vladimir, and wanted to get married to him as soon as possible. Then shed have the perfect right as his legal wife not to get ugly in the so-called great outdoors, but stay home in a light and graceful robe (full of ruffles, made in the GDR) on the couch, legs crossed, facing a wall unit with a color TV (let Vladimir buy her one), with pink light coming from the Yugoslav lamp, drinking something light and smoking something good (let the patients’ relatives give her some), and wait for Vladimir to come back from his kayaking trip to greet him a little irritated and suspicious: well, I wonder what you’ve been up to without me? who was with you? did you bring any fish? and later, of course, forgive him for his two-week absence. And during that absence, maybe one of the surgeons would call and flirt, and Zoya, lazily embracing the telephone and with that look on her face, would drawl, “Oh, I don’t know… We’ll see… Do you really think so?” Or she would call a girlfriend, “So what did you say?… And what did he say? And then you?” Ah, the city! Shimmer and evenings and wet asphalt and red neon lights in the puddles under your high heels…

Here the waves thudded against the cliff, and wind howled in the treetops, and the campfire danced its endless dance, and night stared into your back, and the engineers’ dirty-faced ugly women squeaked in their tents. What a drag!

Vladimir adored it, got up early, while the lake was quiet and clear, went down the steep slope, grabbing onto the pines and getting resin on his hands, stood with his legs spread wide on the granite shelf leading into the sunny transparent water, washing, snorting, and groaning; looking back with happy eyes at Zoya, sleepy, without makeup, standing grimly with a pitcher in her hands. “Well? Have you ever heard such silence? Just listen to how quiet it is! And the air? Beautiful!” Oh, how disgusting he was! Marry him, hurry up and marry him.

In the fall Zoya bought slippers for Vladimir. Checked and cozy, they waited for him in the entrance, mouths open: slip your foot in, Vova. You’re at home here, this is your snug harbor. Stay with us. Why do you keep running off, you silly fool?

Zoya stuck her photograph—chestnut curls, arched brows, severe gaze—into Vladimir’s wallet: whenever he reached for his ttain pass or for money, he’d see her, so beautiful, and cry: ah, why aren’t I marrying her? What if someone beats me to it? In the evenings, waiting for him, she placed a pink round-legged lamp in the window—a family lighthouse in the gloom. To bind the noose, to warm his heart: the tower is dark, the night is dark, but the light still burns—it is the star of his soul not sleeping, perhaps canning fruit, perhaps doing some laundry.

Soft were the pillows, soft were the dumplings put twice through the grinder, everything beckoned and Zoya buzzed like a bee: hurry, friend. Hurry up, you lousy bum!

She wanted to be married before she hit twenty-five—it was all over by then, no more youth, you get run out of the hall, and others run to take your place: swift and curly-haired.

In the mornings they drank coffee. Vladimir read Cutters and Yachts magazine, chewed, scattering crumbs in both beards; Zoya was hostilely silent, staring at his forehead, sending telepathic messages: marry, marry, marry, marry, marry me! In the evenings he read again, and Zoya stared out the window waiting for bedtime. Vladimir didn’t read calmly, he grew excited, scratched his head, jerked his leg, laughed, and cried out, “Just listen to this!” Laughing as he spoke, jabbing Zoya with his finger, he read what he had liked so much. Zoya smiled wanly or stared at him coldly, not responding, and he would shake his head sheepishly, quiet down, and mutter, “What a guy!” and out of pride keep an uncertain smile on his lips.

She knew how to spoil his fun.

But really: he had everything he wanted. Everything was swept, cleaned, the refrigerator defrosted on time. His toothbrush was here. His indoor footwear. He was fed here. If something needed to go to the cleaners—no problem. My pleasure. So what about it, you so and so, why won’t you marry me and just ruin my mood? If I knew for sure that you weren’t planning on it, I’d send you packing. Bye-bye. Say hi to the folks. But how to find out his intentions? Zoya didn’t dare ask a direct question. Many centuries of experience kept her from doing that. One bad shot—and it was over, write it off; the prey runs away hard, leaving a cloud of dust and view of the soles of its feet. No, you have to lure it.

And the viper felt right at home. Became completely tame. Brought his shirts and jackets from the communal flat. His socks were all over the place now. He’d come over and put on the slippers. Rub his hands: “And what are we having for dinner tonight?” Notice the we. That’s how he talked.

“Meat,” Zoya said through gritted teeth.

“Meat? Fine! Fine! And why are we in a bad mood?”

Or he’d start in, “Would you like it if we got a car? We’ll drive wherever we feel like.”

Mockery! As if he had no plans to leave Zoya. And what if he didn’t? Then marry her. Zoya didn’t want to love without guarantees.

Zoya set traps: she’d dig a pit, cover it with branches, and nudge him toward it—Suddenly, all dressed and made up, she would refuse to go out, lie down on the couch, and stare bale-fully at the ceiling. What’s the matter? She can’t… Why? Because… No, what’s the matter? Is she sick? What happened? She can’t, she won’t go, she’s ashamed to be a general laughingstock, everyone will point at her: and in what capacity is this one here? Everyone else will have wives—Nonsense, Vladimir would say, at best only a third will be wives there, and they’ll be strangers. And Zoya had been going until now—without a problem? Until now she had, and now she can’t, it’s just her sensitive soul, like a rose, wilting under poor treatment.

“And when have I ever treated you poorly?”

And so on and so forth, and always moving away from the camouflaged pit.

Vladimir took Zoya to visit an artist; they say he’s quite interesting. Zoya pictures the beau monde, groups of art historians: the ladies old biddies, all in turquoise and with turkey necks; the men elegant with colored handkerchiefs in their breast pockets, smelling good. A noble old man with a monocle pushes his way through the crowd. The artist in a velvet smock, pale, and with a palette in his hand. In comes Zoya. Everyone says “Oh!” The artist grows even paler. “You must pose for me.” The noble old man regards her with sadness and nobility: his years are gone, Zoya’s fragrant beauty is not for him. Zoya’s portrait—nude—is taken to Moscow. A show at the Manege. The police hold back the crowds. There is a show abroad. The portrait is behind bulletproof glass. They let in people two at a time. Sirens wail. Everyone squeeze right. The president enters. He is astounded. Where is the original? Who is that woman?… “Watch you don’t break a leg down here,” Vladimir said. They were going down to a basement. Mossy gunk dangled from the hot pipes. It was warm in the studio. The artist—a little snot in a torn T-shirt—dragged out his heavy paintings. They depicted strange things: for instance, a large egg, with lots of tiny people coming out of it, Mao Tse-tung in canvas boots and an embroidered jacket floating in the sky with a teapot in his hand. The whole thing was called Concordance. Or this one: an apple with a worm crawling out of it wearing glasses and carrying a briefcase. Or: a wild craggy cliff, growths of cattails, and from the cattails comes a wooly mammoth in slippers. Someone tiny is aiming at it with a bow and arrow. On one side you can see the little cave: it has a light bulb hanging from a cord, a glowing TV screen, and a gas burner. Even the pressure cooker is drawn in detail, and there’s a bouquet of cattails on the little table. It’s called Hunting the Wooly Mammoth.

Interesting. “Well, it’s daring,” Vladimir said. “Quite daring—

What’s the concept?” “Concept?” the artist gleefully demanded. “You’re insulting me. Am I a Peredvizhnik or something? Concept! You have to run from concepts, brother, and don’t look back!” “No, but still, but still…” They argued, waving their arms, the artist set out lopsided ceramic mugs on the low table, clearing not very clean space with his elbow. They drank something that didn’t taste good and followed it with rock-hard pieces of the day-before-yesterday’s leftovers. The host’s radiant but unseeing gaze slid professionally over Zoya’s surface. The gaze did not connect with Zoya’s soul, as if she weren’t even there. Vladimir grew red, his beards were unkempt, both men were shouting, using words like “absurd” and others that sounded like it; one referred to Giotto, the other to Moisenko, and they forgot about Zoya. She had a headache and there was a pounding in her ears: dum, dum, dum. Outside the window in the dark rain was gathering, the dusty lamp on the ceiling floated in layers of bluish smoke, and the crude white shelves were crowded with pitchers holding Crimean brambles, long broken and covered with cobwebs. Zoya wasn’t here or anywhere else, she simply did not exist. The rest of the world did not exist either. Only smoke and the noise: dum, dum, dum.

On the way home, Vladimir put his arm around Zoya’s shoulders.

“A most interesting man, even if he is nuts. Did you hear his arguments? Charming, eh?”

Zoya was silent and angry. It was raining.

“You’re a trooper!” Vladimir went on. “Let’s go home and have some strong tea, all right?”

What a louse Vladimir was. Using dishonest, cheating methods. There are rules of the hunt: the mammoth steps back a certain distance, I aim… let loose the arrow: whrrrrrrrr! and he’s a goner. And I drag the carcass home: here’s meat for the long winter. But this one comes on his own, gets up close, grazes, plucking at the grass, rubbing his side against the wall, napping in the sun, pretending to be tame. Allows himself to be milked! While the pen is open on all four sides. My God, I don’t even have a pen. He’ll get away, he will, oh Lord. I need a fence, a picket, ropes, hawsers.

Dum, dum, dum. The sun set. The sun rose. A pigeon with a banded leg landed on the window and looked severely into Zoya’s eyes. There, there you are! Even a pigeon, a lousy, dirty bird gets banded. Scientists in white coats, with honest, educated faces, PhDs, pick him up, the little bird, by the sides— sorry to disturb you, fellow—and the pigeon understands, doesn’t argue, and without further ado offers them his red leather foot—my pleasure, comrades. You’re in the right. Click! And he flies off a different creature, he doesn’t get underfoot and cry, doesn’t recoil heavy-jawed out of the path of trucks, no—now he flies scientifically from cornice to balcony, intellectually consumes the prescribed grains, and remembers firmly that even the gray splotches of his droppings are illuminated henceforth with the unbribable rays of science: the Academy knows, is in control, and—if necessary—will ask.

She stopped talking to Vladimir, sat and stared out the window, thinking for hours about the scientific pigeon. Feeling the engineer’s sorrowful eye upon her, she would concentrate: well? Where are the long-awaited words? Say it! Give up?

“Zoya dear, what’s the matter. I treat you with love, and you treat me like a…” mumbled Mr. Two-Beards.

Her features hardened and sharpened, and no one has said Oh!” in a long time upon meeting her, and she didn’t need that anymore: the blue flame of endless sorrow, burning in her soul, put out all the fires of the world. She didn’t feel like doing anything, and Vladimir vacuumed, beat the rugs, canned eggplant “caviar” for the winter.

Dum, dum, dum beat in Zoya’s head, and the pigeon with the fiery wedding ring rose from the dark, his eyes stern and reproachful. Zoya lay down on the couch straight and flat, covered her head with the blanket, and put her arms along her sides. Unbounded Grief, that’s what the medieval masters from the album on the shelf on the left would have called her wooden sculpture. Unbounded Grief; so there. Oh, they would have sculpted her soul, her pain, all the folds of her blanket the right way, they would have sculpted her and then fixed it up on tippy top of a dizzying, lacy cathedral, at the very top, and the photo would be in close up: “Zoya. Detail. Early Gothic.” The blue flame heated the woolen cave, there was no air. The engineer was tiptoeing out of the room. “Where are you going?” Zoya shouted like a crane, and the married pigeon grinned. “I was… just going to… wash up…. You rest,” the monster whispered fearfully.

“First he goes to wash up, then to the kitchen, and the front door is right there,” the pigeon whispered in her ear. “And then he’s gone.”

He was right. She tossed a noose around the two-beards’ neck, lay down, jerked, and listened. At that end there was rustling, sighing, shuffling. She had never particularly liked this man. No, let’s be honest, he had always repulsed her. A small, powerful, heavy, quick, hairy, insensitive animal.

It puttered around for a while—whimpering, fussing—until it quieted down in the blissful thick silence of the great ice age.