‘I used to think like that,’ I said, disappointed by Sergey’s lack of interest. ‘But in the end, if you think about it, fiction is not that different from non-fiction. Non-fiction offers a very partial view of reality. When authors choose what to say and what to leave out, they are already distorting facts. Because the biggest chunk of any story, real or fictional, always remains untold.’
‘The book you plan to write about Moscow,’ he said, ‘will it be a memoir or fiction?’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Things either happen or don’t happen.’
‘Not that simple,’ I said. ‘Memory is very selective, it changes the past. In the end, all memoirs are fiction.’
Sergey closed his eyes for a couple of seconds.
‘I guess,’ I said, ‘that if I ever write my book about Moscow, I’ll just bury my own experiences within a fictional story.’
Sergey stood up, anchoring his hand on the wall to keep his balance. ‘Need to go to the toilet,’ he said, tumbling out of the kitchen.
When he came back a couple of minutes later he didn’t sit down. He took the beer and finished it in three or four long gulps.
‘I don’t want to keep you up,’ he said. ‘It’s very late, sorry to drop in on you like that. I’m heading home.’
He walked out of the kitchen, sat on the stool by the entrance and started to put his shoes on.
‘Would you talk to her?’ he said.
‘I’m not sure it’s going to help.’
‘Please.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Sergey put his coat on and we hugged goodbye. He kept hugging me for a few seconds, his beard scratching my neck. I patted his back, which was, I imagined, the manly and appropriate thing to do. When he had left the flat I cleared the beers from the kitchen, wiped the table and put the salt cucumbers back in the fridge.
32
LENA WAS NOT REPLYING to my messages or phone calls. As the days got colder and darker, I started to accept that she was no longer there, at the other end of the phone, waiting for my call.
Something strange happened to me. Now, when I was alone at home trying to watch a film, I would picture Lena lying at my side. Often, I would find myself staring at the Indian tapestry she’d given me, or at the empty couch, exchanging words with an imaginary Lena — comments about whatever I was watching: this is funny, ridiculous, I don’t get it — then trying to imagine what Lena would have said in return.
Perhaps these divagations of my mind were due to the fact that, precisely at that time, I’d started to sleep badly. Regardless of when I went to sleep, even after a long vodka night, I would wake up early in the morning. As soon as I regained the smallest spark of consciousness — an awareness of who I was and where I was — my brain would be bombarded with dozens of fresh thoughts that grew out of control and then I couldn’t get back to sleep. Lying on the couch, my eyes open, I often ended up thinking about Lena.
I also thought about Lena after a bad night out, when I hadn’t met any promising girls and it was time to go home. As the music in the last club of the night stopped and the lights went on, and people gathered on the street, and new couples kissed, and phone numbers were exchanged, and taxis were shared — as the night was ending and a new Moscow day was about to begin — I would stand alone in the street and think about Lena. But I would not think about the drama or the tears. I would think about her body and I would visualise the exact moment when she unfastened her bra for the first time and offered her perfect breasts to me. This vivid image would produce a sharp pain in my chest. The night gone, I would take a taxi home, crash on my couch and wank myself to sleep.
33
IT WAS DARK OUTSIDE, freezing, close to minus twenty. I walked down Tverskaya, wearing my heavy coat, scarf, hat and thermal gloves. I turned left at Kamergersky — the cold seeping up through the soles of my winter shoes, reaching my feet. By the time I arrived at Pirogi, my nose was frozen numb.
Inside it was warm and lively — all the tables were occupied by young people drinking beer, eating, talking loudly. I walked towards the back room, where the books were sold, but couldn’t see Ira.
The day after Sergey’s unannounced visit, I’d called Ira to see how she was doing. She’d suggested meeting on Thursday for dinner.
I walked down the stairs into the basement rooms and found her sitting at a small table at the back. In spite of her make-up, she looked tired, the bags under her greyish eyes darker than usual. We kissed hello. After taking my winter gear off, I sat at the table.
‘Have you ordered yet?’ I asked.
‘Only tea. I was waiting for you. We should order right away, it usually takes ages in here.’
She beckoned the waitress. We both ordered mushroom soup, which Ira said was very good, then kotlety, salad and a bowl of pelmeni.
‘So,’ I said with a smile, ‘what have you done to poor Seriozha?’
‘What did he tell you exactly?’
‘That you are sleeping with an American guy from work.’
‘It’s more complicated than that.’
‘He was pretty drunk when we met. He didn’t look great.’
‘I’m sorry that he came to your place like that,’ she said.
‘It’s OK, I just felt sorry for him.’
One of the other tables in the room was occupied by two girls in almost identical woolly brown sweaters. I noticed one of them staring in our direction, with a red lipstick smile. For a moment I wished I was with Colin, instead of Ira, so that we could chat the two girls up.
‘This isn’t any easier for me,’ Ira was saying.
‘So, what happened?’
‘Not much,’ Ira said. ‘There’s this guy at work. We became friends and he made it clear that he was interested in me. Then we went out a couple of times. And we started to have a thing. Nothing serious.’
‘Who is he?’
‘His name is Rob. One of the consultants.’ Ira unbuttoned her cardigan, revealing a tight black top with unusually deep cleavage.
‘Were you seeing him the last time we met?’ I asked. ‘You know, when we had lunch at MGU.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I think I tried to tell you, but you didn’t seem interested.’
The waitress brought two bowls. The cold from the street remained in my bones. I took my spoon and went straight for the soup.
‘That was quick service,’ Ira said.
‘Moscow is changing after all. You cheat on Sergey. Quick service at Pirogi. What’s going on?’
‘Not funny.’
‘This is delicious,’ I said.
‘I told you.’
‘Creamy and tasty.’
‘They make it with white mushrooms.’
We savoured the mushroom soup in silence. The dyev with the red lipstick kept staring at me. So did her friend now. They giggled and I wondered if they thought Ira and I were a couple. I hoped they realised she was just a friend.
‘So,’ I said. ‘Who’s this Rob? Married with kids?’
‘Nope. Young, single. A babnik, like you.’ Ira ate some soup. ‘You might have met him in your nightclubs, he goes out with other expats.’
‘I don’t really hang out with Americans. Except Colin, of course, but he’s been Europeanised.’
‘Rob’s fresh from New York. His first time abroad. He’s been in Moscow for four months.’
‘These things happen,’ I said, hoping these words would close the subject. ‘I just thought you were happy with Sergey.’
‘This has nothing to do with Sergey.’ Ira pulled her black top down, readjusting her cleavage.