It was now the first Saturday of August, and the four of us were taking advantage of a perfect seventy-three-degree day by having a picnic in Gorky Park. We had two large blankets spread out on the grass and were surrounded by other families. Some kids and adults were playing baseball, a sport introduced to them recently by American expatriates, and other folks were engaged in an assortment of other games. I was just happy to be lying in the sun with my family next to a basketful of sandwiches, fruit, and beverages, compliments of the Torgsin grocery.
“You kids don’t want to go play?” said Loretta, lying on her back with her eyes closed, her shoulder touching mine.
“No,” they said simultaneously.
Both kids were sitting with their legs crossed, bottoms affixed to their yellow blanket, each reading the same book, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave. I lay on my stomach and watched them both caught up in another world and realized how they’d become more enthralled with reading than running and playing. But at least it had happened out of choice. They had simply seen their mother and me read every night in bed, this after years of us reading bedtime stories to them back in Paris. Now they, too, were voracious readers.
“This sun feels so nice,” said Loretta.
“It does,” I said, closing my eyes. “What do you think it means that Japan has just attacked China?”
“You tell me.”
“Maybe the beginning of another great war,” I said. “Japan and Germany signed their Anti-Comintern pact last year. They want to stop the spread of communism. So I’m sure Germany is pleased with Japan’s attack on China. And it looks like Italy will be signing the pact soon as well.”
“Can we lighten the conversation?” said Loretta.
“Sure.”
She smiled. “Did I tell you I’m going to be spending a lot of time visiting Saint Basil’s Cathedral? Something about the powerful aesthetic of the interior has me fascinated. I think I’m going to try painting something that pays homage to it. Subliminally, I mean. People may not get it at first, but because most Russians are familiar with Saint Basil’s, their subconscious will be affected by what I’m going to do.”
“That sounds like an abstract,” I said, my belly moving up and down against our turquoise-colored blanket. “It sounds experimental, too.”
“It is.”
“I can’t imagine you trying to actually paint the interior of Saint Basil’s as it is. As soon as I set foot in there it looked like a labyrinth. I thought, Which passageway is one supposed to take? It was as if it had been designed to confuse people, to perhaps make it impossible to follow any map or set of directions. Only a man very familiar with its maze of paths and walkways could truly move about with any degree of certainty. It certainly fits the State’s modus operandi: complete secrecy.”
“Stop,” said Loretta. “I don’t want to write a dissertation on it. I just want to let its interior design inspire me.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Good luck.”
“Did I tell you I have been corresponding with Natalia Goncharova, the famous Russian painter who lives in Paris? We’ve been exchanging letters. One was waiting for me when we returned the other day.”
“Corresponding?” I said. “No, I didn’t know that. But I certainly know the name, even from back when we were in Paris. How were you put in touch with her?”
“I actually met her when we were living in Paris, but it wasn’t until some friends here in Moscow began bragging about her past that I took interest and decided to send her a letter. To my surprise, she responded in kind and we’ve been carrying on a dialogue. She keeps telling me how much she detests how the Soviet Union suppresses the free will of artists.”
“But you knew this,” I said. “Why is this woman of interest to you all of a sudden?”
“Because she is so brave,” said Loretta. “Back in 1910, she and many other artists got in trouble here in Moscow for daring to imitate European Modernism. She didn’t let them intimidate her, though. She and the others put together the first radical group of independent-thinking artists. They called themselves the Jack of Diamonds, and they did exhibitions, despite threats. Now that’s what it means to be an artist.”
“When did she move to Paris?”
“Years ago,” said Loretta. “She had to be free. She had to grow. But she can certainly be credited with helping to create the art philosophy known as Russian Futurism.”
“And now, she couldn’t come back here if she wanted,” I said.
“I know. And that bothers me.”
“How can this all of a sudden bother you?” I said. “You’ve known for three years about the State’s laws concerning artistic expression. We’re only here still because you said this controlled, or better yet, forced form of art is one you loved. Don’t get upset, but you are sounding a bit naïve.”
I opened my eyes and looked at the children, both still with their heads in their books.
“You two go play catch,” I said. “Take the baseball and the mitts and go play. Your mother and I need to talk. You can read more in a few minutes. Go!”
They knew when I was serious, so there was no backtalk as they stood, gathered the ball and gloves, and ran off.
“I have been naïve,” said Loretta, both of us sitting up. “I have been naïve because perhaps I was only wanting to hear what they were telling me, that I am a great Socialist Realism painter. I thought the adoration would be enough. It isn’t. I need to try other forms. I need to be back in Paris. We need to be back in Paris. I’ve exhausted this form and I’m ready to move on. I can do exhibits in Paris and make a lot of money for us. It’s time.”
“Then we need to move soon,” I said. “I tried to tell you this back—”
“I know, Prescott. I have been on a high for so long that I couldn’t see clearly. But everyone eventually comes down from a high, at least if they are sane. Reconnecting with Natalia helped validate the restrictions I was already beginning to feel. This relationship between Russian artists and the State is abusive. I liken it to a woman in an emotionally abusive relationship who is with a man who showers her with gifts, takes her to fine places, even makes her fall in love. But then she realizes she’s being controlled and has been for some time. A light suddenly comes on. And she decides to leave.”
“I wanted us to leave with Bobby last year,” I said.
“And perhaps we should have. I’ll take responsibility for it, though. It’s my fault we are still here. There! Are you satisfied?”
“Not really,” I said. “This was a big mistake we made. People were having a very difficult time getting out of the country back when the Ellingtons left. It’s only gotten worse since. I mean, at that time we were under the assumption that it was only Soviets, both regular citizens and State officials, ones guilty of real crimes, who were being arrested. But now I fear they are just sweeping up whomever they damn well please.”
“Look around,” said Loretta. “There are families everywhere. People are picnicking and laughing and playing. There are folks in boats on the river in the distance. They hardly look worried about being arrested, Prescott.”