During these sad days and on the day of the funeral Charlotte was the only one who did not weep. Her face impassive, her eyes calm, she saw to all the household tasks, greeted visitors, settled in relatives who came from other towns. Her dry manner displeased people…
"You can come to me whenever you want," she said to me in parting. I nodded my head, picturing Saranza again, the balcony, the suitcase stuffed with old French newspapers. Again I felt ashamed: while we were telling each other stories, life had continued with its real joys and its real sorrows. My mother had gone on working, already ill, suffering without admitting it to anyone, knowing herself to be doomed but never betraying it by word or gesture. And all the while we had spent days on end talking about the elegant ladies of the belle epoque…
It was with concealed relief that I saw Charlotte leave. I felt myself to be covertly implicated in my mother's death. Yes, I bore the vague responsibility for it that a spectator feels when his gaze causes a tightrope walker to stumble or even to fall. It was Charlotte who had taught me to pick out Parisian silhouettes in the midst of a great industrial city on the Volga; it was she who had imprisoned me in this fantasy of the past, from whence I cast absentminded glances at real life.
Real life was the layer of stagnant water that, with a shudder, I had caught sight of at the bottom of the grave on the day of the burial. Under a fine autumn rain, they lowered the coffin slowly into the mixture of water and mud…
Real life also made itself felt with the arrival of my aunt, my father's elder sister. She lived in a workers' district where the population got up at five o'clock in the morning and streamed in to the gates of the gigantic factories in the city. This woman brought with her a ponderous and powerful breath of Russian life – a strange amalgam of cruelty, compassion, drunkenness, anarchy, invincible joie de vivre, tears, willing slavery, stupid obstinacy, and unexpected delicacy… With growing astonishment, I discovered a universe previously eclipsed by Charlotte's France.
My aunt was concerned that my father would take to drinking, a fatal move for the men she had known in her life. Each time she came to see us she repeated, "Whatever you do, Nikolai, keep off the bitter stuff!" That is to say, vodka. He would agree mechanically, without hearing her, then shaking his head energetically, he would declaim: "But it's me who should have died first. That's for sure. With this, you know…"
And he would touch his bald head with his palm. I knew that above his left ear he had a "hole" – a place covered only with fine, smooth skin that pulsated rhythmically. My mother had always been afraid that if involved in a brawl, my father might be killed by a simple flick of the finger…
He did not start drinking. But in February, the time of the last winter frosts, the harshest of all, he collapsed in a snowy alleyway one evening, felled by a heart attack. The militiamen who later found him stretched out in the snow thought he was a drunkard and took him to the sobering-up station. Only the following morning would the error be discovered…
Once again real life, with its arrogant power, came to challenge my fantasies. A single sound sufficed: they had transported his body in a van covered with cloth, which was as cold inside as outside; as the body was placed on the table, there was a thud like a block of ice hitting wood…
I could not lie to myself. Amid a great turmoil of exposed thoughts and unflinching admissions – in my soul – the disappearance of my parents had not left incurable scars. Yes, I admitted during these secret tête-à-têtes with myself, my suffering was not inordinate.
And if on occasion I wept, I was not really mourning their loss. Mine were tears of helplessness at the realization of a stupefying truth: a whole generation of dead, of wounded, of those whose youth had been stolen from them. Tens of millions of human beings whose lives had been blotted out. Those who had fallen on the field of battle at least had the privilege of a heroic death. But those who came back, and who disappeared ten or twenty years after the war, appeared to die quite "normally," of "old age." You had to come very close to my father to see the slightly concave mark above his ear where the blood throbbed. You had to know my mother very well to discern in her that child transfixed in front of the dark window on that first morning of war under a sky with strange rumbling stars. To see in her as well that pale skeletal adolescent, choking as she wolfed down potato peelings…
I viewed their lives through a mist of tears. I saw my father, on a warm June evening, coming home after demobilization to his native village. He recognized everything: the forest, the river, the curve in the road. And then there was that unknown place, that black street made up of two rows of izbas, all burned to a cinder. And not a living soul. Only the merry notes of a cuckoo, keeping time with the burning throbbing of the blood above his ear.
I saw my mother, a student who had just passed her university entrance exams, this petrified young girl standing frozen to attention before a wall of disdainful faces – a Party commission assembled to judge her "crime." She had known that Charlotte's nationality, yes, her "Frenchness," was a terrible blemish during that period of the struggle against "cosmopolitanism." Filling in the questionnaire form before the examination she had written, with a trembling hand, "Mother – of Russian nationality"…
And they had met, these two human beings, so different, yet so alike in their mangled youth. And we were born, my sister and I, and life had continued, despite the wars, the burned villages, the camps.
Yes, if I wept, it was for their silent resignation. They bore no grudge against anyone, demanded no reparations. They lived and tried to make us happy. My father had passed his whole life shuttling back and forth across the endless spaces between the Volga and the Urals, erecting high-tension cables with his team. My mother, expelled from university following her crime, had never had the courage to renew the attempt. She had become a translator in one of the great factories in our city, as if this technical and impersonal French exonerated her from her criminal Frenchness.
I viewed these two lives – at the same time banal and extraordinary – and felt a confused rage mounting within me, against whom, I did not really know. Yes, I did know: against Charlotte! Against the serenity of her French universe. Against the useless refinement of that imaginary past: what madness to be thinking about three creatures featured on a press cutting from the turn of the century or to try to recreate the states of mind of a president in love! While forgetting about the soldier who was saved by the winter itself when he packed his fractured skull in a shell of ice, thus staunching the blood. While forgetting that if I was alive it was thanks to that train that had slowly edged its way past the carriages filled with crushed human flesh, a train that carried Charlotte and her children away to refuge in the protective depths of Russia… That propaganda catchphrase – "Twenty million people died so that you might live!" – had always left me indifferent. Suddenly this patriotic refrain acquired a new and grievous meaning for me. And a very personal one.
Russia, like a bear after a long winter, was awakening within me. A pitiless, beautiful, absurd, unique Russia. A Russia pitted against the rest of the world by its somber destiny.
Yes, if I had occasion to weep at the death of my parents, it was because I felt Russian. And the French graft in my heart began, at times, to give me great pain.