29. What Will We Do with Each Other
The gentleman Mr. V. had grown to be inseparable from his name. Everyone called him Mr. V.; everyone was also oblivious to the fact that he sometimes wrote poetry. And he took his pursuit of poetry so seriously that he never talked to anyone about it. His wife was duly informed, of course, but she was the last person on earth to think of spreading this kind of information. She didn’t have anything against it. But until he became as good at writing poetry as he was at making money, there was no need to reveal his secret. It was simply a question of self-respect. All the same, there was a tiny problem — money was something you could count and count on, but verse? Who could tell if or when a poem was good? Madame V. was about fifty-seven or fifty-eight years old; she had the heavy build of a German and a healthy look. She inspired unspoken jealousy among her female acquaintances for a variety of reasons: she was the wife of Mr. V.; she was an artist and she managed to sell her paintings; she seemed to know everything and was invited to every party. On top of that, she was obviously under no obligation to accept every invitation. When she didn’t go, her husband did, and it had the same effect. The two of them were having a good time and seemed to be a perfect match for each other. He was sophisticated, yet timid, and she was self-assured and sociable, bursting with physical vitality.
It was Christmas Eve and Mr. V. was in torment. Fanny was expected to come, but he knew she wouldn’t, and that was a problem. He could almost hear his soul crumpling like parchment with worry, but decided to make one last attempt. The car stopped in front of Fanny’s place and he ran up the stairs to the third floor, hoping that his legs would prove faster than his dread. The bells echoed on the other side and the door opened. A handsome dark-haired boy appeared. How strange, he looked familiar. Had he seen him somewhere? Good evening, I’d like to speak to Fanny. The boy walked away and came back to show him in. And there — wonder of wonders! In the middle of the living room shone a magnificent Christmas tree. They kept walking toward the library. And there — Mr. V. could hardly believe his eyes — the open fire was lit, and sitting in front of it was Fanny, disheveled, engaged in conversation with another boy, who looked very much like the first one. No, it wasn’t a boy, it was a girl, sitting with her back to the door. Mr. V. froze, but Fanny jumped to her feet, took his hand and pulled him down to the floor by the fire, where the first boy was already comfortably seated. No, not the first boy, the boy. After a few awkward words, Fanny introduced him to the twins and thrust a cup with a warm drink into his hand. Thank goodness, it wasn’t tea, or was only half tea — praise be to God for grog. Mr. V. pulled his legs close to his body and stared at the twins. He had a perplexing sensation of déjà-vu. The boy’s eyes were alert and solemn, and the girl, the girl had something unfathomable about her that drew him like a magnet. But the strangest of all three was Fanny. There was no trace of her Snow Queen air, her cheeks had a rosy after-skiing kind of glow, she was babbling happily. The fire was crackling to the rhythm of unheard music. Mr. V. was overcome by a feeling of bliss. Here was oblivion. Outside, the sky was dark already and time galloped on. But here — he was sitting on his behind as if it were the first time he had ever done so, he was sipping his grog, comfortable on the woolen carpet, marveling at the droplets evaporating from the tops of his shoes. At some point other people came in, a noisy crowd that gathered and then dispersed through the house. One could feel their presence. The house was just awakening with life. After his third drink someone propped a soft pillow under his head and Mr. V. dozed off, content by the fire.
30. This Is What
Just when Mr. V. was ascending into the realms of slumber, Maria was spreading a white tablecloth in the house of Boris’s parents. She had brought not only groceries, but also a cooked meal for dinner. The old woman, in turn, had baked a loaf of bread and had prepared stewed dried fruit, honey, and pickled vegetables. The old man was holding his grandson and the two of them were babbling joyfully to each other. There had just been a power outage and two gas lamps illuminated the small room, their light joined by the glow of the fire. They sat at the table, on which lay a variety of dishes as was custom. The baby was put in its basket. Maria looked at the tiny old man and woman, as if trying to capture them in the lens of a camera. In their little cottage, with their cat and dog, with their blue eyes and apple-pink cheeks, with their dark clothes and lilting voices. They were like something out of a picture; no, rather, they were a picture, a living one. The grandfather blessed the bread and named each piece as he broke it off — this one for the house, this one for the baby, this one for Boris, and so on, for each one of them.
31. How Storms Rise
Fanny’s kitchen was bustling with life. The spell was lifted from the appliances, pots and pans chittered on the hot stove, cabbage was being chopped on thick wooden boards and sprinkled with paprika, platters were being arranged with pickles and dips, glasses were being passed from hand to hand, drinks were being poured generously. All guests, feeling truly welcome, had an air of devotion, regardless if their work was contributing to the common good. Even Mr. V., gently snoring by the fire, was in a state of perfect happiness.
The music was pounding. Long forgotten lamps along the walls were lit again, their warm rays blending all rooms into one hall of light. Fanny walked back and forth, as if a guest in her own house, incredulous that a turn of fortune could have such dizzying dimensions. It made it seem worthwhile to have hibernated all this time. She felt amazed that the crowd of people could organize itself so efficiently, that the guests were singing and dancing and taking care of each other. She instinctively checked herself: thinking too much could bring back the iciness, so she spun on her heels and started running, waving a bridle of garlands with which someone had adorned her. Near the Christmas tree she saw the girl, Margarita, who had decorated it. Someone was holding her arm and whispering in her ear. Margarita was peering at a magnificent portrait by Ivan Lazarov as if she were about to dive into it.
The doorbell burst into song again; who was it this time? Someone opened the door before Fanny had time to decide whether to head in its direction. In a few seconds the wave washed a flustered young man to her side. She recognized Mr. V.’s chauffeur. She was confused for a moment — she had completely forgotten Mr. V. The young man’s presence suddenly made her remember her mother and the host of laws and obligations that resurfaced every Christmas. Before she could do anything about it, the issue was merrily taken up by half a dozen people. Instead of showing him to the person corresponding to the description of Mr. V., they led the young man to the kitchen. It was too late to stop them. Fanny waved to him from a distance just before he disappeared. It crossed her mind that the chauffeur, who was familiar with the house and knew her well, probably felt like he was dreaming. Tonight, the world was upside down.
32. And How They Taper Off