With my senses opened, I am discovering that the ballet is nothing more or less than reportage of Russian life, more piercing than a hundred heavy volumes. The tipsy muzhiks attending the carnival are the Russian muzhiks, whose brief jig reveals everything about cheerful peasant resignation, key to the country's moods. The fat merchants, fussy policemen, flashing gypsies . . . I am absorbing the last word—in music and movements!—on their classic types. And not only in Shrovetide Saint Petersburg of the 1830s, but this very afternoon on Gorky Street, Sretenka and the Arbat. Now I know what the Moscow throngs have always been trying to tell me.
The puppets break into a folk dance. I devour the daily Russian stew of gaiety and carefreeness, pettiness and melancholy. The infinity of gloom underlying the market's festiveness,
AnastasiaX 275
the apparitions that rise up from the very humbleness of the jumbled street scenes. As Chagall perceived the spirit of a Russian village as figures drifting over mud and moon, Petrushka's creators recognized the phantasmal strains—the puppets' inner world—in their outwardly ragged market. No explanation is required of how Petrushka, Ballerina and Blackamoor can be consumed by love and jealousy. In this theater more than any, such "absurdities" are ineffable truths; and with the woman who loves "Once upon a time" stories rigid at my side, they reveal their place in the country's—and her—temperament and outlook. How wrong I was to judge her on whether she forgets appointments—the criteria of petty rationalism. She's made of dreamier—Russian—stuff.
The lilt of "Down Peterskaya Street" draws up affection for Russia in me like the moon with the tides. But I must remember that her most exasperating traits, the I-don't-give-a-damn forget-fulness, are Russian, too. At last I'm on the verge of the real question. Are we compatible? I must know whether we will make each other better or worse. Will she understand that I have it in me to achieve something, that I can be less petty than I seem? And will I allow her to enjoy her individuality? All the niggling rest is trivial.
Bang! the door of Petrushka's room is flung open. Kicked out, he seeks solace in his love for Ballerina. I see, grieve, understand. Booted from my academic ambition and American assumptions, I too have sought comfort in love for a Princess. But Ballerina is indifferent, and humble Petrushka begins his famous lament. Weeping, agonizing, dying of despairing adoration. To hell with compatibility; I must be with Anastasia whatever the cost. Must defeat my tendency to bring Petrushka's heartbreak on myself. Look how he fills with gladness, trembles with joy, at one half-friendly glance from her.
If I don't settle this tonight, she'll go to the correspondent's party. My Anastasia must not be corrupted by that kind of American's flattery. I know this is jealousy, but it's also for her sake. I know it is superstitious to credit anything to the signs I see in Petrushka's suffering, yet I believe them because they confirm objective truths.
A fanfare stops me. An alarming tremolo of strings. Petrushka
276^MOSCOW FAREWELL
and Blackamoor are quarreling while Ballerina swoons. How much does my resentfully admiring perception exaggerate Ana-stasia's excesses of instinct? To what extent does she shine only in comparison to the steel teeth of the dumpy Russian masses? I must not judge by Russia's standards, where even I stand out as a member of a taller, handsomer race. I must stop judging at all and just do what's right.
I'm so utterly exhausted! How long can this blind festivity continue at the show booth? Petrushka rushes out of it, but is chased by Blackamoor who deals him death with his saber. The betrayed and beaten reacher for beauty who was so innocently good has had his head bashed in. The juggler picks up the puppet, pitifully lifeless without love, and returns to the booth while the crowd disperses as if nothing had taken place.
But suddenly Petrushka's ghost appears over the booth, shaking his fist in triumphant revenge. This is not the end!
Somewhere I see the audience statue-like for a moment, then surging forward with cheers. I reach for Anastasia's hand. She too has remained seated. Our fingers lock. We are the only two unwilling to profane the experience with clapping.
The emptying of the house leaves us serenely exalted. Cleaning details appear with homemade mops, sealing our bond to the theater. I know I must speak while we are still inside, but otherwise feel no need to rush; my decision took itself as the curtain fell.
Anastasia lingers in the empty foyer: I think she's even guessed. Her overcoat and red headscarf have returned her from elegant princess to peasant girl. I am thinking of how best to present my case, avoiding theatricality. At last I can give.
The black and white of the foyer floor is coming to an end. My submission is abrupt but quiet.
"Will you be my wife?"
Before I have time to gird for the suspense, even to hear the echo of the fateful phrases, she has answered.
"Yes, of course."
The three words emerge as one, and so lacking surprise and stress that I want to restate the question.
Of all I'm about to ponder, this moment will have pride of place. After the religious revelation that made my decision, the
Anastasia X 2 7 7
supreme matter-of-factness of her reaction seems to promise a lifetime of anticlimax. "Yes of course"—as if I'd asked whether she wants wafers with her ice cream. And I've been so careful not to ham up the dramatic element she should supply. We've been shortchanged.
Which is why I question her. At first, I swear it, I'm as certain as I was; my prodding is intended merely to elicit some indication that she appreciates this venture's importance. She once chided me for being too voluble about love: "If we know it's there, why must we pronounce it so?" But surely the emotion of forging this wonderful union should be seen as well as felt?
She knows what it means to me, I've often talked about remaining a bachelor. And I know she's pleased. Why doesn't she throw her arms around me, like the thrilled girl she should be? Why must I wait for her to be first?
We step outside; stand at the top of the steps for a moment spotlighted together with our columns; walk in the square across the street where we first met after Yaroslavl. She carries herself very straight, but with the faintest hint that she will follow my lead as my bride.
I'm careful to talk about her grave problems rather than my letdown. Of the uncertainty of an exit visa even after the wedding; of the possible prevention of the marriage itself. I think of Lenin Library Maya and Joe Sourian's Barbara, reminders that the worst possible outcome for her would be to apply to marry a foreigner but be refused. With all my heart, I swear never to fail her on my end. But is she absolutely certain she wants to take on these perils with m<??
"Yes, pantherkin. A sailor who likes mango juice: all the omens are auspicious." With puffed rosy cheeks, she blows a fair wind.
"You can put up with my faults? You don't know half of them. I want to tell you that, for the sake of our future. And that I don't know what I'm going to do, where we'll live."
"Won't we live together?"
"Darling, be serious for a moment. For a start the institute will expel you. Do you care about your career?"
"I have to think about that. I am being serious; I'm bad at those questions."
278^MOSCOW FAREWELL
"And what about leaving Russia?"
"These aren't the main things, you know."
"Of course not. But so many immigrants grieve. Can you be happy in the States?"
"That's not the main thing."
Although I know this and am determined to attain that main thing—of what has eluded me since Yaroslavl as well as of this conversation—we slip onto another tangent: my plans for tomorrow's first steps and her needed fortitude against KGB pressure. A homosexual eyeing us from the square's fountain moves us on; a dreary Aeroflot sign drags me into the realm of everyday. "Cheap, Fast, Comfortable"—and the anemic neon is flashing from stilts atop the Evgeniya-defiled Hotel Metropole. The gloomy, deserted streets are a darting image of our recent emptiness. As if to supply the eagerness I expected from her, I find myself pronouncing on the importance of marriage in general and the wonder of ours in particular. But I'm aware of how different this is from what I envisioned; how curious this form of role-reversal. And somewhere I know she is waiting for me to complete my proposal. Why can't I open up plainly and simply and say I love her, nothing else matters?