Zoya stood at a distance and waited patiently. Her friend was absorbed by the same romanticism that had become the essence of her everyday life, even as a child, something for which she had another word: poverty. Zoya was thinking she knew a seamy side of that romanticism but Solovyov did not. That was not the case. Solovyov pictured life in these small worlds very well. He himself had grown up in one of them. He was not seeking unfamiliar sensations. He saw in those small yards a reflection of his childhood.
They came home (to Solovyov’s) toward evening. At Zoya’s insistence, they stopped at the market on the way back and bought some meat and vegetables. Now Zoya was sautéing meat. Solovyov inhaled its aroma and thought about how long it had been since he had eaten home-cooked food. Pressing against Zoya from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder, he watched as neat pieces of pork browned all over, sizzling and spattering grease. Zoya had intended to fix something else after cutting vegetables for salad, but Solovyov took the tireless young woman in his arms and carried her into the other room. The young man feared he would not survive yet another of her merits.
They washed down the meat with wine diluted with cold mineral water. It tasted delicious. The wine had ceased being nectar and its thick crimson color turned a bright pink, but the wine’s flavor now felt more refined. Then Zoya made coffee. She said that they needed to be in excellent form tonight.
‘Why?’ asked Solovyov.
‘Because today we’re going to search for the end of the general’s memoirs. I know where it might be.’
Solovyov looked closely at Zoya. She knew. A wasp flew in the window and flew right back out after uncertainly circling over the table. Solovyov did not break the extended silence and did not ask where they were going. That would only have consolidated the strange hegemony that Zoya had begun to establish over him. Let her say it herself if she wanted.
Zoya washed the dishes and then began getting ready. She opened the bag she had brought over the day before; something inside clanged like it meant business.
‘Here, you carry this.’
Performing the search in the evening did not trouble her in any obvious way. Though (Solovyov cast a glance at the mysterious bag) what time could be considered ‘natural’ for this sort of search?
They left the house at around eight. They took a trolleybus to the bus station then transferred to a small shuttle van. It scrambled up a winding mountain road with a roar that was unexpected for a small vehicle, then ended up on a highway running parallel to the sea. An evening coolness was already apparent here. One of the passengers slammed shut a roof hatch. The only open window was next to Solovyov but he had no intention of closing it. He stuck his elbow out, enjoying the cooling Crimean breeze.
The vehicle stopped at settlements and guest houses. The passengers lowered their heads exaggeratedly as they got out so as not to hit them on the door frame. Nobody boarded. When the vehicle stopped in the forest, there was nobody left but Zoya and Solovyov.
‘Alupka Park,’ said the driver. ‘Last stop.’ As he watched the couple make their way along the little road and stretch their numbed legs, he added, ‘Last van’s at 10:30.’
‘Thanks,’ Zoya said, turning. ‘We’ll be leaving on the other side.’
The vehicle turned around right there, on the park’s tree-lined alley. A minute later its engine fell silent behind the trees. In the engine’s slow, dying sound there rang something of farewell and additionally, perhaps, something alarming. What Solovyov was experiencing was not fear in the usual sense. It was the uneasy feeling of one who turns out to have bought a one-way ticket. To a huge, drowsy park. With an eccentric traveling companion. With a heavy bag holding unknown contents.
‘Count Vorontsov’s Hungarian lover lived with him.’
A pause. Solovyov was already starting to get used to Zoya’s habit of omitting all manner of prefatory discussion. Zoya thought it was up to her conversation partner to connect the links of the chain that led her to make some statement or other. More accurately put, she did not think about this. She had not even contemplated it.
‘Vorontsov was old and she acquired yet another lover.
A young cornet… This Lebanese cedar.’ Zoya walked over to a sprawling tree and stroked its unembraceable trunk. ‘Everything here was planted at Vorontsov’s order.’
The Lebanese cedar tree’s bark consisted of what looked like large tiles that had just recently been glued on. Ants that were just as large ran along them. A squirrel sat about two meters from Zoya’s hand. Its reddish-brown coat blended with the tree trunk, making the squirrel almost undetectable. Its arched tail quivered now and then. The squirrel did not run away, staying in place by force of will.
‘One time Vorontsov caught them in bed together,’ said Zoya, now addressing only the squirrel. ‘When the cornet ran out of the bedroom, covered in a sheet…’
Zoya ripped her hand from the tree trunk and the squirrel jumped right off, onto the grass. It sat there for an instant, as if deliberating on what it had heard. Solovyov beckoned to it, motioning with his fingers.
‘Have you noticed that squirrels are twitchy?’
He drew a little closer but the animal hid behind the nearest cedar, following the cornet’s example.
‘The Hungarian woman thought Vorontsov would shoot her right then,’ said Zoya, her gaze taking on a rigidity. ‘She knew his temperament. But he rang the bell and told the servant, “Wash madam and change the linens.”’
Zoya walked right up to Solovyov and hissed into his lips, ‘She de-tes-ted him from that day on.’
Zoya stood so close that it was impossible not to kiss her. It was a long, exhausting kiss, filled with gratitude for the information about Vorontsov.
Walking past a pond with swans, they ended up at Big Chaos, a majestic heap of stones brought here at Vorontsov’s order. Zoya began jumping from boulder to boulder, climbing higher and higher. Solovyov reluctantly followed her. He painstakingly assessed each jump but his foot slipped several times. Stubborn, he did not ask Zoya about today’s plans. Her silence and this ridiculous moving around on the rocks was beginning to irritate him. Zoya stopped when the gently sloping ascent ended. Continuing to climb up would have been insanity. It even seemed so to Zoya.
They sat down on one of the rocks. The sun had disappeared behind the trees long ago but the rock was warm, almost hot. There was not a soul around. Sitting on the rock in such a strange place, set against the thickening dusk, Solovyov felt like he had gone astray. Having a girlfriend had not made things easier. More likely the opposite.
It was almost dark when they began climbing down. Zoya took a flashlight from the bag she had handed to Solovyov and directed its light at the closest boulders. Solovyov, whose eyes had already begun to grow accustomed to the dark, finally lost his orientation. The flashlight distorted the form of the rocks. The angle of the light made barely noticeable indentations seem to be huge hollows, but Zoya’s beam completely ignored real crevices between the rocks. Fantastical shadow play intensified all that: Zoya waved the flashlight from time to time as she showed Solovyov the way. Solovyov held on to the bag, which was swinging on his shoulder; he did not much believe they could descend safely. He was completely wet when they finally made it down.