He was walking along the defensive lines and earth was scattering out from under his boots into the freshly dug trenches.
‘I want to lie down in your trench, so everyone will leave me in peace!’ the general shouted in another place.
The shovelers did not know that was the general’s old dream. They silently went about their work, puzzled as to why he needed such a big trench in this case.
‘The name of the operation was signifying,’ Kholin repeated. ‘If you divide the word Foxhole in two, you’ll understand what the general wanted to say.’
Kholin observed, not without pleasure, as the whispers of everyone reading at once ran through the audience.
‘It was as if,’ said the presenter, waving his hands but still speaking quietly, away from the microphone, ‘the general was saying goodbye with that word, that he would survive.’
The audience absorbed this for an inadmissibly long time.
‘The key word is whole,’ said a smiling Kholin. ‘He was saying that he was a sly fox and would escape whole.’
The whispering gradually transformed into a buzz. With a bob of his head, the presenter returned some unruly hair to its place. Baikalova wrote something on a piece of paper and showed it to Grunsky. Grunsky read what she had written, moving his index finger from one word to another. Twice. He shrugged.
‘But the second part of the word,’ the concerned Baikalova said into the microphone, ‘I mean, in “foxhole”, it would be “hole”, with just an “h”, which means a pit. So it’s not “whole” with the “w” for entire… I did study English…’
Kholin leaned on the lectern and his head twitched toward his shoulder. His face expressed nothing but fatigue. He smoothed his hair and slowly began shifting his papers on the lectern. Baikalova rose from her place and looked questioningly at the presenter.
After a silence, Kholin said, almost as silently, ‘I will verify your information.’
Solovyov felt like getting some fresh air. To do that, he would have to give an excuse to Dunya but did not know what to say. In any case, he had missed the transition to a new presenter and now it would be awkward to leave. Solovyov was annoyed at his own indecision. Alex Schwartz, a gender studies specialist from Boston, was speaking. She spoke Russian in a pleasant masculine baritone. She selected her words carefully, preferring infinitive verb forms and nouns in the nominative case. Solovyov’s headache kept worsening.
Schwartz began her report on the general with a detailed story about famous ‘cavalry maiden’, Nadezhda Andreevna Durova (1783–1866). The American researcher reminded attendees that it was not easy for women to make their way into the Russian Army at the turn of the nineteenth century. A woman’s lot was considered to be needlework (Schwartz demonstrated several motions for embroidery). The kitchen (cutting imaginary vegetables). Bed (motions of horseback riding).
But. Young Nadezhda had trouble with needlework. Lace. To tear (miming). To ruin (miming). To tangle (miming). Schwartz read a quotation from Durova’s book The Cavalry Maiden: ‘“These two so very contradictory feelings,”’ Schwartz quoted Durova, ‘“love for one’s father and repugnance for one’s sex—perturbed my soul with identical force and so, with a firmness and constancy very uncommon for someone my age, I devoted myself to contemplating a plan for leaving the realm to which nature and customs assigned the female sex.”’
For her upbringing, the girl was sent to flank hussar Astakhov. He taught her to wield a saber (miming). To shoot (miming, with onomatopoeia). To ride horses (miming, same as bed). Noticing that Baikalova had stood up, the presenter addressed her with a calming gesture: ‘Are you interested in how this all ties in with the general?’
‘I am,’ said Baikalova.
Schwartz came out from behind the lectern, approached Baikalova, and half-embraced her. ‘It’s just the general was a woman. Like Nadezhda Andreevna. Like you and me. You not know?’
Baikalova preferred to keep silent. She was, after all, still in Schwartz’s embrace.
‘Why Zhloba not shoot him?’
‘Why?’ Grunsky asked, cautious.
‘He knew general’s secret. Loved him.’
Solovyov got up and began making his way to the exit, not looking at anyone. Only when he was out in the fresh evening breeze did he sense that his shirt was wet with sweat. He undid two or three buttons and unstuck his shirt from his chest. Dunya came up behind him and placed her chin on his shoulder, ‘Shall we go?’
Solovyov moved his shoulder, barely noticeably, ‘I have a headache.’
‘I have aspirin in my room,’ she rubbed her nose against his neck.
Solovyov was looking at the Chaika department store, staring. ‘My head aches because of you.’
Dunya did not say a word. She turned and vanished behind the theater’s columns. Solovyov headed slowly toward his hotel.
14
The next morning did not portend scandal. The surface of the sea looked polished, without ripples. The wind that had been blowing in the evening had been replaced by conciliatory airy waves. Those waves blended a morning coolness with a barely discernible smell of fish, and Solovyov liked that mix very much. But scandal did come to pass.
Kvasha and Schwartz led the morning session. More precisely, Schwartz led it and Kvasha sat next to her. She took the microphone at the very beginning and then did not let it out of her hands. Kvasha did not protest. Initially, he contemplated the crystal chandeliers in the hall, but then he began quickly writing something on the papers lying in front of him.
Just before the first presenter came on, a rather short man wearing a tracksuit appeared on the stage. Swaying slightly, he walked to the moderators’ table and leaned his hand on it. He stood motionless for a while, gazing at the floor.
‘Who are you?’ the good-natured Schwartz asked him in her choppy, accented Russian.
‘Me?’ The man paused. ‘Well, let’s say I’m the lighting technician.’
He crouched and placed his elbows on the table.
‘You look very tired,’ said Schwartz.
The man calling himself the lighting technician nodded.
He reached for the pitcher, poured himself some water, and drank.
‘I’m just a little tired.’
He rose to his feet and slowly walked away. Moscow researcher Papitsa was already standing below, by the stairs, waiting for the stage to free up. The small Papitsa cast a contemptuous glance at the lighting technician then flew up the stairs. He was wearing a tuxedo and his bow tie peered out only occasionally from underneath a long beard that seemed to be the wrong size. His icicle-like mustache scattered threateningly in various directions. This made him look simultaneously like Don Quixote, Salvador Dali, and Felix Dzerzhinsky. Taken individually, those figures had nothing in common with Papitsa. The presenter’s beard, tuxedo, and abrupt motions reminded Solovyov of the puppet show that came to his school before each New Year holiday.
He’d loved those performances for the puppets’ spiffy costumes, the spangles on the curtains, the aroma of a holiday tree that had already been placed in the corner of the assembly room but was not yet decorated, and the thought of an upcoming vacation. He loved those performances even in high school, when completely different things interested him, when he stealthily squeezed Leeza’s hand while they were in the assembly room and thought about how they were sitting at a children’s show but were connected by a relationship that was not childlike; that made him unbelievably turned on.
Solovyov cautiously turned his head and scanned the room for Dunya. She was sitting two rows away from him. She was sitting very straight, and not taking her eyes off the stage. That, thought Solovyov, must be how an outcast woman sits. For the first time, he felt something like sympathy for her.