Solovyov silently invited him in. Taras moved toward the center of the room fitfully, as if he were sidestepping. He set his hands on the back of a chair. He stood crookedly, his head bent toward his shoulder.
‘I have a favor to ask you,’ said Taras. ‘Leave.’
Solovyov remained silent. Somewhere outside, a door opened, spilling out the sounds of clattering dishes, music, and guests’ cries. A moment later, everything went quiet.
‘Leave. She’s impossible to handle. You’ll be done for with her.’
‘What about you?’
Taras kept silent.
‘Did you know about the searches in your room?’ asked
Solovyov.
‘I put the papers there myself, where she said to.’
Taras lowered himself slowly onto the chair. For a moment, Solovyov was afraid Taras was losing consciousness, but he was not.
‘Did you know we’d go to the Vorontsov Palace, too?’
‘Of course. I was there that night.’
Taras looked Solovyov in the eye for the first time. There was nothing in that gaze but sadness. Solovyov turned away,
‘So why did you agree to it?’
‘That’s what she wanted.’ Taras’s fingers touched the fish can. They slid along the rim of the lid, as if symbolizing Taras’s own rather difficult journey. Solovyov felt like he had become a witness to some sort of drama that he did not quite understand but that was undoubtedly a drama, and he started to feel sorry for the man sitting before him.
‘Do you want some tea?’
‘I got you a ticket for tomorrow, to Petersburg.’
Taras said this without taking his gaze from the fish in tomato sauce—Taras himself (it occurred to Solovyov) was essentially one of those fish. Why was he suffering like this with Zoya? Why was he enduring all these passions? Taras hesitated, then took the ticket from his breast pocket and placed it in front of Solovyov. It was curled. Not wanting to flatten out.
‘I’m not going to Petersburg,’ said Solovyov, sticking the ticket back in Taras’s pocket. ‘But I am leaving. Tomorrow. And I’ll try not to see Zoya.’
Taras silently offered his hand. It was limp and damp. Of course, with hands like those Taras could not count on Zoya’s love.
Solovyov left the house early in the morning. He truly was going. He did not feel that he owed anything since he had paid for more days than he had stayed. He left the key to the room with the neighbors.
Solovyov turned onto Chekhov Street instead of going to the trolleybus. Despite the weight of his bag, he felt like walking part of his route to the bus station. He was saying goodbye to Yalta. Without knowing it himself, Solovyov was walking along the same route as General Larionov walked one evening in August, around the 24th, in 1938. He was walking around in military-style trousers, albeit without stripes. And a tunic. The general did not stand out in the crowd wearing that clothing. Many people dressed like soldiers during the thirties. The military style was fashionable in that epoch.
The general was walking around without stripes on his trousers, but of course it was obvious to everyone that this was a general. His army bearing could be sensed in how he held his head, the way his shoulders turned, and the confidence with which he treaded, from his heel to his toes. A military man through and through. Upper echelon of the officer corps. His arms moved in time with his gait: lightly, confidently, but not swinging. The general displayed restraint in his every action.
At the corner of Botkinskaya and Chekhova Streets, he stopped at a kiosk selling carbonated water. Water cost ten kopecks without syrup, thirty with syrup. The general asked for water with syrup. He took the glass, which sweated instantly, and observed the swirling bubbles for a few seconds. The foam on the surface was exploding with thousands of the very finest droplets; they could just barely be felt when the glass came close to the cheek. The general delighted in how little bubbles rose behind the thick glass, after springing up within each of the glass’s facets. Oleander blossoms pinkened through the bubbles as if they were in a magic lantern. Pedestrians slipped past. A bicyclist rode past. A cart with milk canisters. The sharp smell of a horse.
It was hot in Yalta despite the evening hour. The general delighted in drinking his carbonated water. His Adam’s apple moved in time with his swallows. He took a handkerchief from his tunic pocket and wiped his sweaty brow. Noiselessly placed the glass on the wooden counter. Elongated contours of growth rings retained remnants of paint. Wasps crawled along round syrupy spots. The general lifted his glass again, slowly turned it over, and covered one of the wasps. Both he and the water saleswoman observed the insect’s behavior. The wasp slowly took flight, made several circles under the glass, and touched the top with a buzz. Fell. Clambered up again, climbing along the side, and went still. The general turned the glass over (the gesture of someone releasing doves), allowing the wasp to fly out. The wasp was in no hurry. Moving in a spiral, it reached the edge of the glass. Flew off, dignified. The drinking glasses jingled finely when a truck drove by. The water saleswoman wiped her hands on her apron.
‘Another glass?’
The general looked pensively at the saleswoman. The carelessly styled hair, the starched headpiece. He was looking through the saleswoman.
‘No,’ the general said. Focus returned to his gaze. ‘There’s no need.’
Yes, this was August 24. There was no doubt. 1938. Judging from the stuffiness of the evening, there would be a thunderstorm during the night. The first clouds were gathering over the Oreanda Hotel. The sun was shedding its final rays on the St. John Chrysostom Church. The general was walking along Chekhov Street. He watched holidaymakers with beach bags, parasols, and towels on their shoulders. Some were wearing pajamas.
The tango. So light, as if from afar. Swelling. A high male voice soared over an orchestra. A band stage revealed itself behind wrinkled acacia trunks. Woodwinds glinted. And a banjo glinted. Musicians in white suits and Latin American hats just as white. A trumpeter soloed. He gave all his air to the trumpet, barely able to inhale on time. The embodiment of exhalation. His cheeks were like a caricature but his lips were refined and sensual.
People were dancing by the band stage. Little by little, they made way, yielding the space to one couple. He. A predator with hair the color of a raven’s wing. A belligerently straight part. A roomy, pleated shirt that hung over narrow trousers. A wet stripe on the back. She. A dove in a white dress. When he spun her, her head tilted back slightly. Weak-willed to some extent. All of her in his arms. His leg sank into the froth of her dress. She still managed to elude him.
From Chekhov Street, the general went to Morskaya Street. To his left, a two-wheeled cart turned with a clatter. Its wheels skidded slightly on the polished cobblestones. Grass was breaking its way through a stone drain gutter. The street led to the sea and the general’s heart filled with joy. Even as a child he had loved streets leading to the sea. He saw grounds for hope with the sudden appearance of blueness between two rows of houses.
The general walked up to a pharmacy. It occupied the first level of a squat two-story building. Oak door, copper doorknob, little bell. Art nouveau style. A spring pulled the heavy door back with a creak. The pharmacy seemed cool after the street. And quiet. The general appreciated coolness and quiet. He waited until the pharmacist, Kologrivov, came out after hearing the bell. There were small test tubes, little boxes, and vials behind the cabinets’ thick glass. The smell of liquid medicines and Extra tooth powder. The general wanted to have a talk with the pharmacist about causes of death. About death overall.