He did not have to leave the Twelve Colleges building to go to the geography department. By checking the schedule, he learned where the second-year students had classes and went into the classroom during the break. A map of mineral resources in Siberia, speckled with red spots, hung on the wall. There were many resources. A great many.
Solovyov approached the first table and asked where he might find Larionova. They showed him. Even from afar, he knew it was not Leeza and thought about leaving without going up to her. He began taking a step but for some reason looked again at Larionova; her face was dotted with acne. It recalled the map of Siberia. This was probably what prevented him from making a fast exit. If he acted that way, reasoned the young historian, Larionova’s classmates would decide her appearance had driven him away. He did not want to cause Larionova—even if she was not Leeza—additional distress.
He walked over to her and wanted to explain what, exactly, had happened but Larionova did not let him say a word. She took him by the elbow and walked out of the classroom with him. Larionova continued holding Solovyov by the elbow in the hallway but did not look up. She had a sweet face, despite the acne.
‘I’m looking for a young woman whose surname is Larionova,’ said Solovyov, ‘but it turns out it’s not you.’
Larionova nodded. That was how things always worked out in her life.
Solovyov searched out the second Larionova the next day. She was writing a term paper on ancient battle tactics but knew nothing about the prominent general who shared her surname. That surprised Solovyov. In the first instant, the thought even flashed through his mind to tell her about the general and his Thermopylae passions. The history department’s Larionova was tall and broad-shouldered. Of all the Larionovas Solovyov had seen, basically, she deserved to be the general’s granddaughter more than the rest. Despite that circumstance (or perhaps precisely because of it), Larionova the second did not inspire Solovyov. He did not even consider telling her about anything and kept the conversation to a bare minimum.
There turned out to be the most hassle with Larionova number three. They told Solovyov at the journalism department that Larionova was sick, so he went to see her at the dormitory. There was no immediate answer when he knocked at Larionova’s room. Judging from the noise beyond the door, they were celebrating something in the room. Solovyov had lived in a dormitory for several years so he knew dorm sounds and smells so well that, based on the specifics of how they were combined, he could determine to a high degree of accuracy the reason behind the festivities. Most frequently, people celebrated birthdays, weddings, and passing exams in dorms. Sometimes they just drank vodka but there were no good smells for that. In those cases, they made do with bread, sausage, and marinated cucumbers.
It was not exam time. They were not celebrating a wedding (Solovyov cracked the door open). Birthday was left.
‘Come in,’ several guests shouted at once.
Solovyov went in. About ten people were sitting at two desks that had been pushed together. Two of them were on chairs, one was on a nightstand, and the rest were on two beds. One of the beds had needed to be pulled a little toward the table. A portrait of Fidel Castro hung on the entire wall over the bed that had not been moved.
Solovyov had not expected to recognize the television news host Makhalov as one of those sitting (as it happened) on the bed under Fidel. Makhalov, who was slightly drunk, rocked pensively and placed his head on a dark-haired young woman’s shoulder. When Solovyov stated the reason he had put in an appearance, it emerged that she was Larionova. Her name was Yekaterina.
Yekaterina was celebrating her birthday. There was a glass bowl of Olivier salad in the middle of the table. A dish of olives right next to the salad. For beverages there was predominantly vodka, which they were drinking out of little plastic cups. Solovyov wanted to leave but they convinced him to stay and drink to Yekaterina. They convinced him loudly and spiritedly. Then they forgot about him.
Every now and then Makhalov kissed Yekaterina on the lips and each time there was a sound like quiet chewing. That—as well as the salad on their lips—gave their kisses a piquant gastronomical flavor. Makhalov called her by her full name—Yekaterina—and the others followed suit, calling her that, too, even those who, by all appearances, had long known her well.
Solovyov was sitting on the bed next to Makhalov. Oddly enough, he did not feel like leaving. Not because he liked it here (it is not very likely he could have said that) but because he did not know where he should go now. He felt enervated after determining that not one of these Larionovas had anything to do with Leeza. He realized that his searches could be endless. Why, really, was he looking for Leeza only at the University? And why only in Petersburg?
One of the guests was describing how he and his girlfriend had made love on a beach one night in Gurzuf. After a while, it felt to them as if a whole group of people was watching. They stopped what they were doing and approached the observers. Much to their surprise, they discovered it was rocks. Then they made love on those rocks. The girlfriend turned out to be Yekaterina.
Makhalov said that, as a rule, television news was a lie. Moreover, the problem was not the content itself (he drank, and inhaled through his nostrils, pursing his lips) but how it was presented: how much, the order, vocabulary choices, etcetera.
They poured vodka for Solovyov yet again. His little plastic cup ended up filled to the brim. To his own surprise, Solovyov drank it all in one gulp and chased it with olives. Applause rang out. When Solovyov glanced at his little cup, he saw it was full again. Solovyov was no longer sure he had actually drunk the previous one.
‘Sad though it is, you have to sleep with someone to get on television,’ said Makhalov.
‘I don’t believe it,’ shouted Yekaterina.
‘Imagine,’ Makhalov sighed, and Solovyov felt Malakhov’s hand on his knee.
Then a person arrived with a bottle of Metaxa brandy. Solovyov no longer felt like drinking but they all began persuading him that he definitely had to try the Metaxa. Solovyov tried the Metaxa.
Unexpectedly, Makhalov farted loudly and several people began giggling.
‘We’ll make it through the winter,’ said Makhalov.
Yekaterina nodded with an expression of calm certainty. The guests drank again. Their motions were growing ever more chaotic and at some point they themselves disintegrated into their component parts: eyes, arms, mouths, and little plastic cups. Solovyov unintentionally leaned back and hit his head on the wall. Fidel was the last person he saw before his head struck.
Solovyov came to late at night. He guessed that it was late at night from the darkness in the room and the absence of guests. Once his eyes had grown accustomed to the murkiness, he realized there were at least two people in the room other than him. There was a light disturbance on the next bed.
Solovyov discerned two silhouettes there: one lying, the other sitting. The sitting one was unsuccessfully attempting to revive the lying one by shaking the person’s head and whispering something in the person’s ear, but the lying person only defended himself limply. The lying person spoke in a constricted, unintelligible whisper, but from the general tone of the answers, it followed that the person wanted to sleep. Based on a series of indirect indicators, Solovyov guessed that the attacking side was the birthday girl. This was confirmed when Yekaterina lost her patience and suddenly said loudly, in a bitter voice, ‘If you don’t want to love me, others will.’