Does this couple carry that shading within, too? To some degree, yes. Innokenty by virtue of the circumstances of his life. By the number of things he’s lived through. Nastya by virtue of innate qualities.
I don’t mean to say that Nastya’s wise: it would be silly to say that about a girl. What I have in mind is that she’s arranging their life together rationally. A feminine wisdom or something.
Basically, wisdom is experience more than anything. Experience that’s processed, of course. If there’s no processing, then all the bruises you get are useless.
When I spoke about that out loud, Innokenty objected, saying that processing can happen without bruises, too. That sounds authoritative from the mouth of a person with such baggage in his life. If there aren’t any bruises, though, it’s unclear what to process. Innokenty didn’t really clarify this, and I didn’t even begin to ask.
Then there was a wonderfully tasty supper. Candlelit, by the way. Nastya secured the candles in two holders she’d brought from home. She explained that they were her grandmother’s and asked if Innokenty recognized them. He made an indefinite gesture. Nastya, I think, wanted very much for him to recognize the candleholders.
Of course, he could have recognized them. At least as gratitude for the supper.
After supper they sat on the sofa. I was in a chair. Innokenty didn’t take his hand off Nastya’s belly. I inferred from that that Nastya’s pregnant. I asked about it, as if I were joking. They answered completely seriously: yes, she’s pregnant.
That makes me happy. Very happy. I congratulated them.
At Innokenty’s suggestion, we played lotto. People played that in his day. People don’t play it now but does that really matter? Particularly since it’s so nice to play. So cozy.
As I played, I thought about how Innokenty had earned this coziness like nobody else.
I was also thinking that if I were president, I would make the population of the Russian Federation play lotto in the evenings. Of everything that the authorities could undertake right now, that seems like the best thing.
SUNDAY [INNOKENTY]
We had a nice evening with Geiger yesterday. He became very animated when he learned of Nastya’s pregnancy. Well, yes, it is always pleasant for a natural scientist when someone in his care reproduces: that speaks to good vitality. I am joking. Our relationship with Geiger is human first, then doctorly and all the rest. That has become even more obvious since I left the hospital. He might look a bit aloof but I do know him. He’s a very heartfelt person in his own way.
Geiger’s characteristic love for truisms is another matter. This is, rather, his love for a formula, perhaps even for a phrase. Well, things such as the blood pressure increasing after coffee or, let’s say, punishment following crime. And I read the other day that it turns out that coffee does not always raise blood pressure, far from it. I won’t even speak of crime and punishment.
Geiger recently said of Nastya that she is surprisingly pragmatic for her age, that young people grow up fast. Someone on the outside might think that’s praise but I have already studied Geiger pretty well. He regards this quality of Nastya’s as paradoxical and he does not like paradoxes. He is no friend of paradoxes. I even imagine, roughly, what kind of phrase phrase he’s using as a starting point here: romance is characteristic of youth or something of that sort. The thought that romance can combine with a businesslike attitude irritates him to the depths of his soul.
Geiger is a person of rules. He likes a phrase because it formulates a rule. His strength (he is absolutely reliable) is in rules, but there is a weakness there, too: he fears exceptions. I am sure that Geiger understands that life is more complicated than any diagrams, but at the same time, he values them. For him, this is a question of the world’s orderliness. In Russian life, though, the exception is the rule, it’s just that Geiger doesn’t understand that. Or rather he does not accept it.
One topic yesterday was bumps and bruises that allegedly automatically engender experience. Bruises subjected to processing are what experience is: that is exactly what was said. But that isn’t how it seems to me. Meaning it’s possible that bruises can engender experience. But they might not. My main impressions, for example, are not connected with bruises, though I had oh so many bruises. In the literal sense, at that.
MONDAY [NASTYA]
Today I managed to reach an agreement for renting out my grandmother’s apartment. It all came together quickly, what can I say. I told Platosha that I hadn’t run up the price and was rewarded for moderation. He kissed me on the nose. His gaze was absent; details like that don’t interest him. I rubbed my nose on his chin.
‘Do you understand, you bonehead, that it’ll be easier for us to live now?
‘The main thing,’ he answered, ‘is to live, the rest will somehow follow.’
‘Effort, by the way, is needed for it to follow.’
It works out that I’m earning the riches for the two of us. Does that make me bitter? Not at all. It would be a catastrophe if Platosha began earning the riches, too. He and I are both strong in that we’re different and complement one another. That’s called an ideal marriage. I envelop his life in comfort and he makes up for everything he missed out on when he was frozen.
He reads a lot. There are two stacks of books by our bed: the one on his side is large and, well, mine is small. I flipped through Platonov’s collection yesterday: history, philosophy, literature. Nothing to sneeze at. And what’s in my pile… it’s mortifying to even talk about that. Detective and romance novels. Items predominantly for us ladies. Written in Russia.
My books can always be set aside, even thrown away, but Platosha’s, well, no can do. Ugh… This is something that makes me jealous. I crawl under his hand and whisper:
‘Are you very busy, Innokenty Petrovich?’
He laughs. Asks forgiveness. He asks this very zealously and I resist feebly. It turns out that I’m more interesting than the book that’s flying to the floor. It lies there, flattened, its cover facing up, observing our finale and apotheosis. I look at it from time to time. And so, on a nice high note, my eyes meet with Arnold Toynbee, for example. This disheartens me a little. The most touching thing is that a minute later my Platonov reaches over me for the book and gets down to reading again. Right now, as I write, he’s reading a book about how the USSR conquered the cosmos. Somehow unexpected.
Is it very awful that I, a pregnant woman, am doing gymnastics like this? I’ll need to ask the doctor.
TUESDAY [INNOKENTY]
Today I read a book about Solovki: it describes the Kem transit camp. That, as it happens, is the place I last saw my cousin Seva. Somehow, I do not want to write about that.
WEDNESDAY [GEIGER]
Innokenty told me that ‘a certain Belkov’ from the government called him. He spoke with him for a fairly long time.
Of course he meant Zheltkov. A person who’s well known to everyone but Innokenty. Zheltkov offered all kinds of support. He left his phone number so Innokenty can call him if need be. He promised to ‘stop by for tea’ if he’s in Petersburg.
Sehr demokratisch.[4]
WEDNESDAY [NASTYA]
Zheltkov from the government called Platosha. Zheltkov himself. He offered ‘all kinds of support.’ True, as someone noted, it’s worth doubting when they offer all kinds of support: a proposal like that carries no obligation. But I think Zheltkov’s beside the point here: what can he offer if Platosha doesn’t need anything?