The water was not summery, so I tried not to look at it. The sea had no azure skies above, so there was nowhere for it to take on the corresponding color. But the sand had a completely summery look. True, it was cold, but, well, I wasn’t touching it anyway.
I am now reading about outer space. It’s interesting that the first to make it there were dogs.
FRIDAY [GEIGER]
Today Innokenty signed a contract to advertise frozen foods. That resulted from the callers reaching Nastya.
Innokenty told me at one point that they’d called him. He hung up. I probably would have hung up, too.
But Nastya didn’t hang up. She spoke with them in a businesslike way, learned the size of the fee, and was impressed.
She’s right about something. The money that the authorities allocated to support Innokenty comes up categorically short. And it doesn’t arrive regularly, either. I’ve had to hold paid consultations at the clinic and that’s not fully legal. But the proceeds went toward our patient.
It’s interesting that it was Nastya who told me about the signed contract. With a certain pride. Innokenty hasn’t commented on it at all. Is he feeling awkward about it?
If the connections with frozen foods continue, I’ll be able to turn down the consultations.
FRIDAY [INNOKENTY]
Nastya has changed somehow. If compared with who she was before Anastasia’s death, she’s slightly different. I discover a new Nastya each day, and that’s a great pleasure.
To what degree does she resemble Anastasia?
SATURDAY [NASTYA]
There’s a big press conference planned for next week at a news agency. At first I thought it was the agency’s initiative, but they let slip that the event is paid for by a vegetable company. By an improbable (oy!) coincidence, it’s the company Platosha advertises. How curious: the vegetable merchants don’t just advertise their own cabbage but also the person who advertises the cabbage. They’ve thought everything through.
Incidentally, my Platonov signed a contract for a series of advertising spots. Right after signing, they brought him to a studio to film the first spot. He refused weakly, said he wasn’t dressed for filming and all that, but they said the opposite was the case: he’d need to undress. I whispered to him that there was no reason to be especially nervous: he had clean underwear. That was no reassurance, though.
We came to the studio. There’s a container made of some sort of special material standing there: it’s silvery with a hundred polished rivets. There’s cotton wool soaked with glue along the edges of the container, as if it’s icy, and there’s gas coming out of it, imitating liquid nitrogen’s coldness. The gas spreads along the floor around the container in fluffy layers. They undress Platosha to his underwear and plant him in the barrel. Actually, he’s barely visible in that container – just his head and shoulders. Off-camera, they ask Platosha:
‘What helped you endure here for so many decades?’
He takes a package of frozen vegetables and raises it over his head:
‘This did!’
The whole studio rolls with laughter.
And I suddenly feel sorry for him.
SUNDAY [GEIGER]
Innokenty and Nastya described filming the advertising spot.
On the one hand, it’s comical. On the other, though, it degrades the tragic element of Innokenty’s life. In his own eyes, first and foremost.
It imagines that he spent all those decades lying in a barrel. He didn’t give a damn, just sustained himself on frozen vegetables.[5]
What tackiness that is, anyway. Schrecklich.
MONDAY [INNOKENTY]
A couple of days ago, I was filmed for an advertising spot: Nastya made an agreement with an agency for a whole series of them. It’s unbelievable stupidity and it’s embarrassing to even talk about, but they pay an insane fee. I never would have thought it would bring in so much money.
I’m reading now about what happened in the country after my arrest. The authors keep expressing the thought that the entire country became a prison camp. Of course, even back then I heard bits of news from the newly arrested and knew some things thanks to Muromtsev, whose connections to the country’s capitals had not been cut off. But still, I had not imagined the true scope of the Terror.
Muromtsev. He was a sincere person, carefree, too, in a way. I think the fact that he was already residing on Solovki is what saved him from worse troubles. He was located in the center of the vortex, where, as we know, it is calmest of all. If he had not already been imprisoned, Muromtsev would have been shot thirty times for what he told me during our walks. As for me, I no longer hid my judgments from anyone – not just Muromtsev – when I was preparing to be immersed into liquid nitrogen. My words most likely made it to the camp’s authorities, but were regarded with total calm. Knowing that all my judgments would be frozen along with me. And would never thaw.
It surprised me greatly that other Lazaruses were cautious, as was the way at the camp. Maybe they truly believed that they would be thawed someday and were afraid of possible accusations in the future? Their fear acted upon me, oppressively. Could it really be, I wondered, that even the distant future would not lead us out of this Bolshevik hell?
Muromtsev sometimes invited me to his apartment (he had a separate apartment!) and treated me to coffee with cognac. When his lips touched the coffee cup, his mustache sank unexpectedly low, its spiky ends sticking out. It was obvious that the academician’s mustache was treated to special care. A small beard embellished his face, too, and his delicate round glasses shone splendidly, but the very finest thing about Muromtsev was his mustache. That mustache, along with the coffee and cognac, instilled hope. So long as people who looked like that existed, normal life did not seem irretrievable.
During one of our conversations, Muromtsev said to me:
‘The real terror will begin soon.’
‘What?’ I inquired. ‘So this is unreal?’
‘There’s no reason to be ironic. Two things are needed for real terror: society’s readiness and someone who will take charge. Society’s readiness is already there. There’s just one small thing missing.’
‘And so who will take charge?’
Muromtsev was silent.
‘The strongest one. He once telephoned me, as you know. Well, then: his strength can be felt even over the telephone. It’s animal-like somehow, not human.’
I believed Muromtsev: he worked with rats.
TUESDAY [NASTYA]
Zheltkov called this morning – I answered. Rather, his aide called and when I responded that Platonov wasn’t at home, Zheltkov himself intervened in the conversation, and said that’s even better.
‘You and I are going to hatch a little plot: we’re plotting a tea party so your husband doesn’t know. We’ll invite him when it’s a done deal, so to speak.’
‘Are you in Petersburg?’ I asked.
‘What about you?’
Loud laughter in the phone. I laughed, too, but mostly to be polite. We said goodbye until evening. Zheltkov’s a great guy. Humorous, easy to talk with. True, according to Zheltkov, Innokenty Petrovich had apparently been dreaming about a tea party like this for ages, practically requested it, and now it is finally happening. But that’s just how he is: it doesn’t ruin anything, it even enhances Zheltkov in some sense, as if, you know, we’re all human beings here, we can make something up if need be. When somebody’s totally lacking weaknesses, somehow that’s not human…