Now Natasha is studying Russian Orthodox monasteries. She travels to various cities when time allows, goes to services, reads the Bible. Recently she sat down with her mother and said, “Do you want me to try out the monastic life on you?” For four hours she talked about the joy of serving God, about earthly temptations awaiting people at every step.
Natasha never talks about her temptations, but we know that she’s had affairs. From the little she’s said, I learned that they sought solace and help from her, and she naturally gave it. How could they have missed such a wonderful woman?
DECEMBER 8. Dasha told me an incredible thing that happened to a friend of hers. Lika is an extravagant Moscow intellectual in her forties. She’s been married twice and has a grown daughter. She likes adventure and is attractive to men. A femme fatale.
The night before last Lika went to a major theatrical premiere. She didn’t have a ticket, but usually people come up and offer to sell her one. This time another “ticketless” person, a handsome and respectable-looking man, hung around her. Despite their efforts, they couldn’t get tickets, and they got into a conversation as they walked down the boulevard. He turned out to be learned, witty, and charming. Lika didn’t feel like going home. She was glad to accept his offer of a cup of coffee. It’s banal, but it’s life. They had coffee, good Georgian wine, music. It was a wonderful night, everything done with attention and taste. In the morning he tenderly kissed her farewell out in the hall and asked if she regretted the night she had spent with him and if he had made her happy. She said she hadn’t been that happy in a long time. He embraced her neck and artfully undid her gold chain. He took the necklace and said, “You have to pay for your pleasure, my dear.” She couldn’t believe her ears. He opened the door, put his arm around Lika’s waist, and led her to the elevator. She went downstairs and out onto the street
THE INTIMATE DIARY OF A RUSSIAN WOMAN 89
in shock. Nothing like this had ever happened to her. She’d had arguments and curses hurled at her, but Lika had never seen such a refined scoundrel.
DECEMBER 10. Katya’s dream has come true. She recently met a Frenchman working in Moscow. It would be perfect except for the language problem. He doesn’t speak Russian; she doesn’t speak French. She barely knows English, and his English is little better. Today she came to me for help in basic phrases. The idea is to show him that she is a serious, positive young woman who is not interested in one-night stands. In other words, either intend marriage or get the hell out. But it has to be said delicately, by innuendo, and in grammar, the subjunctive is the most difficult. I wrote out entire sentences for her. She is talented when it comes to men. We’ll see what happens. We decided that if he doesn’t understand, I’ll be brought in to help. If he pretends not to understand a thing, I’ll bring my dubious French into play.
They’re going to the ballet tonight. She’s tempting him with the full intellectual program: museums, theaters, concerts. Everyone has her own way of winning happiness. I think that Katya’s isn’t the worst.
DECEMBER 11. I’ve stopped writing about myself lately. There’s nothing to write: the usual gray, dull stuff and loneliness. Besides, I don’t have the strength for passion; it always ends
sadly. I guess I shouldn’t take it so seriously. The poet Bella Akhmadulina, whom I admire so much, has a marvelous poem about how she sometimes wants to be a frivolous coquette from the last century, but it is not her fate. She must sing the praises of those marvelous specters. All I can do is envy them.
In olden days there were many words to describe a man’s courtship of a woman. They reflected the various nuances and degrees of seriousness. He’s “following her around” meant a sweet and slightly frivolous attention that promised nothing. No one thinks in those terms now, the whole concept has died out. Before he “wanted to be affianced,” but now they say “he wants to propose.” There was something respectful about being affianced. The man would come to the house, ask for the parents’ permission, and wait anxiously for the young lady’s acceptance. There was another nice expression; “ask for her hand.” “Propose” or “make a proposal,” as we put it now, sounds like a line from a contract. “Citizeness Ivanova, I want to make a proposal to you.”
And there was the lovely tradition of posting the banns. Now, instead of that, people go to ZAGS, the registry office, and “submit an application,” which sounds like a party committee meeting. And the church wedding has been replaced by “registering” the marriage.
I’ve started with the lighthearted “following her around” and ended with a wedding: dreaming again.
Nowadays men don’t know how to court women. Instead, they just have quickie affairs. Men decided that if a woman flirts and gets their attention, she’s looking for sex. Women are partially to blame for that. We’re too much in a hurry. Of course, if you don’t hurry, you’ll be left all alone. The men have a simple
approach now: “If you don’t want to, I’ll go find someone else.” They always have a dozen phone numbers to spare.
We have a friend, an elderly and impressive pilot, who has sown his wild oats and has lovely memories. He likes to sit in his armchair with a snifter of cognac and a cigar and talk about love. “Men cheat themselves today. They deprive themselves of the best part of love—courtship. A woman must be conquered, cleverly, inventively, beautifully. There’s no interest if she gives herself to you the first night. The harder the battle, the sweeter the victory.” Then he gives examples from his life. I listen to him and think, Where are you , valiant conquerors? Why do we have to deal only with impatient consumers?
DECEMBER 12. My neighbor Masha needs no one. She has a lovely daughter to whom she devotes all her attention and love. Masha can do everything: make money, do repairs in the apartment, sew, knit, cook, fix the TV. I know that life alone isn’t easy for her, but she never complains. She’s created an image of herself that everyone accepts. When she has suitors from time to time, she hurries to assure me that she doesn’t need them. Our apartments are at an angle, so we can see into each other’s kitchens. “Sasha spent the night?” I ask the next morning. “Why do you ask? You saw him sleeping on the cot in the kitchen,” Masha replies. When one of us has a guest, the other is bursting with curiosity.
Occasionally Masha decides that it’s time to find a good father for her daughter, but that passes quickly since there are no candidates.
And so we sit in her kitchen, she with a cigarette, I with a cup of tea, talking about nothing, looking at her new clothes.
DECEMBER 15. Dasha’s artist turned out to be a creepy egoist. He exhausted her. She sat in my kitchen and cried today. She had waited a whole hour at the exhibit for him, and when he arrived, he told her that he had to discuss a problem with his friends. She had been planning a pleasant evening for just the two of them. He was like that all the time: Either he showed up unexpectedly, full of love, or he couldn’t find five minutes to talk on the phone. “I still love him,” Dasha said through her tears. “He’s so talented and smart, I’m ready to forgive him anything.”