There are so few simple pleasures in our daily lives that we unwittingly seek substitutes. In other words, we are trying to
replace our joyless real life with the world of thoughts, ideas, and vicarious emotions. Long ago I thought, I've lived through so many other people's lives in hooks that I haven't had time to live my own.
But who knows what’s better, our pleasure “on the edge” or a steady and boring satisfaction? Probably the golden mean is best, but where do you find it?
MARCH 30. There’s a lot of talk about national or ethnic problems. People used to say that we were a special creation of Mother Nature, a single Soviet people. When that one nation began killing one another in the Caucasus, people remembered that there are different nationalities, religions, and roots. Having decided that we are all the same, we lost respect for our own characteristics and traditions and for those of others. We rejected ourselves.
I have a strange attitude toward my nationality. I always wanted to have national feelings. I envied the smaller nationality groups who had retained them. My Armenian, Georgian, and Estonian friends were the best examples of that. The Soviet rule seems to have finished off the Russians forever, replacing us with Soviets. For foreigners, “Russian” and “Soviet” became synonyms. For the other ethnic groups living in our country, we turned into oppressors. I’ve traveled a lot around the country and heard unkind things about Russians. I began to wonder why.
Instead of national pride I developed something akin to shame and a sense of being cheated. When conversation turned
to nationalities, I would talk about the benefits of cosmopolitanism. I’d say I was Russian almost apologetically. I thought that everything really Russian perished in 1917. This is partially true because at that time Russian culture suffered a terrible blow and later Stalin destroyed its greatest bearers.
At the same time I was given a very Russian upbringing. My grandfather taught me to love the Russian countryside with a special feeling. Papa read Pushkin to me when I was little, and we’d lie on the couch and listen to Tchaikovsky’s Seasons. As a history teacher Mama told me a lot about Russia’s olden days. I knew many poems by Russian poets by heart. But I also heard a lot at home about the crimes committed by the Russian people or in the name of the Russian people. I think that my parents were both proud and ashamed of being Russian.
Now I write about these mixed feelings in the past tense. Our national penance is helping us overcome the shame. The words “I’m Russian” no longer stick in my throat. But at the same time I very much dislike the extremes some Russians are falling into, blaming their woes on other nations. If you allowed something to be done to you, that means you’re weak, and it’s your own fault. Instead of looking for whom to blame, you’d be better off restoring your dignity, so that you will be respected once again. There is much for which Russians could be esteemed.
APRIL 2. My friend Nadya and I took a trip for a few days to the small Russian town of Podolsk, where her grandmother’s old house is. Nothing compares with these provincial towns.
They’re where the true Russian spirit lives. These places used to be cultural centers, where famous writers and artists summered, but now they’re just dilapidated provinces. Their old wooden house stands at the edge of town, with a dreary empty lot beyond it, and farther down that road is an old monastery in ruins, called Vysoky. You can see it from the living room. The air there is filled with tranquillity and a mix of charm and sorrow. The house is big, with several rooms, a kitchen, and wide terrace. The old heavy furniture, the stove, and a wall clock with a melodic ring and a pendulum survived. A big hare named Nura and two dogs, one old and silly, the other young and pushy, play in the yard.
We took a walk in the daytime. We went to the old bazaar, which sells everything from hamsters, birds, and nanny goats to very scholarly tomes. The books cost more than the goats. The local museum exhibits objects from the town’s aristocratic past—paintings, tables, curtains, dishes. But the modern stores are empty, as if the town lived only in the past. The present looks grim. There was one long line in town—for vodka. It’s a good system. The buyer thrusts his hand with a ten-ruble note in it through a small window and pulls it out holding a bottle of vodka. We stood and watched for a long time. The impression was that of a robot working smoothly inside the window. It was rhythmic and perfect. Then we went into a church turned into a museum, housing a show of local artists. It was amusing to see surrealist paintings, in the style of a provincial Russian Dali, hanging in this old Russian building. The door was open, and a goat came in to eat the flowers from a vase. The custodian yelled at the goat and tried to chase it out, but it stubbornly refused
to budge, bleating loudly. Everyone laughed, and I think the people were on the goat’s side.
The trip took me back to my Kaluga childhood. I felt good but sad. Coming back to Moscow was like entering another world.
APRIL 3. My adventure with the suspicious-looking guy was nothing compared with a truly mysterious and perhaps even tragic incident. Friends of mine cannot find their daughter, a beautiful eighteen-year-old brunette. She recently married, and she and her husband decided to spend their school vacation working in a Pioneer camp for a few days. The camp is in the woods very near the Moscow city line. Her husband, Misha, called Lera’s parents and asked if she was home. The parents didn’t know what he was talking about. The newlyweds had argued on Friday, and Lera left the camp around six in the evening and had not returned. Misha was sure that she had gone home to her parents. He wasn’t in a hurry to call because he was angry.
The parents called all her friends. She wasn’t anywhere. The police were searching the suburbs, and there’s no news yet. Lera is a quiet homebody, and unexpected adventures are just not her style. What could have happened?
APRIL 6. The worst happened: She was found dead. The parents went to a parapsychologist and showed him her photograph. He said to look in water. There wasn’t a river or lake near the camp, and the water is still half frozen anyway. The police went through the area once more and found her in a ravine in melted snow. She had been strangled, and scrapes on her side indicated that she had been dragged. There was no sign of rape. She had died six days ago, the day she left. Of course, they’ll investigate and look for the killer. If he doesn’t kill again, it will be almost impossible to find him. A friend suggested taking a closer look at the husband. He didn’t like Misha’s behavior; he had been very irritable from the start, always picking on Lera. Besides, how could he calmly stay at the camp for two and half days without knowing where his wife was?
It’s hard even to write about Lera’s parents. She was their only child, and a late one at that.
APRIL 9. It’s amazing, but the death of a loved one actually gives you the strength to go on, freeing you from empty and meaningless emotions. Your existence takes on a more profound significance. Papa always loved Pushkin’s lines “You understood life’s goaclass="underline" fortunate man, you live for life.” My father always lived in expectation of life, forgetting to enjoy today. He knew that it was unnatural and destructive, but he couldn’t change. Now Papa is gone, and gone with him are his expectations and often empty fears. I understood with morbid clarity—that’s the end of life. The obituary in the newspaper, the empty desk at work, the empty room in our apartment, the things in his closet
no one needs. He is with us, in the memory of his friends, and his name and unsullied reputation in science remain. But I remember his suffering, his dissatisfaction, his depression. I want so much to bring him back and say, “Look at your end. Why didn’t you understand sooner that you have to value every day and live for life?’’