The Summer Guest Page 14

  Anton Pavlovich comes every afternoon now and stays for an hour or so. Sometimes he is alone, sometimes Masha or Ivan comes with him. When Masha comes, the conversation is rich and full of laughter, we hurry over our words to make a point, we agree and sigh and laugh in dismay over life’s foibles. When Ivan Pavlovich comes, there is a greater distance—which only I perceive, surely, but it is there nonetheless; they talk about fishing or marriage: Do Natasha or I know of any suitable parties for Ivan, who, I am told, blushes and waves his hand and even shoves his brother on the arm in protest. Natasha and Elena had been joking about Vata as a suitable party for Ivan Pavlovich, but lately, I wonder if they are not seriously trying to put our cousin in his path whenever possible. I imagine she must stand before him with her thumb behind her back and her big doggie eyes staring at him expectantly. Personally, I would not mind such a union, for it would bring our two families closer—and it is definitely a more suitable match than Aleksandr Pavlovich and Elena.

  When we are alone, Anton Pavlovich turns to me eagerly, as if it is time to tell me the secrets he has kept from his brother and sister.

  His voice low and confidential, he says, I am making great strides with the novel. Our guests in May and June—that was all good and enjoyable, but now I can write, such blissful peace and quiet, and the sudden cool weather: all godsends.

  I am glad to hear it, Anton Pavlovich. Can you tell me the story? Do you, I don’t know, need help with the female point of view?

  He exploded with laughter. Dear Zinaida Mikhailovna, I wish I could tell you, but I cannot, that is, I’m quite unwilling; thank you for your offer, but I think I have seen enough of women to manage with the point of view. Although I confess that if I were to need help, I would come to you before anyone else.

  You’re being polite, Anton Pavlovich. And perhaps a bit presumptuous.

  Presumptuous, why? You offered! You see? A perfect example of the woman’s point of view!

  I must have looked rather displeased, because he laughed gently and said, Forgive me, what I mean is that your sensibility, Zinaida Mikhailovna, is extraordinary. You go beyond the surface straight to the person, to the soul, the spirit. There is something in you—a sixth sense—that removes the barriers that sight imposes in others. Do you understand what I am saying?

  I would not tell him that I had already suspected this, at least where he was concerned. It felt like too great an intimacy, and I was afraid he might withdraw if he knew my suspicions. So I said, But it is nothing I do deliberately, Anton Pavlovich. The barrier—or lack of it—is in you, in your understanding of me. You see me—you may judge or apprehend or accept me based on what you see: a plain, unthreatening woman who will not try to control you or marry you. And because I cannot see you—although I am told you are handsome enough—I cannot judge your physical appearance, it is true, and I accept you as you are, whether you are as handsome as a Greek or as vile as the oldest toad by the river—all that matters little to me. Whereas for Natasha, I imagine it does. Although, to be honest, if your fingers were covered with warts from all those toads you frequent, I should have a hard time when you kiss my hand. But believe me, if you feel there are no barriers in my presence because I cannot see you, you are wrong, and you are being presumptuous. How can you be sure I don’t imagine you to be just like that toad? Repulsive!

  He laughed, there was a long bemused silence, and then he said, We move differently in the world, there’s no escaping the fact. Perhaps, simply, these things are inexplicable. I’m drawn to you for reasons you might deny out of modesty, or perhaps because of a truth I do not see. We don’t need to question it, Zinaida Mikhailovna. I am grateful for your presence in my life—that should suffice.

  I could have said, returning the compliment, that I was grateful for his presence. But I felt that it might lessen what he was trying to say to me, might sound like mere politeness. I had argued long enough—for the sake of argument—against his extraordinary perception of me.

  There was, therefore, another long silence. I could not determine whether it was warm or verging on awkward. A smile in his eyes might have told me. But if he had known I was looking at him, seeing him, his expression might be quite altered, self-conscious. These were presumptions on my part. So I reached out, found his arm with my fingers, a light linen cloth beneath my touch, and his skin warm beneath the cloth.

  To change the subject, I said, And your novel? Can you tell me at least whether the main character is a man or a woman?

  Both, Zinaida Mikhailovna! There are rivers and woods, and ferryboats, and the railway, and several main characters. A few dogs, and an absolutely vicious cat. That everyone loves, God knows why. And a mill with a lovely miller’s daughter—just like the one here. That’s all I’ll tell you for now.

  I could hear the laughter in his words: Of course he was teasing me and would not tell me the truth about his novel. It, too, must remain invisible, behind a barrier of humor.

  After that we talked of trivial things, which need no record here, but what was extraordinary was that despite any awkwardness or possible misunderstanding regarding the nature of our ease with each other, that ease seemed to be all the greater. As if the barriers he spoke of were gone, indeed. On my side as well. Was it the warmth in his tone, or the haste with which he repeatedly lowered his voice and touched my arm to make his point?

  Why am I even looking for signs? There are other senses to trust than the one that is absent, and there is something beyond sense, perhaps the sixth sense he referred to, but for me it was simply the way we understood each other.

  In idle moments, I write down what I remember of Anton Pavlovich’s descriptions to me, though I can never recall exactly; there is always something missing.

  There’s your mama in a pale blue dress, and she’s picking flowers, and it’s hot and she’s forgotten her hat, so she keeps wiping her brow with the back of her hand; and Grigory Petrovich is in the shade of the oak tree, he’s whittling something with a knife, he’s barefoot and he’s sitting against the trunk of the tree as comfortably as in any armchair, one leg tucked under him and the other straight out.

  (We can hear him humming.)

  And Rosa is over by the door to the kitchen, half asleep with her chin on her paws, waiting for scraps; her eyelids flutter, first left, then right, as she looks imploringly at whoever passes; her coat trembles now and again as she tries to shake off a fly.

  Down at the other end of the veranda, your sister and mine are looking at a book of patterns that came today in the post, the latest fashion from Paris and Brussels. I teased Masha earlier and said I didn’t know she cared for fashion, but she blushed and said, Oh, from time to time, and Natasha needs to make a dress.

  And now Ivan has come out to join them, and he’s standing over them with his hands in his pockets looking bored, which is to be expected, and Natasha has given him a look that seems to say, Go away, we are busy, and he cannot imagine that the fashion from Brussels could be more interesting than his handsome person in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his beard freshly trimmed, I believe he’s even washed the river out of his hair.

  But they’ve ignored him, so he’s coming our way.

  August 17

  There is something that is troubling me, Zinaida Mikhailovna, and I would like to discuss it in the strictest confidence . . . I believe I can trust you not to say a word.

  Of course, Anton Pavlovich. I am honored by your trust.

  It’s my brother Aleksandr. You recall that when he was here briefly in June, he had been recently bereaved, and you recall his extraordinary behavior when he came to visit—let’s say you’ve met him, after a fashion.

  Yes, I did speak to him briefly one evening; he struck me as very sharp, but also nervous and unsettled—compared to you or Ivan Pavlovich, obviously.

  Precisely. Well, he has this idea that he would like to marry again, as soon as possible, for the children’s sake, and he seems to be very taken with your sister, Elena Mikhailovna.r />
  Yes, I know.

  You know?

  Yes, Maria Pavlovna told us he wrote a letter . . . that you tore up.

  (I didn’t mention the other letters she had received.)

  He was silent for some time, then said, This is dreadful! Whom can I trust? She told you? And who else?

  Natasha. Rest assured, Elena knows nothing about it.

  He was on his feet, pacing back and forth before me. Then he said almost angrily, although I know he was not angry with me but with the indiscretions of his sister and brother, And does she—your sister—could she love him? Would she give up her intelligent, independent life for my brother, to be his nanny and cook his meals? Could she be that foolish?

  Please, Anton Pavlovich, I assure you she would not, unless . . .

  Unless?

  Unless she loved him deeply.

  And does she?

  You would have to ask her that, but I don’t believe she does. She was flattered by his attention, I know that much, she may even be fond of him, but as to marriage . . .

  He sat down again, heavily; the wicker creaked, and then he continued, more calmly: Because however hasty and desperate that letter was, he has not given up. For two months now he’s been thinking about it, nagging me, nagging Masha. I must stop this, Zinaida Mikhailovna, he does not love her, this is just a convenience to him.

  Forgive me for asking, Anton Pavlovich, but are they not old enough to sort these things out on their own?

  (I wanted to say, Must you interfere? but thought better of it.)

  My brother is talented, intelligent, charming—and a dangerous, womanizing drunkard. Your sister is talented, intelligent, and far too valuable to the world at large—to those who truly need her—to be wasted on my brother and his two unfortunate orphans. My loyalty should be to my brother, but I know him too well, and I respect your sister too greatly, as a colleague and as a friend. Sasha is rash and does not think. Above all, he feels nothing—of substance—for your sister.

  I did not know what to say. I did not want to spoil Elena’s chances of marriage, but Anton Pavlovich did seem violently certain of the unsuitability of the match.

  Perhaps they could fall in love, given time, I said weakly.

  That’s it, said Anton Pavlovich. That’s the only possibility. He must give it time. He must come and see her again. That’s all. He is in such a rush. So eager to sort out his life in a desperate way. As much as I would like to see our two families joined, this is not the way.

  August 18, 1888

  I waited not far from the small rickety pier by the river. I used to know it well, that pier; I could walk out onto it, absorb the yield and spring of its old planks without fear for my footing or my balance; I would step lightly as a ballerina from its height down into the rowboat. Now I stood in the pleasant dawn chill, listening to their murmuring voices, almost a whisper, not to scare away the fish, they said, not to wake the sleeping world.

  It was Ivan Pavlovich’s idea. He must return to Moscow in the next day or two, and he suggested to Anton Pavlovich that while he was here to help, they could take me fishing in the boat. It’s just getting her into the boat, he said with mischief in his voice—rather like a prize catch, don’t you think, Antosha?

  So I waited, and when they had loaded their gear, I could hear steps returning along the rickety pier, and then Ivan’s strong hand reached out for mine. I felt very trusting, completely without fear. What was there to be afraid of? The river? Their closeness, if we were to fall together into the boat? Here she comes, he murmured, leading me along the wooden pier, and suddenly, he lifted me up into the void and down into another pair of waiting arms. I felt the terrible rocking of the boat until Anton Pavlovich had seated me safely in the middle of the thwart, amid our muted laughter.

  How good it felt, the rocking of the boat. I held lightly with my palms to the thwart as Ivan jumped in, then they pushed off, told me sternly once again to be very quiet, and we were out on the river.

  The gentle rhythmic jerk of the boat as Ivan rowed; the sense of speed, movement over the water, fluid and hesitant at the same time. The water falling from the oars in a regular flow of sound, lapping, splashing, rushing. My own sense of being suspended between earth and sky, this unstable freedom from land and routine. I had been released from my prison of darkness into a dawn world of gentle movement and quiet voices, a faint breeze on the river. Before long I would feel the first rays of the sun on my arms.

  We stopped, and drifted. The men cast their lines into silence. Now and again a hushed excitement, the slight rocking of the boat as they tugged on their expectation only to be disappointed. And again the still, liquid silence, punctuated by birdcalls, and insects buzzing, and the lapping of water against the sides of the boat. Once, in the distance, church bells rang briefly, inexplicably.

  They handed me a line, whispered instructions. I feigned annoyance, told them I had gone fishing often enough with Pasha. I sat with the line and my patience and let a sublime peace descend upon me. I felt everything like an embrace—their presence, the water, the sky, the thin line connecting me to the deep water. Once or twice there was a tug, and I waved to my fellow fishermen; every time, the fish got away. It did not matter. I was not there for the fish.

  The sun rose, and it was hot. I was grateful for my big hat. I turned my face to the sun, felt a burning brightness—reddish black—behind my dead eyes. An aching of blood vessels strained beyond capacity: I would pay for this beauty, I could feel the headache coming on. I did not care. In that moment I felt as if I had waited all my life to be there, in that silence on the river Psyol. I could feel their heartbeats quicken as they caught their first fish, could hear their whispered excitement; I could picture their smiles, the gleam in their eyes. Have you brought us luck, Zinaida Mikhailovna? asked Anton Pavlovich quietly. Come, feel it, said Ivan, and I reached forward, and he placed the fish’s slippery scales just beneath my fingertips. A moment of sorrow for its destiny in Anya’s pot. I raised my fingers to my nose and smelled the fresh river smell. And knew that I had last smelled it, without realizing, on Anton Pavlovich’s outstretched fingers when he came to greet me at home.

  I hope they were not looking at me when the time came to row back to our pier, their basket quivering with the morning’s catch. It would have spoiled it for me if they had seen my tears. Fortunately, the brim on my hat was wide, and they were laughing and teasing each other in their bantering way, referring to me as impartial judge, guileless witness.

  I was handed safely ashore. Rosa was there, panting with excitement, sniffing the river on my clothes. I thanked them—awkwardly, my throat still seized with emotion—and my dog led me home. The land seemed unsteady, perhaps rocking gently with the recent memory of the river.

  Afterward, I lay in my dark room and waited for the headache to pass. I saw Anton and Ivan in the boat as clearly as if my sight were restored. As if somehow the movement of the boat on the river defied the immobility of land and conjured their supple forms to me. Their sleeves rolled up; their bare feet against the wooden planks; the sweat on their brows, their cautious expressions of delight when the catch was confirmed. In retrospect, in my dark cell, I could see it all.

  August 20, 1888

  I dreamed I went fishing.

  It wasn’t a dream, Zinaida Mikhailovna. You did come fishing with us.

  And then last night I dreamed of it again. Only I was alone in the boat, and I was looking for you and Ivan Pavlovich.

  Had we fallen overboard?

  No, no, it wasn’t that at all, somehow I was alone on the boat and searching for you both. And I could see—that’s often the case in my dreams—but you simply weren’t there to be seen.

  A pause, then I added lightly, I suppose you’d gone back to Moscow.

  He sighed and said, Which is true, in Ivan’s case.

  What a pity. And I didn’t say goodbye.

  He came last night, but you were already in your room, and your formidable mam
a would not let him go by.

  She protects me . . . I suppose that may have been when I was dreaming.

  And did you catch anything in your dream? Despite our absence—or perhaps thanks to it?

  No, because I was looking for you and Ivan. And wait, there was something else, you weren’t in Moscow, because I could hear your voices, but I couldn’t see you. As if you were hiding on the island. But your voices were as loud and clear as if you were in the boat with me.

  So your dream was remarkably true, in fact. You could see the river because you have seen it, but in the restored sight of your dream, you were unable to see us because you never have seen us.

  I suppose that is why I felt disappointed, why I felt I’d lost you. I wasn’t afraid of being alone on the river, but I absolutely had to find you, and I couldn’t.

  What were our disembodied voices saying?

  I don’t know . . . nothing important.

  As usual. Well, that’s all right, then! He paused and said, I don’t often remember my dreams. I have such insomnia at times, it seems to chase all possibility of leisurely dreaming from my brain. The dreams I recall are of strangers—warm, benevolent strangers. Strangers who make me feel very safe. Women who love me, men who respect me. Like characters waiting to find their place in one of my stories. It’s odd. Perhaps I didn’t dream them at all.

  Perhaps your characters are like the people in your dreams. Waiting in your imagination or your sleep—could that be the same thing?

  So if you dream about me or my handsome brother Ivan, are we the characters in your story?

  Of course not. I’m not making up a story, you’re very real.

  Are you sure? How do you know I’m not in your imagination?

  Some of you is, to be sure, but—

  How do you know, incontrovertibly, that I exist?

  Because you have physical substance, a voice, words—

  You know that, but do I? Does Grigory Petrovich?