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Authors: Guillermo Erades
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Christianity as preserved by the Russian Orthodox Church. I believe in forgiveness, in compassion, in
resurrection.’
My tongue was now toying with her nipples. ‘If you ask me,’ I said, looking up, ‘I find resurrection the weakest part of the Gospels. You know, coming back from the dead. Bit
of a stretch, don’t you think?’
‘You shouldn’t mock this,’ Lena said, now placing her hand over the New Testament. Like most of her books, the volume was encrusted with plenty of bookmarks. ‘It gives my
life a sense of direction. Trying to be good is a daily struggle.’
I kept playing with her breasts.
‘Resurrection,’ she continued, ‘is of course a metaphor. Flesh is flesh, when it dies, it dies. But a dead soul can return to life. Bad deeds can be redeemed.’
My lips caressing her skin, I glanced up at her face. ‘What about Yeshua?’
‘Yeshua?’ she said.
‘Christ, you know, Jesus. Yeshua, like in
The Master and Margarita
.’
‘I think the Gospels are beautiful.’
‘But you can’t believe they actually happened.’
‘I don’t. The New Testament was written by men. But I think Christ, the historical figure, must have been an incredible man who walked the Earth with a beautiful message. I believe
in the message.’
Trying to keep her exact words in my head, I turned over and reached for my red notebook. These were the kind of thoughts I could find a use for in my research.
‘Leave your notebook,’ Lena said. ‘Please.’
Lena didn’t like my notebooks. When I began carrying them around, I’d tried to explain how it was important for me to understand her way of seeing the world so that I could compare
her views with those of literary heroines. I’d thought she would feel proud to be useful, to take part in my research. But instead, she had developed an unexplained aversion towards my
notebooks, and I could feel, every time I took one of them out of my backpack, that she didn’t appreciate my taking notes.
‘I just want to write something quickly,’ I said, looking for a blank page.
With sudden violence, Lena ripped the notebook from my hands, and threw it into the air. The red notebook flew across the room, hit the wall, and landed on the other bed, next to a pile of dirty
clothes.
I didn’t know what to say.
‘Martin, right now you are with me.’
It was often the case that I couldn’t make much sense of Lena’s actions. I decided to let it go and move on. I kissed her lips, caressed her hair, and tried to continue with our
conversation.
‘I don’t think you need any bible to tell you what’s good and what’s bad,’ I said. ‘If you are a good person, you don’t need religion.’
‘And how do I know I’m a good person?’
‘You are,’ I smiled. ‘Trust me.’
‘I don’t know if I’m a good person, really. That’s why I need to search.’
‘Search for what?’
She didn’t answer.
I pushed my body against hers, kissed her neck, her ear. She didn’t react. Her eyes were moist.
‘For chrissake, Lena, why can’t you just enjoy life as it is?’
‘Because,’ she said softly, ‘without the search, life is a lonely and meaningless thing.’
Those were her exact words – a lonely and meaningless thing. I know because, later that night, I wrote them down in my mistreated notebook.
And now, so many years later, the smell of incense still brings me back to Lena’s room in the kommunalka – the piles of clothes, the old bed, the worn books – and I feel an
emptiness in my chest because life since hasn’t been anything like so complete, so full of promise, so void of pain, and, even if I didn’t know it, back then I could extend my arms,
reach out, and almost touch happiness.
PART TWO
Irina’s Dreams
13
I N 1900, A NTON P AVLOVICH Chekhov, by that time very sick and living in Yalta, wrote a play about three
sisters who were stuck in a provincial shithole and spent their days dreaming about moving back to Moscow.
Three Sisters: A
resurrection.’
My tongue was now toying with her nipples. ‘If you ask me,’ I said, looking up, ‘I find resurrection the weakest part of the Gospels. You know, coming back from the dead. Bit
of a stretch, don’t you think?’
‘You shouldn’t mock this,’ Lena said, now placing her hand over the New Testament. Like most of her books, the volume was encrusted with plenty of bookmarks. ‘It gives my
life a sense of direction. Trying to be good is a daily struggle.’
I kept playing with her breasts.
‘Resurrection,’ she continued, ‘is of course a metaphor. Flesh is flesh, when it dies, it dies. But a dead soul can return to life. Bad deeds can be redeemed.’
My lips caressing her skin, I glanced up at her face. ‘What about Yeshua?’
‘Yeshua?’ she said.
‘Christ, you know, Jesus. Yeshua, like in
The Master and Margarita
.’
‘I think the Gospels are beautiful.’
‘But you can’t believe they actually happened.’
‘I don’t. The New Testament was written by men. But I think Christ, the historical figure, must have been an incredible man who walked the Earth with a beautiful message. I believe
in the message.’
Trying to keep her exact words in my head, I turned over and reached for my red notebook. These were the kind of thoughts I could find a use for in my research.
‘Leave your notebook,’ Lena said. ‘Please.’
Lena didn’t like my notebooks. When I began carrying them around, I’d tried to explain how it was important for me to understand her way of seeing the world so that I could compare
her views with those of literary heroines. I’d thought she would feel proud to be useful, to take part in my research. But instead, she had developed an unexplained aversion towards my
notebooks, and I could feel, every time I took one of them out of my backpack, that she didn’t appreciate my taking notes.
‘I just want to write something quickly,’ I said, looking for a blank page.
With sudden violence, Lena ripped the notebook from my hands, and threw it into the air. The red notebook flew across the room, hit the wall, and landed on the other bed, next to a pile of dirty
clothes.
I didn’t know what to say.
‘Martin, right now you are with me.’
It was often the case that I couldn’t make much sense of Lena’s actions. I decided to let it go and move on. I kissed her lips, caressed her hair, and tried to continue with our
conversation.
‘I don’t think you need any bible to tell you what’s good and what’s bad,’ I said. ‘If you are a good person, you don’t need religion.’
‘And how do I know I’m a good person?’
‘You are,’ I smiled. ‘Trust me.’
‘I don’t know if I’m a good person, really. That’s why I need to search.’
‘Search for what?’
She didn’t answer.
I pushed my body against hers, kissed her neck, her ear. She didn’t react. Her eyes were moist.
‘For chrissake, Lena, why can’t you just enjoy life as it is?’
‘Because,’ she said softly, ‘without the search, life is a lonely and meaningless thing.’
Those were her exact words – a lonely and meaningless thing. I know because, later that night, I wrote them down in my mistreated notebook.
And now, so many years later, the smell of incense still brings me back to Lena’s room in the kommunalka – the piles of clothes, the old bed, the worn books – and I feel an
emptiness in my chest because life since hasn’t been anything like so complete, so full of promise, so void of pain, and, even if I didn’t know it, back then I could extend my arms,
reach out, and almost touch happiness.
PART TWO
Irina’s Dreams
13
I N 1900, A NTON P AVLOVICH Chekhov, by that time very sick and living in Yalta, wrote a play about three
sisters who were stuck in a provincial shithole and spent their days dreaming about moving back to Moscow.
Three Sisters: A
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