swiftly wrapped it in a handkerchief and tucked into his pocket. He then assumed a boxer’s stance.
By now the artist had cooled off.
He was eating stuffed fish, exclaiming between bites:
“Fantastic fish! I’d like to have children with her. Three of them.”
I noticed Tanya right away. Right away I memorized her face, both apprehensive and indifferent. (In all my years, I have never understood how indifference and alarm can coexist in a woman.)
Her lipstick stood out against her pale face. Her smile was childlike and a little anxious.
Later someone sang, trying hard to imitate a recidivist thief. Someone invited a foreign diplomat, who turned out to be a Greek sailor. The poet Karpovsky told extravagant lies. For example he said that he was booted from the International Pen Club for artistic hooliganism.
I took Tatyana’s hand and said:
“Let’s get out of here!”
(The best way to overcome inherent insecurity is to act as confidently as you can.)
Tanya acquiesced without hesitation. And not like a conspirator, more like an obedient child, a young lady who willingly does as she’s told.
I moved towards the door, flung it open and froze. Glistening before me was a sloping wet roof. The antennas soared black against the pale sky.
Apparently the studio had three doors. One led to the elevator, another to the underbelly of the heating system, and the third to the roof.
I didn’t feel like going back. And judging by the rising volume inside, the evening’s celebrations were headed for a brawl.
I hesitated for a moment and stepped onto the rumbling roof. Tanya followed me.
“I’ve been dreaming of romantic surroundings like this for a long time,” I said.
A torn shoe lay under my foot. A sad grey cat was poised on the sharp ridge pole.
I asked:
“Have you ever been on a roof before?”
“No, never,” replied Tanya.
And added:
“But I have always been terribly envious of Gagarin…”
“There,” I said, “is the Kazan Cathedral… Behind it, the Admiralty… And this is the Pushkin Theatre…”
We walked over to the railing. In the distance below, the evening city was abuzz. From above, the street seemed faceless and only the light-filled trams gave it a little life.
“We need to find a way out of here,” I said.
“Do you think the fight is over?”
“I doubt it. How did you wind up here? With this set?”
“Through my ex-husband.”
“What is he, an artist?”
“Not exactly… He turned out to be a lowlife. And you?”
“What about me?”
“How did you wind up here?”
“Lobanov roped me into it. I bought a painting from him, out of snobbery. Something white… with ears… Like a squid… It’s called Vector of Calm … Are there talented painters among this lot?”
“Yes. Tselkov, for example.”
“Which one was he? The one in jeans?”
“Tselkov is the one who didn’t show.”
“I see,” I said.
“One hanged himself not too long ago. His name was Fish. His nickname. He went and hanged himself.”
“Dear God, why? Love affair gone bad?”
“Fish was over thirty. His paintings didn’t sell.”
“They were good paintings?”
“Not really. He works as a proofreader now.”
“Who?” I exclaimed.
“Fish. They managed to save him. A neighbour stopped by for a cigarette.”
“We need to find a way out.”
Treading lightly, I made it to the small window in the attic. I threw it open and extended my hand to the young woman:
“Be careful!”
Tanya easily slipped through the opening. I followed after her. The attic was dark and dusty. We stepped over pipes wrapped in felt blankets and stooped to avoid clothes lines. We found the backstairs and walked down. Then navigated through the connecting courtyards and happened upon a taxi stand.
It was raining and I thought: here it is, our Petersburg literary tradition. This much vaunted “school” is nothing more than endless descriptions of bad weather. The whole “dull lustre of its style” is
By now the artist had cooled off.
He was eating stuffed fish, exclaiming between bites:
“Fantastic fish! I’d like to have children with her. Three of them.”
I noticed Tanya right away. Right away I memorized her face, both apprehensive and indifferent. (In all my years, I have never understood how indifference and alarm can coexist in a woman.)
Her lipstick stood out against her pale face. Her smile was childlike and a little anxious.
Later someone sang, trying hard to imitate a recidivist thief. Someone invited a foreign diplomat, who turned out to be a Greek sailor. The poet Karpovsky told extravagant lies. For example he said that he was booted from the International Pen Club for artistic hooliganism.
I took Tatyana’s hand and said:
“Let’s get out of here!”
(The best way to overcome inherent insecurity is to act as confidently as you can.)
Tanya acquiesced without hesitation. And not like a conspirator, more like an obedient child, a young lady who willingly does as she’s told.
I moved towards the door, flung it open and froze. Glistening before me was a sloping wet roof. The antennas soared black against the pale sky.
Apparently the studio had three doors. One led to the elevator, another to the underbelly of the heating system, and the third to the roof.
I didn’t feel like going back. And judging by the rising volume inside, the evening’s celebrations were headed for a brawl.
I hesitated for a moment and stepped onto the rumbling roof. Tanya followed me.
“I’ve been dreaming of romantic surroundings like this for a long time,” I said.
A torn shoe lay under my foot. A sad grey cat was poised on the sharp ridge pole.
I asked:
“Have you ever been on a roof before?”
“No, never,” replied Tanya.
And added:
“But I have always been terribly envious of Gagarin…”
“There,” I said, “is the Kazan Cathedral… Behind it, the Admiralty… And this is the Pushkin Theatre…”
We walked over to the railing. In the distance below, the evening city was abuzz. From above, the street seemed faceless and only the light-filled trams gave it a little life.
“We need to find a way out of here,” I said.
“Do you think the fight is over?”
“I doubt it. How did you wind up here? With this set?”
“Through my ex-husband.”
“What is he, an artist?”
“Not exactly… He turned out to be a lowlife. And you?”
“What about me?”
“How did you wind up here?”
“Lobanov roped me into it. I bought a painting from him, out of snobbery. Something white… with ears… Like a squid… It’s called Vector of Calm … Are there talented painters among this lot?”
“Yes. Tselkov, for example.”
“Which one was he? The one in jeans?”
“Tselkov is the one who didn’t show.”
“I see,” I said.
“One hanged himself not too long ago. His name was Fish. His nickname. He went and hanged himself.”
“Dear God, why? Love affair gone bad?”
“Fish was over thirty. His paintings didn’t sell.”
“They were good paintings?”
“Not really. He works as a proofreader now.”
“Who?” I exclaimed.
“Fish. They managed to save him. A neighbour stopped by for a cigarette.”
“We need to find a way out.”
Treading lightly, I made it to the small window in the attic. I threw it open and extended my hand to the young woman:
“Be careful!”
Tanya easily slipped through the opening. I followed after her. The attic was dark and dusty. We stepped over pipes wrapped in felt blankets and stooped to avoid clothes lines. We found the backstairs and walked down. Then navigated through the connecting courtyards and happened upon a taxi stand.
It was raining and I thought: here it is, our Petersburg literary tradition. This much vaunted “school” is nothing more than endless descriptions of bad weather. The whole “dull lustre of its style” is
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