it?” she began. “Really I have no official contact with her. She and I have nothing in common. But I happen to know that she’s working in Kazakhstan, and that she’s petitioning for a review of her case.”
It was stuffy in the compartment, but they had to close the window because of the dust. All around them were fields of ripe grain. In the evening, after Kharkov, they came to places where the harvest had already started, where there were trucks and combine harvesters waiting in the fields. “I used to work on those,” said Goryacheva, her heart beating faster.
The house of recreation for senior cadres was small but very comfortable. Each of the visitors had their own room. There was a choice of dishes for lunch, and there was always wine—proper wine made from grapes. There would even be a choice of desserts—ice cream, custard, blintzes with jam. Goryacheva did not see a lot of Gagareva; not only were they on different floors but there were also days when Gagareva felt unwell and had her meals brought to her room. In the evenings, when it was cooler, Gagareva would wrap a shawl around her shoulders and go for a walk, book in hand, along the avenue of cypress trees above the sea; she took short steps, often pausing to get her breath back, and sometimes she would sit on one of the low stone benches. She had no regular companions. The only person who visited her in her room was Kotova, an old doctor who worked there; she and Gagareva would talk together for a long time. And sometimes, after supper, Gagareva would call on Kotova.
“I feel I’m in a kindergarten here,” Gagareva would complain. “I’ve got no one to talk to.”
“Yes,” said Kotova. “It really is like a kindergarten. Nobody here in August is older than thirty—apart from me, of course.”
Gagareva talked about what a good time they had all had in this same house of recreation in 1931. There had always been things going on: evenings of reminiscences, amateur singers and musicians, readings from books, literary debates.
“Yes, there were some interesting people then,” said Kotova, “but I sometimes had a hard time of it myself. There was one man I remember—a handsome man with a blond beard. He had heart problems—an accumulation of fat around the heart, some degree of metabolic disturbance, and symptoms of gout in the joints of his left arm. I’ve forgotten his name and where he worked. None of his illnesses was serious, but he didn’t half give me a lot of trouble. He was so capricious, so very used to getting whatever he wanted. I even ended up writing to the Health Department, asking to be relieved from my post.”
“Oh, I know the man you mean,” said Gagareva. “He isn’t around anymore. During collectivization he was head of the regional land department. We used to talk about him a lot in our activist group.”
“Well,” said Kotova, “all I can say is that he was unbearable when he was here. Once I was woken up in the middle of the night. He’d called me. He was sitting on his bed, and all he could say was, ‘Doctor, I feel sick.’ At that point I lost all patience. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ I snapped, ‘waking an old woman in the middle of the night just because you ate too much supper.’ ”
“Yes,” said Gagareva, “people are strange...”
Kotova lived on her own, and Gagareva liked her white clean room and her little “private” garden outside the window. She preferred this small plot to the large and splendid park, and she liked to sit on the little step with a book, beside the pot with the pink oleander.
The visitors spent most of their time on the beach. But not even the keenest swimmers and sunbathers could match Goryacheva in their enthusiasm. She was mesmerized by the sea; it was as if she had fallen in love. In the morning she would quickly eat her breakfast, wrap some pears and some grapes in a shaggy towel, and walk down the narrow path to the beach.
“Wait a moment,
It was stuffy in the compartment, but they had to close the window because of the dust. All around them were fields of ripe grain. In the evening, after Kharkov, they came to places where the harvest had already started, where there were trucks and combine harvesters waiting in the fields. “I used to work on those,” said Goryacheva, her heart beating faster.
The house of recreation for senior cadres was small but very comfortable. Each of the visitors had their own room. There was a choice of dishes for lunch, and there was always wine—proper wine made from grapes. There would even be a choice of desserts—ice cream, custard, blintzes with jam. Goryacheva did not see a lot of Gagareva; not only were they on different floors but there were also days when Gagareva felt unwell and had her meals brought to her room. In the evenings, when it was cooler, Gagareva would wrap a shawl around her shoulders and go for a walk, book in hand, along the avenue of cypress trees above the sea; she took short steps, often pausing to get her breath back, and sometimes she would sit on one of the low stone benches. She had no regular companions. The only person who visited her in her room was Kotova, an old doctor who worked there; she and Gagareva would talk together for a long time. And sometimes, after supper, Gagareva would call on Kotova.
“I feel I’m in a kindergarten here,” Gagareva would complain. “I’ve got no one to talk to.”
“Yes,” said Kotova. “It really is like a kindergarten. Nobody here in August is older than thirty—apart from me, of course.”
Gagareva talked about what a good time they had all had in this same house of recreation in 1931. There had always been things going on: evenings of reminiscences, amateur singers and musicians, readings from books, literary debates.
“Yes, there were some interesting people then,” said Kotova, “but I sometimes had a hard time of it myself. There was one man I remember—a handsome man with a blond beard. He had heart problems—an accumulation of fat around the heart, some degree of metabolic disturbance, and symptoms of gout in the joints of his left arm. I’ve forgotten his name and where he worked. None of his illnesses was serious, but he didn’t half give me a lot of trouble. He was so capricious, so very used to getting whatever he wanted. I even ended up writing to the Health Department, asking to be relieved from my post.”
“Oh, I know the man you mean,” said Gagareva. “He isn’t around anymore. During collectivization he was head of the regional land department. We used to talk about him a lot in our activist group.”
“Well,” said Kotova, “all I can say is that he was unbearable when he was here. Once I was woken up in the middle of the night. He’d called me. He was sitting on his bed, and all he could say was, ‘Doctor, I feel sick.’ At that point I lost all patience. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ I snapped, ‘waking an old woman in the middle of the night just because you ate too much supper.’ ”
“Yes,” said Gagareva, “people are strange...”
Kotova lived on her own, and Gagareva liked her white clean room and her little “private” garden outside the window. She preferred this small plot to the large and splendid park, and she liked to sit on the little step with a book, beside the pot with the pink oleander.
The visitors spent most of their time on the beach. But not even the keenest swimmers and sunbathers could match Goryacheva in their enthusiasm. She was mesmerized by the sea; it was as if she had fallen in love. In the morning she would quickly eat her breakfast, wrap some pears and some grapes in a shaggy towel, and walk down the narrow path to the beach.
“Wait a moment,
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