of the theater critic’s wife, followed by her grasshopper of a husband. Suddenly frantic, he began to maneuver Belkin away from the entrance, down the steps, muttering as he did so, “People starting to leave… no reason to be in their way… might as well move…” Cold rain slapped his face as he rounded the corner; Belkin trotted after him obediently. Almost, almost, just a bit more—and finally, thank God, they were out of sight, pressed into the wall under the scanty protection of a narrow cornice. Mercifully, no one had seen—except for that long-haired what‘s- his-name with his pink umbrella and his adolescent bride, but no matter, he was not important enough. Trying to suppress a shudder of relief, Sukhanov wiped the water from his glasses.
“I mean to go when it’s open to the public, of course,” Belkin was saying, noticing nothing. “By the way, how was it?”
“Great. Very interesting works. A perfect space for displaying them too.”
“Perfect, eh?” Belkin repeated, and squinted at him good naturedly. “You used to say the Manege was better as a riding academy, that its architecture was suited for horses, not paintings—”
And then, without any warning, an incredible smile flashed across Belkin’s face. It was his unforgettable trick of old, that smile, the sort that very few people ever possessed; it transformed his ordinarily woebegone features instantly, brilliantly, imbuing them with rare humanity, with a kind of intense, radiant meaning. Smiling, he lightly touched a button on Sukhanov’s jacket.
“You also said that in a way it was appropriate, because most of the artists who exhibited here were fit to be displayed only in a stable. Do you remember, Tolya?”
It was astonishing, simply astonishing, that after all this time the man could still smile like that—and it was suddenly disconcerting to see how little his eyes had changed, how, in spite of the lines at the corners, the pouches underneath, the eyelids that had grown heavy, they could still dance in his face, they could still play with the same dark, fiery, infectious life.
“I don’t remember,” Sukhanov replied stiffly. “I don’t know… Perhaps I said something like that once. In any event, they’ve redone the place since—” He faltered and ended hurriedly, “It’s completely different now.”
Belkin looked Sukhanov full in the face, then twisted his lips, nodded, and released the button. The fire in his eyes dwindled away, and the tired creases around his mouth became more pronounced.
“Funny,” he said flatly, “it looks exactly the same to me. I visit almost every exhibition, you know. Staying abreast of the new developments and all that. Not that there are any, but one keeps hoping.”
“Yes,” said Sukhanov, not knowing what else to say, and righted his glasses.
The whole thing was awkward—awkward and unnecessary There was so little space under the cornice that with every motion their shoulders nudged each other softly, and the dripping, splashing, murky world kept creeping closer, invading their cramped refuge, lapping at the edges of dryness, already seeping into Sukhanov’s beautifully polished shoes. He ached to be away, to be home, where it was light, warm, and comfortable, to be drinking his nightly tea…. The encounter was stretching to nightmarish proportions, and he knew he needed to end it, end it now, this very instant—but strangely, he could do nothing, as if he were trapped in a tedious, helpless dream. A short-haired girl darted across their lengthening pause, and he thought he saw the edge of a yellow dress flash beneath the flapping fold of a flimsy coat, but she ran by so quickly he could not be sure. Belkin too watched her melt in the rain.
“So, is Nina here?” he asked when the water had erased the girl’s steps.
“She got tired and went home early,” Sukhanov said, and added, pointing across the street, “She took our car.”
“Ah… A pity. I was hoping to see her. I bet she hasn’t changed one bit.”
“We all change,” said Sukhanov. “None of us is getting any younger.”
God, haven’t I said that already, he thought miserably.
“And how is… er… Alia?” he asked, to prevent another silence.
“Oh, didn’t you know? She left me a long time ago. She’s married to a math teacher now. Has three kids. But she is doing quite well, thanks for asking.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know…. But apart from that… That is, how are you getting along in general?”
“Not too bad, thanks. Painting and all. And you?”
“Can’t complain, can’t complain…” He coughed, shifted his weight to the other foot. Their shoulders grazed again. “Well, it seems that the rain’s almost over.”
It was raining every bit as hard as before.
“Yes, certainly looks that way,” agreed Belkin. “So, where are you off to now? I’m heading for the metro. Shall we walk together? I have an umbrella.”
“I would, but… I need to go the other way,” said Sukhanov with a vague gesture.
“Of course, I understand,” Belkin said quietly. “Well, good-bye then, Anatoly. Good luck to you and everything.”
He turned up the collar of his burgundy blazer, produced a disheveled umbrella from his pocket (ridiculous, who in the world keeps a wet umbrella in his pocket!), and without another glance stepped into the darkness. Sukhanov noticed that he stooped. Strange, he used to carry himself so straight, he thought involuntarily—and all at once, this stray little thought released in him some echo of the past, a solitary trembling note whose sound rose higher and higher in his chest, awakening inarticulate longings and, inseparable from them, a piercing, unfamiliar sorrow. He watched as Belkin trudged away into the downpour under his lopsided umbrella with one spoke sticking out, and he thought bitterly, Here we are, two aging fools, and our lives almost over. His throat tightened, and for a second he was afraid he would not be able to call out, to say anything at all…. Then the spasm passed.
“Leva, wait!” he shouted.
He feared at first that Belkin had not heard, that the rain had snatched away his words. Then Belkin turned. He was struggling with the umbrella, which had grown unruly.
“Listen, Leva, why did you come here tonight?”
“Oh, I was just passing by when the rain started, and I thought I’d wait it out!” Belkin yelled back.
Sukhanov could not see his eyes—he was too far, it was too dark.
“But… you have an umbrella!” he shouted again.
“Not a very useful one, as you can see.”
“Oh yes, of course, I see! Well, so long now. Say hi to… I mean, take care of yourself!”
Belkin did not move. The umbrella flapped over his head like a demented bird. Several moments passed, dreary, endless as a lifetime. Then he muttered something under his breath and strode back, throwing up sprays of water with each heavy step. His face, as he stopped before Sukhanov, streamed with rain.
“All right, so that wasn’t true,” he said, scowling. “I came because I wanted to see you. You and Nina. I read about the opening, and I thought, What better chance will I have?”
Violently squashing the umbrella, he dropped it at his feet, then fumbled in his sagging pocket. A golden candy wrapper flew out, twirled in the wind, and drowned. Sukhanov observed his movements with strange anticipation. Finally Belkin extracted what looked like a glossy postcard and held it locked between his palms.
“I wanted to give you this,” he said. “It’s next Wednesday. Naturally, it’s not going to be a big deal, nothing to write about in the papers…. Anyway, I realize now it was stupid of me, you can’t possibly be interested, so —”
Wordlessly Sukhanov stretched out a slightly trembling hand. Belkin hesitated, then shrugged, and shoved the postcard at him. A jumble of multicolored letters leapt wildly, confusingly, in all directions, against a shocking neon-green background. Sukhanov took off his glasses, smeared rain all over the lenses, and tried again. The letters started to behave more predictably, and eventually, in a long minute or two, joined to form a few words —“L. B. Belkin (1932—). Moscow Through a Rainbow”—and, underneath, in smaller print, the address, the dates, the times…
And as Sukhanov looked in silence, he knew that his wrenching sorrow was giving way to some other, as yet unnamed, feeling, which was slowly unfurling its black, powerful wings inside his heart.
Belkin began to speak rapidly. “It’s my first, you see. True, I’ve had a few things displayed here and there, but this one, it’s all my own. Just a little gallery in the Arbat, but I’ll have the whole place to myself. The name, of course, is idiotic—it’s so cliche, it wasn’t my idea, but I let them do it, because my work is all about color studies anyway, so I thought… Oh, hell, what am I talking about?” Abruptly he stopped, pressing his fingertips to his temples. Then, in a different voice, quiet and oddly desperate, he said, “Listen, Tolya, I know we didn’t remain friends, but it’s been almost a quarter of a century, and… Well, it would make me really happy if you and Nina
