“Hell, I’ve been there myself,” the man replied, shrugging.
The doors closed, and the rectangle of light moved off into the shadows.
It must have been close to six in the morning when Sukhanov was finally spat out by the last bus into the reassuringly familiar landscape of the Zamoskvorechie. The city was still dark, the never-ending night still upon him. Almost swooning with sleep, he walked along Bolshoi Tolmachevsky Lane, and the echo of his solitary steps reverberated hollowly off aged walls. Through an open window, the faint sound of a radio reached him—many voices, remote and muffled like the buzz of an insect throng, singing the Soviet anthem, proclaiming the indestructible union of the free republics. He turned the corner, and the sprawling form of the Tretyakovskaya Gallery loomed into sight. Quickening his steps, he walked toward it, passed the main entrance, and approached a metal side door bearing the sign “Keep Out: Staff Only” When he pushed the door, it gave way soundlessly, just as she had promised. Stepping inside, he barely had time to register that singular museum smell of light dust, parquet polish, and old paper, when his elbow was seized by a swift hand, and Nina’s tense face emerged from the dimness.
“Did anyone see you come in?” she whispered as she locked the door behind him.
He shook his head and tried to pull her toward him for a kiss.
“Not now,” she said. “It’s almost six o‘clock, we must hurry. Come, this way.”
We tiptoed through labyrinths of nondescript corridors, some lined with dank black pipes, others concealing bookcases in unexpected recesses. Once a red-and-white Saint George pointed a lance directly at my chest from a poster that had materialized in the air, hanging on a column that I could not see, that might not have even been there; and in another minute I almost screamed when the darkness hobbled toward us, gradually assuming the guise of a grinning custodian dragging behind a dried-out mop. “My respects, Nina Petrovna,” said the museum’s resident ghost, and after Nina pressed something into his proffered hand, shuffled back into the limbo whence he had come. I followed him with uneasy eyes.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Anton Ivanych won’t report us, he likes me.”
“I still think it’s too risky,” I said. “What if they found out and you lost your job? It’s bad enough that I’m about to—”
“What?” she asked sharply, stopping.
I had decided not to tell her about my run-in with Penkin a couple of months ago, but she was insistent, and I did not want to stand here arguing, for our presence in the bowels of the Tretyakovka was unlawful, the corridors shifted with invisible shadows, and who knew what lay lurking in wait behind all these boarded-up doors. Hurriedly I explained about the reprimand, the painting of the nude, the director’s bulging eyes, the final warning…. She listened intently, and slowly her face assumed a determined expression.
“We’ll talk about it later,” she whispered. “Now let’s just do this, replace the keys, and get out.”
We reached the place a few wary minutes later, having passed through rooms and rooms of shoddy Soviet paintings along the way. Her hands shaking slightly, she struggled with an enormous lock. She walked in first, flipped a light switch; I heard a stifled cry. I rushed in after her, my heart pounding—and stopped, dazzled, astonished, overwhelmed, awed into silence in the presence of absolute genius.
For here, in a cramped storage space, separated by a thin partition from monstrosities and nonentities, a few dozen outlawed canvases leaned haphazardly against the walls. Canvases by Malevich, Filonov, Kandinsky, Chagall—the legendary Russian artists whose works I had never seen, whose names I had heard pronounced only rarely, and always with a self-righteous lilt of accusation. For one moment, I felt a burst of blinding, searing anger—anger at this country that had dared condemn its greatest masters to oblivion, anger at these people who had refused so ignorantly the gift of such beauty, anger at these times that appeared to change but in reality stayed the same, still forbidding us our most precious inheritance, still forcing us to steal our revelations crumb by crumb, in secret, with nervous, criminal glances…. And then I beheld the bright, magical world swirling about me, beckoning me softly, and discovered that my heart no longer had any place for anger—for my heart was full.
And brilliant fireworks erupted in glowing glory, and radiant skies melted with purple sunrises and green sunsets, and red and golden lovers floated on the wings of music over the roofs of their blue towns, and homeless poets flooded the nights with lyrics and stars, and the generous earth blossomed with rainbow-drenched flowers and fiery horses—and as I saw life itself dissolve into a thousand previously unseen shapes and tints, I was lost forever in the flaming flights of the purest colors, in the holy harmonies of the brush, in the deepest dreams of the soul….
And when minutes or hours or years later I emerged from this glimmering, singing paradise to feel someone tugging on my sleeve, whispering that we must leave now, I felt stunned by a realization that something had happened—that I was different now—that during that color-mad stretch of eternity, I had felt in myself a mysterious, perfect affinity with the giants surrounding me—that I had glimpsed my own strength, my own voice, my own vision. At that instant, I knew at last what greatness I could demand of myself. Drunk with this knowledge, I turned around—and saw her, the woman I loved, the woman to whom I owed this gift, looking at me with a shining, wide-eyed gaze.
“You were thinking you could be one of them,” she said. “I could tell.”
“And what do you think?” I asked, laughing to hide my sudden nervousness.
“I think,” she said gravely, “I think, yes, you could be. Perhaps you already are.”
My heart was everywhere all at once, in my throat, in my wrists, in the backs of my knees.
“Nina,” I said, “let’s get married.”
And smiling now, she said simply, “It was your turn to read my thoughts.”
The night was finally lifting when we scrambled outside. Holding hands, we walked along Bolshoi Tolmachevsky Lane, sharing a pale, persimmon-tinted sunrise with a spluttering water truck and a solitary cat strolling home after an all-night revel. The air was brightening slowly, gloriously above our heads.
“Let’s go to my place and tell Mother,” I said. “She wakes up early.”
She nodded wordlessly. Laughing, we chased each other down the street, across the lobby, up the stairs, all the way to the eighth floor.
On the landing, I searched for my keys.
“And tonight, if you like, I’ll invite some friends over and we’ll celebrate in style, with cake and champagne,” I said lightly. The keys were not in my right pocket. I reached for the left. “Nina?”
But there was no answer—and when I swung around, I saw only the empty landing behind me. “Nina?” I called louder, not yet worried. “Are you hiding on the stairs?”
The keys were not in my left pocket either. Frowning, I tried to recall where I had put them last. And then I knew. The keys were in the side compartment of my bag, along with my wallet, and the bag—the bag had been stolen.
Remembering everything now, I slid onto the floor before the locked door to apartment number fifteen, building number seven, Belinsky Street, and wept.
NINETEEN
Anatoly Pavlovich! Anatoly Pavlovich!”
He hesitated to open his eyes. The awakening had brought with it a flock of ugly sensations. His body felt broken, his skin seemed dusted with gritty sand, his head ached, and the right side of his mouth had developed a persistent tic. The floor beneath him was cold, and somewhere above, a worried voice was saying, “Anatoly Pavlovich, what happened? Why are you here? Are you ill?”
It could not be avoided for much longer. Sukhanov looked up unhappily and saw a landing with an elevator grille, a shaft of bleak light falling through a dusty staircase window, and looming above him, a sturdy man in his thirties, with pronounced cheekbones, a stubborn jaw, and bulging arms, dressed in a brown leather jacket.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Sukhanov vaguely. He knew the man—knew him rather well, in fact—but for some reason the name escaped him.
“Are you ill, Anatoly Pavlovich?” the man repeated. “Do you need an ambulance?”
Sukhanov shook his head, and immediately touched his temples to steady the pain.
