through pages of my life, remembering each birth, at times tender and slow, at times furious and breathless, passing judgment on the sum total of my existence as an artist—my early studies of trains and reflections; the mythical and urban landscapes that had occupied me all through 1958; my subsequent fascination with surrealism, in an attempt to transplant the lessons of Dali and Magritte to Russian soil; and in the past two years, my ultimate arrival at what I believed to be my own, truly unique style—trying to choose from among them the one painting most representative of my philosophy of art, or possibly the one most original, or the one most beautiful, or perhaps simply the one most dear to my heart. In the early afternoon, when the air had already begun to thicken into blue softness outside the window and I was still at a loss, Nina called.
“Tolya, I’ve been thinking,” she said, and I could hear a smile in her voice. “What about that early one, with the reflection of a woman’s face in a train window, you know the one? Of course, it’s not as complex as your current pieces—but it may be easier for people to understand, and, well… It’s what made me realize how brilliant you were.”
“Oh,” I said, smiling also. “Well, since you put it that way—”
Once inside, we unwrapped our bundles. Lev had selected an abstract piece.
“What do you think?” he said uncertainly, turning it to the light. “It’s a new one.”
I did not have the heart to tell him the truth. Together we watched our paintings being mounted on the walls; I found it exhilarating and almost frightening to see a deeply private vision of mine splayed across the impersonal white surface under the clinical glare of gallery lamps, with a rectangular label bearing my name underneath. Roshchin and a few others of our acquaintance were milling about, all with the same slightly disoriented look on their faces, but I did not stay to talk to them. I wanted to preserve the sonorous fullness of this day unmarred by nervous banter, insincere compliments, exaggerated camaraderie, so I could carry it, slowly, carefully, like some precious elixir, through the gleaming blue city, through the quietly falling snow, through the softly illuminated streets and the darkened courtyards, and present it, with not a single drop spilled, to her, my Nina.
She met me on the landing, kissing me quickly. She wore the white dress of our wedding day, her bare arms were goose-bumped, and her eyes were bright; she had bought a bottle of champagne, and it was lovely to hear her laugh at the dry explosion of the cork later in the evening. My mother quit the dinner table without finishing her glass, her lips tightly pressed together, and we listened to her shuffling behind the closed door of her room, muttering darkly about reprisals and retributions, until the hum of the television drowned out her voice.
“Poor woman, she never stops worrying,” Nina whispered.
For a while after that, we sat silently in the cozily lit kitchen. I was watching the snow whirling outside the window, and Nina was peeling a tangerine, the first of the season. And all at once the scent of the fruit, sweet yet with the slightest hint of bitterness, and the light taste of champagne lingering on my tongue, and the soft, furry snowflakes dancing in the sky like some white winter moths, and Nina’s profile bent in the gentle glow of the green lampshade, and the knowledge of this wonderful change that was drawing closer and closer, all merged into a feeling of such intensity, such completion, that I felt this to be the happiest moment of my life—happier even than that luminous, color-mad moment when, with Chagall and Kandinsky for witnesses, Nina had promised to marry me—or perhaps it was still the same moment, now in its long-awaited fulfillment…. Smiling, Nina looked up.
“Here,” she said, holding out half of the tangerine. “It’s a bit sour, but so delicious.”
We did not sleep at all that night. The snow stopped soon after midnight, and immediately the sky grew dark and deep like velvet; then the grayness began to creep into the nooks and crannies of the world; and sometime later, in the pale light of a cold dawn, Nina lifted her face to mine and said, “Tolya, I’m so sorry about my birthday. I know I was unfair. It’s just that as a girl I always imagined what my life would be like at thirty, and, well… It was harder than I had expected, that’s all.”
For a minute unspoken words hung between us. Then she said with a small sigh, “But I never stopped believing in your talent, not for an instant, and I would have stood by you no matter what. Still, I’m so relieved this finally happened. We’ve waited for this for a long time.”
“Yes,” I said, kissing her lightly. “A very long time. I’m sorry too. But everything will be different now, you’ll see.”
And then the sunrise of December first was upon us.
TWENTY
When I left the house that morning, I did not go directly to the Manege. Perhaps I feared the disappointment of seeing indifferent crowds stroll with scarcely a glance past my work; or maybe I simply wanted to prolong the anticipation, sensing it to be immensely richer than the most resounding acclaim could ever be. The bleak day smelled of winter, the sky and the houses were the running gray and yellow of a spare watercolor, and rare pedestrians glided through the pale landscapes in silent, chilled preoccupation, leaving behind black garlands of footprints filled with the glistening slush of yesterday’s melting snow. Wandering along the wet pavements in their wake, I did not think of the exhibition that at this very moment, perhaps, was opening its doors to eager visitors only a few streets and squares away; but a deep happiness, a kind of muted, exultant hum, underlay all my steps, all my breaths, all my heartbeats, infusing my walk with a triumphant spring and my soul with a glow of well-being.
And by the time I turned a random corner and unexpectedly saw the Manege rise into view, I had understood, with an effortless, wordless certainty, that I was finally ready to undertake my most ambitious project yet—a challenge I had cherished secretly for many years—a series of seven paintings that would merge everything I felt about Russia, and history, and art, and God.
Already impatient to return home and begin to sketch, I started toward the Manege. The sky was low before another snowfall, and the ancient towers of the Kremlin squatted morosely under the sagging clouds. Although there were more people here, it was suddenly so quiet I could hear the echoing steps of a man running along the street, heedlessly dogged by his own frantic shadow. I felt that my vision had never been sharper, as if all my artistic powers had been released at once. Happiness soared inside me like a mad angel. The first painting, I already knew, would be called
“It’s over,” he gasped. “Where have you been? It’s all over.”
“What is it? What’s the matter?” I said, laughing as I arrested his flight, already anticipating some impish joke.
He shook himself free of my arms.
“Khrushchev and some bigwigs… showed up at the Manege this morning,” he said between rasping breaths. “An official visit… we weren’t told about. It was… I can’t tell you what it was like. Where the hell have you been?”
It was not a joke after all. He sounded furious and, underneath it, frightened.
“I was just walking around,” I said quickly. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you what happened.” He kept glancing over his shoulder as if worried he was being chased. “Khrushchev hated everything he saw. Abstract paintings in particular, but the rest as well. He went all red in the face and shouted that our works were good only for covering urinals, and other things too—terrible things…. Real art should ennoble the individual and arouse him to action, these kinds of pictures are amoral and anti-Soviet, they have wasted money on us, we should be sent far away and put to work cutting trees so we could pay back the state for all the paper we’ve besmirched—”
“Did he… did he say anything about my painting?” I asked haltingly.
Lev grabbed my coat, so violently that I felt something rip. For a second I thought he was going to hit me. Then, slowly, his mouth softened.
