A Simple Soul Chapter 7

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Strange things had been happening to Elizaveta Bestuzheva all week. Somebody hollered at her in a crowd, coming up real close and calling out her name, but when she glanced over her shoulder - startled, annoyed - the voice could not belong to anyone close by and it was impossible to pinpoint the stranger. This made her feel even more aloof from the city, the pedestrians, those following her from behind, and her modest travel agency came to seem like a saving grace - a shelter from the unsolicited radio waves. Yet even there it was impossible to find peace: in the morning the computer generated large batches of e-mails from odd addresses, different ones every day. The messages contained mostly photos - dazzling, sumptuous flowers that all but gave off a scent - which Elizaveta soon got used to as she sulked with rather rough Margo, who spitefully called them "the genitals of plants" - probably because she was slightly jealous of her companion. Nevertheless, she too eventually became fond of the flowers and could not help but admit that beautiful as they might be, they were completely incomprehensible. Then, to crown all, Elizaveta's answering machine began to act up from time to time - somebody called her at home, during the day, at a weird time when she couldn't possibly pick up the phone to ward off the rascal. There were no words on the recording, just coughing and sighing, quite indecent, though she noticed that they did have a trace not of any sensual strain, but of mourning and mild longing.

More than anything else, however, it was the stalking that bothered Elizaveta. At times it seemed to her that those eyes in the showcase on Solyanka were hovering around her in the summer haze, soaring over the rooftops of the city and tacking between the buildings as they pushed aside the branches and etiolated leaves, here teary eyed from exhaust, there squinting in the bright sunshine. And this, by the way, was an inoffensive fantasy in comparison with what was actually going on: she was now being shadowed completely openly, had long since identified her observer and had begun to recognize his face. You would think her skin had become extremely sensitive - for just as you shutter from tickling or light breathing, so did she from the feeling of the stranger's pupils fixed on herself. He followed her everywhere, like a man on an invisible leash, insistent and indefatigable, nothing less than a vulture pursuing his prey. Elizaveta was even perplexed - she was sufficiently defenseless and could never rebuff him, so why didn't he dig in with his teeth and nails. Sometimes it was impossible for her to resist, she whirled around and walked toward him, pushing people out of the way, intending to put some harsh questions to him, getting excited at the very thought of how uncomfortable she would make him feel. Yet each time he slipped away easily, dissolving into the crowd, proving totally elusive as a vulture should be, and Elizaveta moreover did not have a knack for excelling at scenes, assiduously avoiding them her whole life long.

In his own way her trailer got used to her too, learning her schedule and routes in detail, and considering the two of them old friends after a few days. As he traipsed down Moscow streets in her footsteps, he relished their temporary, clandestine union in pleasant melancholy. In his mind he was an exiled knight who did not dare draw too near, the preserver of her peace who was always ready to come to her aid - even if this was not included in his list of duties. He took to Elizaveta more and more, but he didn't forget that the JOB was his top priority, knowing that in all likelihood no sympathy would interfere with his fulfilling the instructions down to the last letter. And fortunately for him, these instructions were totally harmless and let him undertake the fortuitous assignment without any unnecessary agitation or distress.

His friends and associates knew him simply as Dimon. That's how everyone addressed him, not even contemplating whether it was a pseudonym or the real name he had been given before becoming an ethereal shadow. He had grown up in working-class Lianozovo, in the stinking sultry air of five-storey buildings, in the humidity and dirt of courtyards a.k.a. rat traps, which were submerged time and again in clouds of smoke from the enormous smokestacks at the factory. This was a strange world with its own color spectrum - poisonous greenery and puddles producing reddish, yellow lichen on the pipes and rosy moss nestling into the cracks of the Khrushchev projects. It seemed as if only naughty birds and packs of nomadic dogs, dangerous like hyenas, could make a life in this place. But life pulsated there all the same - with its fetishes and passions, knife fights and love, cruel morality and drunken habits - and it was in this world that Dimon felt at home, only embarrassed by his Ryazan roots that always served as targets for jokes. His sister and a few aunts and grandfathers still lived in the town and he loved to travel there on holidays, dragging bulky bags with provisions for habit's sake. In Moscow, however, he was ashamed of his round face and slightly apparent provincialisms, which could not be avoided no matter what he did. When he wasn't working, he tried to uphold some "style", nurtured his love for florid daredevils and dried his hair with a dryer before combing it back with dashing hairspray. Yet something evaded him in spite of these efforts and he felt as if he were playing out a weird game and striving for the impossible. It was only when he went out on another assignment that he calmed down, disguised and dissolving - if that was required - or lurking constantly in the background, as he did with Elizaveta, unveiling the most average of all physiognomies in which there lay the pledge of success.

It is difficult to believe, but back then, in the company of Lianozovo thugs, he was quite conspicuous - had an intransigent personality and got into lots of arguments for any reason and no reason at all, as though he were defending his habits and convictions down to the very last drop, even those invisible to others. Nothing could change him: neither the laws of the street, nor his first girlfriends - dominating and prevailing over him in every sphere of life. He had a strong core - it preserved the boyhood integrity he had largely inherited from his peaceful parents, folks who always respected their neighbors and were ready to share anything with them, even when it was unpropitious for themselves. Perhaps that is why he appeared on the margins of prosperity, permanently occupying uncomfortable places and unable to jostle or - worse still - lie to your face. For some time he had tried to fit in, hanging out with former friends, giving his all to become their equal, flexing his muscles and thrusting out his chest, but all he'd received in return was the leftovers, frequently with badly concealed ridicule. Once, in despair after the latest failure, he got drunk in the third-rate club, woke up in a stranger's car the next morning, without his phone or his jacket, remembering almost nothing. He got out, slammed the door and strode blindly through unfamiliar courtyards, giving no thought to where he was or where he was going. The sun had just risen, the city was quiet and thoughtful - it all looked mystically new, as if the zipper to the past had broken and the secret of life had opened a crack. But it lasted only an instant, a quarter of an hour later he suddenly saw the sign for the old familiar club and the sleepy bodyguard at the door. Admonishing him for his forgetfulness, they handed Dimon his rumpled jacket, with his telephone still in the inside pocket, and everything else was exactly the same and the alcohol he had consumed bothered him and his head throbbed. It was at this moment that he came to realize how pointless it was to fight for a place in the sun if your legs carry you in circles and your soul has given birth to nothing that has not been tried before. He acknowledged this and chose humility, which made it a short trip to the very obscurity that helps you find a reliable niche and makes habit turn into professional experience.

On Thursday after he had followed Elizaveta to the office on Bolshoi Cherkassky, already aware that he was doing this for the last time, Dimon wandered down Teatralny Proezd at a leisurely pace toward the Metropol hotel and thought about how every occupation involves too many compromises. His assignment had been fulfilled - almost to the end. The day would come to a close, gloomy tomorrow would arrive with the burden of a hangover from the short weekend, and he would force himself to forget about this woman for ever, no longer remembering any of her addresses, not even the very fact of her existence. That was the unwritten rule - no contact "afterwards", even if surveillance was completely secretive and the risk of being discovered added up to zero. That's how it had been with the other "contracts"; to some of them he had become attached even more strongly, and he had long since gotten used to the bitterness of the unavoidable parting, as you do to anything inevitable that lies in wait here and there.

On reaching the Bolshoi, Elizaveta's former trailer went through the passageway under the street to the famous square, symbol of homosexual love, sat on a bench by the fountain and made two short calls. The first to a well-known older actor to confirm their earlier agreement; the second to a madam, a "friend", who always had a whole army of precious girls on hand. She remembered him, which was pleasing, and he dragged out the conversation with pleasure, tossing his head back and marveling at the cloudless blueness for a second before adopting a strict tone and instructing her to send him a brunette with big breasts, talkative and cheerful, but not too fat. "You going to rest?" asked the madam respectfully. "Yes, I want to rest a bit," he confirmed and hung up. "Rest," he repeated once more, just for the heck of it, feeling for some reason that he was very tired indeed.

At this time Elizaveta Bestuzheva was sitting at her desk and absent-mindedly glancing over the flyers that came with the day's mail, ashamed to admit that she was expecting much more from the post. She had spent the last few days in nebulous anticipation that something crucial was about to happen in her life. She didn't feel any threat, but languished in uncertainty, slept poorly and woke up irritated and cantankerous about trifles - while her thoughts lingered in the farthest realms, returning with difficulty to her everyday routine.

More than anything else, Elizaveta mulled over loneliness these days. Something made her want to feel sorry for herself, driving her almost to the brink of tears, although there was nothing tragic in her fate and everything in general happened in a way that she perceived to be correct and reasonable - if, of course, she disregarded the oddities of the last week. Loneliness as a way of life did not weigh on her - on the contrary she found it comforting at the moment and perhaps the only possible means of arranging an existence for yourself. When she snuggled into the cozy sofa with a book, laid out her things and spread her aura over the entire area of the small apartment, it became clear, above all to herself, that there was no space for anyone else. Her first marriage taught Elizaveta not to believe in other people's ideas of happiness, and it might have lasted longer if she and her husband had each slept in their own bedroom and had had the habit of knocking before entering. Certainly, the great passion, which was supposed to overcome her at some time, would have been completely capable of changing everything, but in its absence she did not understand why you tolerate inconveniences and change established comfort for the supposed happiness of living together, which her men had cautiously alluded to occasionally. However, now that the flow of life had suddenly been interrupted, she was immediately consumed by doubts about much more than just this. She wanted somebody's presence near her at night - and during the day, evening, and at all times in general - and her inner world shriveled up into a hard lump, buried and not giving any signs of life. The empty apartment became uncomfortable; the sounds and rustling - frighteningly unusual; and even the furniture, which was very little, started to evince its character and reveal its sharp corners.

Her present lover she had forgotten completely. He was baffled and called daily, taking offence and mumbling something or other, but Elizaveta was always extremely cold to men she had lost interest in. They stopped existing for her, as if they were separated from her by a transparent wall that repelled each and every word. She didn't waste her energy on explanations or clarifications of any kind and refused to reply to criticism - not because she was heartless, but because conversations like these were intolerable torture. This subdued the men entirely - they became pitiful and even whiney at times, excelling at importune entreaties, which naturally led nowhere. Elizaveta could not help them and her only real hope was that they would find comfort in someone else.

Now she was the one who needed some comfort, though it was pretty obvious that no man could provide this. After some thinking, she went to see Helga - her older cousin, who for some reason had switched her name to make it harmonize in German, something that many people considered an act of unacceptable eccentricity, even saying that Olga-Helga had gone slightly batty. She lived in Yasenevo, right at the edge of Moscow, and it was only infrequently that guests came to pay her a visit. Elizaveta, however, was a guest completely welcome, a favorite from childhood, so she was glad to see her, kissed her on the cheek and drank tea with honey from the prairie. The tea made a flush rise to her cousin's cheeks and even lent her face a certain warmth, though sadly Elizaveta also noticed the signs of age in "Olenka", as she called her, the traces of not living with a man, even if her smile, which meant her soul, was becoming younger and younger.

The entire situation elicited her cousin's greatest interest. She cross-examined Elizaveta, pumping her for information on this and that, especially on the flowers and melancholic sighing. Then she got her cards and laid them out on the table, but they were silent, not concealing anything and unable to provide any help. "An evil spirit is circling around," said Helga, chewing on her lips. "An evil spirit-seducer. Asmodeus is his name, or even Defiortus, but yours is certainly Asmodeus: whispers in your ear, but doesn't show his face. I'll say a magic spell..." - and she hugged Elizaveta, jabbered a while about something over her shoulder, and then gave her a little dark liquid in a small vial. "Keep voshchanka in the headboard, and don't be afraid, this is thistle, it won't do you any harm. Otherwise, I don't have any idea," she added on parting. "When winter comes - winter and the first snow - wash your face with snow water from a silver dish. The dish I have - a real one, very old. Nothing else will help; be strong, Lizochka. God be with you - hopefully, it'll pass over…"

"If he's really a seducer, then by winter he'll have seduced me a hundred times," laughed Elizaveta and said goodbye to Olenka warmly, feeling as if her worries had been assuaged a bit. She even waved to her trailer - who followed determinedly in her wake - thinking with a hint of mischief, Is not he Asmodeus? But later she became uneasy again and had bad dreams that night, despite the voshchanka, murky in the vial, which she had obediently lodged at the edge of the bed.

Besides her cousin, Elizaveta decided to confide in her only friend that pretended to be really "close". This friend, in contrast to Helga, was not prone to mysticism and interpreted reality on the basis of objective facts like philosophers of the dullest schools. They drank sweet mate in a coffee shop on the Garden Ring to the accompaniment of a sudden summer downpour, catching men's gazes with sideways glances. The coffee shop, which had opened not long ago, had still not had time to come into its own, revealing the eclecticism of its design, as if tuned to trivial harmony against its will. Everything here looked like a game - the Japanese paintings, the water pipes on pedestals, the streamer from the Spanish club above the pillar at the bar - Elizaveta would not even have been surprised if she had seen a jester's hat on her tireless voyeur. But he was not in the mood for jokes and streaked by the glass with his usual inconspicuous phiz, darted somewhere to the side, escaping the big drops, so a second later there remained in the window only the dirty gray silhouettes of the high-rise buildings on Novy Arbat, which resembled open books with faded pages and covers permanently defaced by the glitter of expensive casinos.

Her friend had a proletarian name, Zoya, harmonizing well with her last name Klimova, which she had obtained from her husband. Incidentally, her maiden name also sounded in unison, immediately conjuring up everything from daddy-soldier to the Komsomol and Russian hinterlands. That's how it had all been, more or less. They had arrived in Moscow from completely unremarkable Tambov thanks to an inhuman effort her parents made just before retirement. Komsomol romanticism just barely touched Zoya - for the new age had dawned - not letting her recover from pre-teen shyness and complexes. But once she got married, she became comfortable with herself and learned to cope with the opposite sex. Now Zoya Klimova was aware of her worth, and it wasn't easy to throw her for a loop, although traces of indecision, concealed within, reminded her of their existence by erupting in baseless exaltation or, even worse, by leaving her bewildered and suddenly at a loss for words. That often happened, to her embarrassment, when she was interrupted at the wrong time, so she tried to talk a lot and, if possible, without pausing.

Having listened to her friend, Zoya became sad and puckered her brow. She had always considered Elizaveta frivolous to the point of excess and did not understand why she would not admit this. "Forget it," she said. "He's just fooling around with you. No good will come of it - you'd be better off going to the police. Perhaps you'll get lucky, meet someone important there and be all hunky-dory…"

Soon it became clear that Elizaveta wouldn't be able to get a word in edgewise - in addition to the disparity in opinions, Zoya was also having problems with her husband and couldn't think seriously about anything else. "He doesn't like my cat," she said, slumping and letting down her shoulders. "He gets angry, screams, threatens to chase him out of the apartment - I have no idea what to do. The cat is so homely, he has a diet, haircut, filed claws… On the street they'll be speechless when they see him - he can't go there, he won't survive. He's gotten used to sleeping in bed with me - has become effeminate and slothful. Men don't understand these things, they think that everything should obey their will. But the cat, of course, hates all this; he despises my husband and has more personal dignity…" Elizaveta listened for an hour, then another, and when it had all bored her to death, Zoya Klimova grabbed her with a deathlike grip, burst out in hysterical tears on the spot, in front of everyone, making it necessary to calm her until evening, no longer ordering mate, but tequila and gin. They spent several more hours together and still Zoya was not satisfied and said something nasty when they parted.

That was yesterday. Now Elizaveta had a headache and was thinking gloomily about how friends in general are useless. Carefree Margo looked at her cautiously, but decided not to pry, knowing very well that her companion's temper had temporarily taken a turn for the worse. The clock had recently chimed noon, lunch time was approaching, and it was then that the event finally happened, the one that would mark the end of uncertainty and expectation: Elizaveta Bestuzheva received a Letter.

At first there were steps, somebody walking from the elevator to their open door, and though that alone could not be surprising - further down the corridor were a number of offices - both women sat stock-still and pricked up their ears as if responding to a command. There was something in those steps revealing the inflexibility of intention - Fate herself could have had that kind of footfall if she were ever to stroll down this floor - and the next moment a visitor appeared in the doorway and Margo let out an involuntary "Ah hah!" It was not that the man entering had come clad in a dark raincoat thoroughly out of place in the July heat or that he was wearing a wig with ringlets, black like coal, which framed his thin face. It was that before them, between the doors, stood a well-known actor, loved at one time by the whole nation, and to meet him here, in a modest travel agency, seemed so unbelievable that Masha Rozhdestvenskaya wanted to pinch herself in a soft spot or poke herself with a pin. Elizaveta was also struck dumb at first, but remained by and large calmer than her coworker, already knowing that the stranger had appeared for her and could not have done otherwise - only somehow he had waited too long.

In the meantime the man in the raincoat scanned the office with no apparent haste, politely bowing like a gentleman to each of the coworkers and addressing Elizaveta directly. "I have been given the honor of bringing a letter to Miss Bestuzheva," he said quietly, though filling the room with his words. "That is no doubt You; having looked at You, believe me, it is impossible to be wrong. So - accept this letter and be so gracious as to excuse the sudden intrusion in the middle of the workday…"

He pulled a snow-white envelope out of his raincoat and extended it to Elizaveta. She stood up, gracefully approached him and took the letter, smiling and briefly lowering her eyelashes in thanks. For a second or two they looked at each other. Elizaveta's head was spinning - his movements and words and gruffy, entrancing voice were all filled with such latent power that she could not counter her infatuation. In the room it was as if another reality had come into being, created by him in the flash of an eye without any visible effort, and under no circumstances could she let herself hit a wrong note now by saying an incorrect word or making an improper gesture.

"You are very kind," she said after a pause, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "But who is he, the secret writer? You must admit…" and here she got confused, while the stranger smiled with restraint, then bowed and kissed her hand. He knew all the power of his charm, and the power of talent in general, and was able to appreciate a proper response. He liked Elizaveta, thought in passing that she was sensible enough and capable of something real, but quickly squelched any ideas - this was not his business. And, apart from that, there were countless others - gorgeous, intelligent girls with inbred distinction - though discerning them was really becoming harder and harder now…

"I wouldn't be anxious if I were you," he said with a slightly crafty grin. "There's good reason to believe that the intentions of the writer are perfectly innocent. I am honored…"

He bowed again to both girls and left without turning around. Elizaveta stood and followed him intensely with her eyes. Soon they heard the sound of the elevator, the banging of doors, and everything became quiet. Only then did she transfer her gaze to the letter and shrug her shoulders indecisively.

"Of all things," said Margo loudly. "My goodness, that's incredible… Well, why are you standing there frozen like a salt statue. Read it!"

"Wait a minute," Elizaveta brushed her off, turned the envelope over in her hands and ambled up and down the room. "Give me some scissors, okay…"

Then a ringing silence hung in the office air - and the secret letter deserved this. From the outset the author named himself, and color rose rapidly to Elizaveta's cheeks, although she had hardly thought about Timofey the last few years. But now, when her sensory perception had become ultra responsive and her soul craved an answer, anything definite seemed desirable, like a sign promising the revelation of all other secrets. Her heart throbbed, akin to a frightened weasel, although she was not of the timid sort and was not known for being shy. The tension in the air condensed as though a thunderstorm were approaching, electricity animated her eyelids, and unsolicited moisture clouded her vision.

Right from the start Timofey had admitted his guilt, unmercifully scourging himself before deftly eliciting some hope for the future and just one more chance. He eschewed poetic phrases, assiduously avoiding trite boilerplates, yet somewhere between the austere simplicity and restraint there erupted serious passion, clearly living inside him all these years since they broke up. Then and there, not sparing any ink, he illustrated his progress and success, bringing him - what is there to hide - enviable prosperity. But his heart… - and he broke off - but his soul… - and again he stumbled, as if uncertain how to proceed. Then, having finally decided, striding away from the precipice, he bawled out all those precious words and fell silent, devastated, even slightly astonished at his own eloquence and ardor, yet firmly insisting on what was his and what - scram doubts! - there was no turning back from now.

The letter made an impression - perhaps because it had been written by a professional who possessed considerable talent and was paid generously, since Timofey Tzarkov believed that this would be better in terms of the final result. And the result really did turn out perfectly - he almost cried himself before licking the envelope - and Elizaveta now sat in a strange daze, held entirely captive by the magic words. Then she reread the letter one more time, looked carefully at the attached train ticket, put it all in her bag and sighed deeply.

Surprised she was not - for what was so surprising when in truth she had only to be honest with herself. Nothing similar had happened since those days of her youth - nothing which in any way resembled that cherished past hovering in the murky distance - and, what's more, she wasn't all that young any longer. And that quiet thought kept creeping into her head - that they, in teenage ignorance, had missed the most important part back then… At least he had been brave enough to admit it first - assuming he wasn't lying. But why should he lie? Nobody had put a pen in his hand and he had nothing to gain by her, nothing except herself that is...

She said his name out loud in her mind and listened cautiously. Nothing unpleasant took place, in fact it was the opposite - she wanted to smile and all her recent malice was gone. The thought of finding herself suddenly at his side, coming right in the wake, also did not seem that dumb any longer - no, actually, it even stirred something inside her. And although it was not completely clear where the town of Saratov came in and what Timofey could possibly be doing in such a nook for so long, she did not let these trivial matters distract her from the main point, the only one of any significance. At this, Elizaveta hid her face in her hands, feeling the corners of her lips stretch into a smile while the flush on her cheeks became still more perceptible.

"Well, my friend?" for Margo was unable to bear it any longer as she fidgeted at her desk. "Come on; tell me what happened; why all this torment…" "There's nothing to say. Someone wants to marry me," replied Elizaveta tranquilly. "He's an old friend, you don't know him. I guess I'm taking a leave of absence. Starting tomorrow…" and she didn't utter another word, disappointing her coworker to the depths of her soul.

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