VanCleef & Arpels on the summer night. Nonna Ananieva
people’s, – with applause, with your deep eyes, with our reminiscences. Let’s go to ‘Pushkin’ for supper!
– And here is our transport! – I exclaimed. Karandash[2], Sergey’s driver, drove up to us in his silver limousine.
– Doesn’t he have a name? – I had asked before the performance. – Should I call him as Karandash? It sounds like some kind of nickname…
– Well, you can call him ‘Pencil’, if you want to use the translation of that nickname.
– And what is written in his passport? – I insisted.
– How on earth should I know… – Sergey shrugged his shoulders.
– He might be called Briefcase rather than Pencil. You should check – I pressed on.
– I trust people, Sofia, my dear, I trust them. There are plenty of decent, disciplined people around.
– You are right. Good, kind people do surround us. – I insisted no more.
The restaurant was full of people, but they found a table on the second floor in the Library for us.
– I am so hungry. And it’s your fault, – Sergey reproached me.
A tall, handsome waiter in a long white apron brought the menu.
– You are welcome, Madam, – he addressed me in an old-fashioned way.
– A while ago you served venison meat with baked pear. That’s what I want, – said Sergey to the waiter, not looking at the menu. – Do you want to try it too? – he addressed me.
– Thank you, but I don’t eat meat. I want a double portion of strawberries with a touch of cream. And a cup of green tea to go with it. – Recently, I have developed a taste for strawberries. Before that, I ate only apples.
– Do you remember Pekarsky? – inquired Sergey.
I grew suspicious. Ilya had been with us in Africa. To be more precise, he had been there at the same time, working as an assistant to the consul. He was a few years older than us, and in his spare time he had often escaped from the ‘old folks’ to join us. I had liked him. Quiet jokes that he would murmur as though to himself, tinned food and other edible goods from the consulate shop, the French and sometimes even American magazines which he brought us, a privately owned automobile, a well-groomed appearance and a readiness to help the lazy students… these were the merits that made Ilya so welcome. Living abroad at that time it was easy to see a potential informant in nearly everyone, but Ilya had managed to gain our confidence. In fact, we – the four girls and the three guys from different universities – had never even trusted each other much. This was the usual state of affairs. I knew who sneaked, and I suspected everyone else. And what of it – should we have stopped living? It was Ilya who reminded us of Papanov’s words from the Russian movie Byelorussian Terminal: “The commander of our regiment once said, ‘each wrinkle on your blanket is a loophole for the agents of Imperialism’”. As far as I remembered, Ilya had become friends with Sergey. But I didn’t know what had happened afterwards. I lost touch with both of them.
– Does Ilya Petrovich want to meet up with me as well? Let’s ask him to join us in Petersburg.
– I always suspected the pair of you. I remember that during the May Day meeting he accompanied you and Makarova from the glade to the cottage of the Attaché of Culture, whose wife had gone to Moscow to give birth. There was some composer hanging around as his guest.
– Oh yes… You cannot hide a grand piano in the bushes… – I drawled.
– Well, he was always hanging around you dressed in white Lacoste trousers that I could only dream of, chirping: “Sardine, you won’t regret it! Think, piano music for four hands! We’ll drink cold champagne! Leave this miserable shashlik alone! Off we go! Follow me!”
– These memories really haven’t faded for you, have they? It’s great!
– On your way there you smashed the ambassadorial BMW, knocked down some fellah on his old banger and damaged the fence on your way into the residence. Krishkin had a narrow escape that time. The rumors reached his wife.
– Well, wasn’t a problem for us…. Krishkin always envied Pekarsky. As far as I remember, when they sat down with that composer to play Beatles music for four hands, Makarova asked them to play “Hey Jude”, – Krishkin blushed, he was standing there, obviously hating it in spite of the cognac he had already drunk.
– And what else happened? – Sergey seemed nervous.
They brought us the strawberries and the venison with baked pear.
– Bon appetit, Filimonich, – I said.
– And what comes next? – asked Sergey again.
– You and I quarreled with you then, as you probably remember, because of the lecture notes. You spilled tomato juice on my workbook and claimed that the half of the notes were missing. And you yourself had no notes on syntax at all – not a single line. Makarova told you to pay her 20 dinars just for the last three lectures. Have you forgotten it? And later on she also complained that you stayed the night with us, and that you spoke to Americans at the Institute. It was prohibited to talk to anyone, as you remember.
– You’ll make fun of me for this, but I met up Pete from our Grammar group later on.
– Where did you see him? In the States?
– We met in Kyoto. And later on, in New York. By the way, he’s in jewelry business, just like you.
– You don’t say?! Fat old Pete! In the jewelry business! Jesus Christ, that’s incredible! – I almost choked on my berries.
– He even asked about you a couple of times, – Sergey continued calmly.
– And what did he ask about?
– Well, about practically everything…
– Are you joking?! – This was the last thing I expected to hear – And what did you tell him about me?
– I told him that I didn’t know anything. They sent me abroad “to establish friendly relations” after I had graduated from the University. You married some guy again…
– Yes, that’s the only news worth telling about a woman, – I retorted.
And then I remembered. Once, in the winter after the New Year, Filimonich and I, Peter and Alicia (another American from our group), had opted to go to the city market (the locals called it “suk”). Sergey invited Ilya to go with him, for safety’s sake. We met at one of the entrances to these endless labyrinths of Arabian folk craftwork mixed Indian, Turkish and Italian styles, as well as some other odds and ends. As far as I remember we had been assigned to write a composition entitled ‘My perception of the City of Tunis’ or something like that, and we decided to use this chance to stroll to the market. We agreed with the Americans that we would pretend to have met by chance – and in that case, why should we flee from each other as if we were hounds of ideology? The story also went that we had likewise met Pekarsky all of a sudden, while he was choosing a little handicraft carpet for himself, depicting a white house against a blue background, and a clay plate with a similar design. All of us, young, turbulent and eager as we were, craved normal communication, chat about the USA and the USSR – we liked to ask one another tricky questions and to argue over which country was worse to live in. Alicia was no fool – she was an active career woman, dreaming of becoming a diplomat and setting the flag of victory on another peak of American feminism. She didn’t like to have any courtesies addressed to her that might emphasize her femininity. Thus nobody would give their hand to her, nobody would let her walk through a door first, and nobody ever carried her heavy bags. And she liked it this way… Even Pekarsky played her game; when we sat down at a coffee table with one stool too few, he told her: “There’s a vacant stool over there, so go and get it”. Alicia went and fetched it quite obediently. She used to
Karandash (Карандаш) – a Russian word which means “pencil”.