Irina Chaikovskaya

Sounds and Whispers

Dedicated to Ivan Bunin

I don’t know – maybe where you live, you can’t hear anything. But I hear everything. Above me, on the third floor, lives a Russian couple, and if I haven’t started speaking Russian by now, it’s just because it’s a barbarous language. “Pavyapavya booryagodoosha.” Do you get that? Me neither. It’s that song. It sounds dejected, like a wolf’s howl. I want to cover my ears, so as not to hear it. Her voice isn’t bad, pleasant, a little too low. Now she’s washing dishes; I can hear them clatter. Again she starts up with “pavyapavya booryagodoosha.” It’s a downright nasty language. Then, just to distract myself and to not hear it, I pick up my guitar and start playing some country. This, I understand, is music. But that... In general, though, they’re quiet enough. Not like the girls on the first floor who yell the whole way in, laugh and jump so that the building shakes. Not these people. In the morning I hear her shower. I know it’s her from the sounds. She is always humming something, thank god, without words. I get up at the same time she does and listen. It’s not that I find it particularly interesting, the habit just worked out that way. He gets up fifteen minutes later and also goes into the bathroom. By the sound I know that he’s shaving. It’s as if we were connected somehow. When they have breakfast, I too eat my bagel and listen to their quiet conversation, not making out the meaning. It sounds something like:

“Hocha...”

“Oo-oo...”

Then she fixes herself up, he waits for her, dissatisfied. I can tell this by his grumbling tone. Sometimes he can’t stand it and leaves first. I see him from the window. He’s short, wiry, and already has a noticeable bald spot. She leaves a little later; she’s very slender, light, with fair hair. Her hair is magnificent – I’ve never seen anything like it. Sometimes she pins it up in a bun in the back. I like that too, but if I were in her place I wouldn’t pin it up. Generally, I’m a regular American guy, if you catch my drift. I cultivate in myself important characteristics – simplicity and openness, physical strength, and the ability to stand up for myself. I’ve lived on my own here, in this city, for a year already. I work at the library – I’m partial to books as well as playing the guitar – I enjoy complete freedom and study life. Possibly, in another year or so, I’ll start writing. For now I write down various impressions in a special notebook. What else is there to say about me? Time had brought to me things not to my liking. A sort of darkness had come over me, and I ran from that to this new city where the sun shines almost the whole year round. From that darkness, and from my family, who were ready to send me to a shrink. Now that I’m far away, they launch fiery greetings to me from their anthill by telephone. I don’t like their calls. Frankly, I loathe them. I would prefer they didn’t know where I hid myself. Oh, I forgot to mention that my name is Roddy. Mother thought up that little name, though it fits me. Returning to the Russians, I must say that I observe them. At times I think that it was fate that directed me to an apartment with such thin walls, in order to encourage me to write a great novel in the Russian tradition. We’ll see. Now I just leave for work ten minutes after the Russians do.

At work, I don’t get a chance to read. Our library is located in the center of town and is popular. I don’t remember a day when I was able to stand still for longer than ten minutes. There are lots of elderly people – they learn to use our new computers, which are spread out in the bibliographic section. But they also borrow books; old people love books about actresses, with pictures. Young people prefer movies. Only humanities students borrow the classics. Today a girl returned a book of Spanish poetry. The girl was like a plucked chicken with pimples on her face. But I liked the book. I was able to look at it during those ten minutes of rest that fate had granted me. The book was open to a story about the romance of a king Rodrigo, which very much interested me, since the name resembled my own. It was amusing to me that this Rodrigo lost his crown for some girl. The girl was called Lakava, and she had long golden hair. There, I said to myself, even in medieval Spain such a one could be found – with hair, one must stay far away from...but then another customer came to my desk.

At home I was struck by the total silence above at the neighbor’s. Often at this time they’re already home, and we eat together, that is, simultaneously. Now I ate in solitude. I didn’t want to watch T.V., or read either, so I decided to go work out. There is a free gym in the building next door, and it is equipped with several training machines. I regularly exercise on the training equipment, and every morning at my apartment, I do pushups, and on Sunday I run track. Apparently I make an impression as a person who is exclusively concerned with his biceps. I love to work out alone, but this time there were two others in the gym as well. I knew them. Our manager, Paul, and his assistant, Freddy. They were talking, not paying attention to me. I don’t like listening to others’ conversations, but I began listening involuntarily - they chatted about the Russian girl. Freddy, sweeping the staircase, was hearing loud voices from their apartment, and then the Russian man flew from the building like a bullet. In his hands was a suitcase. Freddy saw from the staircase window how he walked to the gate with quick steps, not looking back. Paul commented on this apparent “break up.” Freddy agreed with him. He didn’t fit her, that was obvious. The girl is cool, and he’s already old and bald. Someone like Roddy would suit her, and for the first time he looked at me and winked. They both laughed. I felt myself blush. I don’t like it when they get to me. Walking by Freddy, I laid my hand on his shoulder and pressed lightly. He stumbled. I removed my hand, nodded to both and went out. On the street it was dark, streetlights shone, lighting the islands of snow on the flower beds. Christmas trees were visible in the windows. A figure was approaching the gate, moving towards me. I looked and recognized the Russian woman. She moved as though oblivious, not even looking at me, almost as if she were sleepwalking. We went through the entryway at the same time, she ahead, me behind. Opening my own door, I heard the sounds of the key turning in hers. Going in, I turned on the light, she didn’t. I sat at the table. Upstairs she undressed, dropped her coat, dress. I heard how she moved the chair. Above the shower started. “Pavyapavya booryagodoosha,” I recognized the familiar motif. She sang with her full voice. I sat and listened, and I didn’t want her to stop. Her low velvety voice sounded wide and free, and I thought, that in her song lived not the sadness of one person, not even of every person, but of all of voiceless nature. The water quieted, and so did she. I listened as she went to the table, sat and sobbed. I sat there for a minute not moving but only thinking. Then I quickly ran from the apartment. I ran to the third floor and rang her bell. She didn’t open right away. It was dark in the apartment, and I couldn’t see her face, only her hair, there was enough of it for two women. I mumbled something about the song, that I wanted to learn the tune. She didn’t understand me, and so we stood there for a rather long time, until she closed the door.

The following morning I woke up feeling happy. The sun was shining through the window. The phone started ringing. I grabbed the receiver as though it was a hundred dollar bill. It was mother calling. With that unnaturally happy voice of hers, she wished me Merry Christmas and invited me to come see her. I couldn’t see it - what was there for me in New York? I refused. My mood didn’t collapse, but it downshifted. An inner voice said, wait, wait, not just yet, but soon...I dressed and went out. Near the door lay a note. I picked it up and slowly, terribly slowly, opened it. Here it was - that for which I waited and didn’t wait. The letter was from the Russian. She invited me to her place. It said: “Excuse me, yesterday I didn’t understand you. Come when you want. I’m home all day.”

I wanted to go now. I climbed to the third floor and rang the bell.

She opened right away - apparently she heard the sounds on the staircase. She wore a light blue dress, her hair was tightly tied in a knot, her face looked pale and tired. I looked around, the living room was exactly like mine – I walked to the table and sat. She asked if I wanted some tea. She had a terrible Russian accent. We sat, drank our tea and talked. I told her of my family in New York, about the books at work, and about my guitar. Hearing about my guitar, she smiled: “I always dance to it, I like the melody.” “Alone or with your husband?”. She coughed, put down the teacup and said very clearly, looking me in the eyes: “Roman isn’t my husband. We work together at a laboratory.” Truly, after these words, I should have gone to her and hugged her, but I didn’t do that, I don’t know why. All this time she kept pouring me very strong Russian tea, and asked me about everything. When I told her my age, she said with a grin, “Totally still a baby.” It turned out that she was twenty seven years old, seven years older than I. Maybe, I had made a little mistake revealing my actual age, but I didn’t think she was older. This whole time I hoped that at some point she would reach for me, she would touch me with her slender bare hand. But she didn’t.

I stayed at her place all morning. If she hadn’t thrown me out, I wouldn’t have left until evening. I knew very little about her: her name was Ola, she was born on the Volga, she missed her family. And there was something else: she told me about that song, that it was magical, a “bewitching” slavic song. The words, she said, were totally non-sense: something about a storm and about a rose-tree, but she understood, she just wouldn’t tell me - I was still a baby.

Returning home, I wrote in my notebook several questions to myself They were:

1. Was I happy with today?

2. What had I wanted?

3. What should I do?

I left her with a feeling of strong intoxication, as if I had been drinking wine. This day had clearly diverged from the norm, and in that I was very satisfied. On the other hand, not everything had happened as I had wanted. I thought to myself: really, what would I want? To talk to her? To spend time with her? To make love to her? On principle I wanted the first, the second, and the third - the third, perhaps, more than all. But that option, it seemed to me, depended completely on her. So my answer to the last question, “what to do?”, was - wait and see.

I stayed home until evening. Around seven, the door slammed upstairs. Some kind of force picked me up from the sofa and flung me after the Russian. I followed her down the snow-shoveled sidewalk, in the gloom of the December evening, not even knowing myself why I was doing it. After two blocks she turned left, and taking a few steps, stopped in front of a ramshackle, strangely formed building. Singing came from above, beyond the glass door hung a strong smell of some kind of fragrance. Keeping my distance, I went up the creaky staircase behind her to the second floor. She stopped at the door, I stood precariously directly behind her, beside the doorway. Candles burned brightly, my temples were compressed by the intolerable smell, a man in a long robe was preaching something to the audience, who was sitting on the floor. He spoke English, but the meaning escaped me. Finally, everybody stirred and filed towards the door. Something like paralysis gripped me, and when I came to myself, Ola stood near me. She looked at me perplexed. We went downstairs and out to the street together. I took a breath. Frosty winter air - what could be better? Stars sparkled in the gray dusky sky. “Merry Christmas”, said Ola, and only then did I remember that today was Christmas eve.

All the subsequent days flowed for me into one happy snow-filled jumble. In the mornings we would go out to the mountains to ski. Such a fearless girl I have never seen. It seemed that she had set her mind on breaking her neck. Looking at her, I began to understand the meaning of “Russian Roulette” In the mountains it was frosty and windy, but the sun shone without pause, and again I was convinced, that I was right to have chosen this city as my home. Often at the end of our outings, already walking with our skis to the car, we attracted affable, appreciative, even envious glances. Ruddy, slim Ola with her black and white ski suit and little cap, shimmering golden hair tied behind her ears, and me – with an outrageous red pom pom, red ski jacket draped over athletic shoulders, both of us, I was sure, summoned the same thoughts in the men and women we met. “Excellent couple,” they thought. But we weren’t a “couple” in the full sense of the word. Ola would recoil no sooner than I would touch her. When, in the evening, we drank tea in her apartment, silence would suddenly descend. A silence in which the furious beating of my heart could be heard. She would get up from her armchair, walk towards me, put her hand on my head and slowly stroke my hair. Sometimes she would say something in her language, like “nitivo – nitivo”, as if that would make it easier for me. It occurred to me then that she was an enchantress, giving me some kind of poison to drink. I already understood that I was poisoned, and most sadly, I was the only one. She was Isolde the Fair from that old book I read in my youth, but I wasn’t Tristan. In that book they drunk the love potion together. In my case, it seemed that I had drank it alone.

Was Roman the reason? She spoke of him with hatred. It happened that on the day when everything started, she had received a letter at work. From the letter she found out that Roman was married and that his wife was expecting a child. The letter was from the neighboring city, from his wife, who is named Marina. Ola could not talk peacefully about Roman, she would start hyperventilating, and I would calm her down. I would get my guitar, sing cheerful and unsophisticated country songs. She would dance, not an American dance, nor a Russian one. She simply moved to the music, which she liked, and the movement was somehow natural, like that song of hers. By the way, about the song: she said that her mother had taught her to sing, that her mother came from peasants, but that she was very smart and sensible, and that in addition, she was a beauty and loved to sing. During these evenings of ours, Ola didn’t sing, but she talked a lot – of childhood, of the Volga, of her parents and friends. When I came home, I’d write something in my journal. One day I wrote the following: “New Year’s day for Russians is a special holiday. They expect on New Year’s Eve all kinds of miracles, and they believe that their wishes will be granted. Amen!”

We agreed to meet the new year together. I invited Ola to my place. I bought a Christmas tree. All around the house there were many excellent christmas trees lying in trash bins. Americans, having already celebrated christmas, had discarded them. But I preferred a new tree, though an artificial one. I bought lights and colorful candy from a Russian store. From that store I also bought red caviar, ham and cheese, and at a liquor store not far from home, a bottle of “Chianti” and Champagne. Crossing the gate, I ran into little Freddy. It seemed to me that he looked at me with a smirk, it was still dark though and I could have been mistaken.

Ola came, like she promised, at eleven. She wore something golden and rustling, the color of her hair. She was recklessly cheerful. She drank two glasses of Chianti – the wine I had bought on her advice. Ola started smiling and teased me. I turned on the music, turned down the lights, we started dancing, in the twilight and in front of the lit Christmas tree. I hugged her, she didn’t resist, she only said, “wait.” We sat at the table, I could not drink nor eat, my temples pounded. At midnight, we raised the champagne. I looked at Ola and saw how her face changed, she was listening to something. Then I clearly heard the sound of the telephone, coming from above, from her apartment. Leaving the champagne untouched, she ran for the door. I grabbed her by the hand, this probably hurt her. She screamed. I let her go, and she ran up the steps. I was left standing with the glass in my hand. I heard how she ran to the telephone, which by that time had stopped ringing. I prayed to heaven that it wouldn’t start again. But it did, and Ola grabbed the receiver. I knew who had called at once I heard her voice pronouncing Russian words. Then there were steps on the staircase. It was him, Roman. I waited for her to throw him out. She hated him, he wrecked her life, he lied. She couldn’t forget about me – today was our day – tonight, I was sure, would be our night. Half an hour ago she told me, “wait,” and I waited, I waited. He entered the apartment and everything fell silent. Why such silence? Why didn’t she yell at him, or slap him? What were they doing there, in that apartment? I threw my glass down, champagne poured on the floor, and in a second I was at her open door. They were embracing. For a minute I stood silently, and then I yelled wildly and rushed on Roman. Fury mastered me, my consciousness completely shut down, darkness enveloped my brain. I do not understand how I did not kill him. Neighbors poured from their apartments. They restrained me and called the police. I spent New Year’s Eve in jail.

I met with Ola by chance, several months after that night. I had already been living in another apartment for some time. I didn’t like the old one anymore. I didn’t decide to change cities, I liked the city, although not as much as before. In these few months I have started studying the Russian language. I bought a self-study course and consulted dictionaries. In our library I found a collection of native Russian songs, and I looked at it attentively. It all struck me as though there was something I don’t understand. I hope, that the song helps me understand what happened. There were a few songs about a rose-tree in the collection. That song wasn’t there.

One bright spring evening, returning from work, I saw before me a familiar figure and hastened my step. It was her – with a light blue beret on her glistening hair, with a short blue skirt, girlishly slim and lithe. I shouted to her – she glanced back. She had changed a little, just a wrinkle between her eyebrows. She looked at me a little afraid, and I smiled at her. “Ola,” I said, “tell me, I don’t understand, why did you chose Roman?” The tension in her face fell away, and she too smiled. Then she whispered, “I’m not telling,” and ran away.

Since then I have started writing a novel, the main heroine is strongly reminiscent of Ola, but the inner motives of her behavior are lost from me. In my notebook that evening I wrote, “Mysterious Russian soul.”

I am going to Russia, maybe something will be clarified for me there. Moreover, it will be easier to find the song about the rose-tree there. I believe that in that song are all the answers.

Translated by Cristina Crawford and Michael Ballbach

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