Pushkin Hills / Заповедник. Книга для чтения на английском языке

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I said.

“Ein Moment” said the owner, took a few steps back, and charged the door.

“What’s the rent?”

“Ah, nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?” I asked.

“Just that. Bring six bottles of poison and the space is yours.”

“Can we agree on something a little more specific? Say twenty roubles? Would that suit you?”

The owner fell to thought:

“How much is that?”

“I just said – twenty roubles.”

“And converted to brew? At rouble four apiece?”

“Nineteen bottles of ‘Fortified Rosé’. A pack of ‘Belomor’ smokes. Two boxes of matches,” spat out Tolik.

“And two roubles for moving expenses,” concluded Mikhail Ivanych.

I took out the money.

“Do you care to examine the toilet?”

“Another time,” I said. “Then we’ve agreed? Where do you keep the key?”

“There’s no key,” said Mikhail Ivanych. “It got lost. Don’t go, we’ll make a run.”

“I’ve got some business at the tourist centre. Next time…”

“As you wish. I’ll stop by the centre this evening. I gotta give Lizka a kick in the butt.”

“Who’s Lizka?” I asked.

“She’s my woman. Wife, I mean. Works as a housekeeper at the centre. We be broken up.”

“So then why are you going to beat her?”

“Whatsa? Hanging her’s too good, but a mess to get into. They wanted to take away my gun, something about me threatening to shoot ’er. I thought you were here about the gun.”

“A waste of ammo,” threw in Tolik.

“You don’t say,” agreed Mikhail Ivanych. “I can snuff ’er with my bare hands, if need be. Last winter I bump into her, this and that, it’s all friendly, and she screams: ‘Oh, Misha, dearest, I don’t want to, let me go…’ Major Jafarov summons me in and says, ‘Your name?’ And I say, ‘Dick on a stick.’

“I got me fifteen days in the clink, without smokes, without nothing. Like I give a shit. Just kicking back. Lizka wrote to the prosecutor, something about puttin’ me away or I’ll kill ’er… But what’s the point in that?”

“You won’t hear the end of it,” agreed Tolik. And added:

“Let’s get going! Or they’ll close the shop.”

And the friends set off for the housing development, resilient, repulsive and aggressive, like weeds.

I stayed in the library till closing.

It took me three days to prepare for the tour. Galina introduced me to the two guides she thought were the best. I covered the Preserve with them, paying attention and taking a few notes.

The Preserve consisted of three memorial sites: Pushkin’s house and estate in Mikhailovskoye; Trigorskoye, where the poet’s friends lived and where he visited nearly every day; and finally the monastery with the Pushkin-Hannibal burial plot[45 - burial plot – участок захоронения].

The tour of Mikhailovskoye was made up of several parts. The history of the estate. The poet’s second exile. Arina Rodionovna, his nanny. The Pushkin family. Friends who visited the poet in exile. The Decembrist uprising[46 - The Decembrist uprising: The failed attempt to overthrow the Tsar in 1825, directly supported by many of Pushkin’s close friends.]. And Pushkin’s study, with a brief overview of his work.

I found the curator of the museum and introduced myself. Victoria Albertovna looked about forty. A long flouncy skirt, bleached locks, an intaglio[47 - intaglio – инталия, ювелирное изделие, выполненное в технике углублённого рельефа] and an umbrella – a pretentious painting by Benois[48 - Benois: Alexandre Benois (1870–1960) was a Russian artist who worked extensively with the Ballets Russes and Sergei Diaghilev.]. This style of the dwindling provincial nobility was visibly and deliberately cultivated here. Its characteristic details manifested themselves in each of the museum’s local historians. One would wrap herself tightly in a fantastically oversized gypsy shawl. Another had an exquisite straw hat dangling at the back. And the third got stuck with a silly fan made of feathers.

Victoria Albertovna chatted with me, smiling distrustfully. I started to get used to that. Everyone in service of the Pushkin cult was surprisingly begrudging. Pushkin was their collective property, their adored lover, their tenderly revered child. Any encroachment on this personal deity irritated them. They were hasty to prove my ignorance, cynicism and greed.

“Why have you come here?” asked the curator.

“For the rich pickings,” I said.

Victoria Albertovna nearly fainted.

“I’m sorry, I was joking.”

“Your jokes here are entirely inappropriate.”

“I agree. May I ask you one question? Which of the museum’s objects are authentic?”

“Is that important?”

“I think so, yes. After all, it’s a museum, not the theatre.”

“Everything here is authentic. The river, the hills, the trees – they are all Pushkin’s contemporaries, his companions and friends. The wondrous nature of these parts…”

“I was asking about objects in the museum,” I interrupted. “The guidebook is evasive about most of them: ‘China discovered on the estate.’”

“What specifically are you interested in? What would you like to see?”

“I don’t know, personal effects, if such exist…”

“To whom are you addressing your grievances?”

“What grievances?! And certainly not to you! I was only asking.”

“Pushkin’s personal effects? The museum was created decades after his death.”