Rock, Paper, Scissors: And Other Stories

THE CRY OF THE DOMESTIC FOWL

In Lieu of a Foreword

THE PROVINCES as home: warm, grubby, ours. But there’s another way of looking at them—an external, superficial point of view, yes, but one shared by the many who didn’t choose to end up here: the provinces as sludge, the doldrums. That the locals are pitiful is the most flattering thing one can say about them.

•

The cry of the domestic fowl drives out the dark thoughts that take hold through the night.

Morning at the hospital. On the bed lies a skinny, smoked-out man—a bus driver who’s had a heart attack, a bird of the wild. For him the worst has passed, so he watches the medics treat the patient next to him, a trampish-looking old man whose wrist bears the blue sun tattoo of a prison-camp guard. An electric shock, his heart rhythm returns to normal. Old fella’s still ticking, the driver chuckles from behind the screen. He and I exchange glances. Will they let him drive his bus again? And the more burning issue: What if his wife runs into that other woman—the one who brings him shashlik—at his bedside? But this driver could also tell you a thing or two about me. These wild birds are very perceptive.

We’re compelled, clearly, to love not only those we are close to—our fellow domestic birds—but our wider surroundings, too: the people and the place. And to do this one must notice, recall, invent.

And so, from my childhood: my father and I are walking somewhere, it’s far away, the day is hot. We’re out in the countryside and I’m desperate for a drink. My father knocks at a stranger’s house, asks for some water. The woman says there is none, but she brings us some cold milk. We drink and we drink, a lot—probably three pints. My father offers her some money, but she just shrugs and asks, straight-faced: You out of your mind, dear?

The place could be anywhere with its own kind of appeal—particularly Central Russia. You can fall for this place just as easily as a woman can fall for a loser. Yes, we love this country, as it rises forth, goes Norway’s national anthem. We also extol the virtues of our geography, which, considering our size, is hardly decent. Our anthem was written by our authorities—by others—not by little birdies like us.

Another memory: I’m eighteen, driving an old Zaporozhets, when suddenly in the back—where the engine is—I see a cloud of smoke. I’m expecting the worst, an explosion. There are people on the pavement—get back, it’s going to blow! Pop it open, says a man, about thirty, walking by. He takes out a rag and—calm, unhurried—smothers the flames. Then he walks off. Another bird of the wild.

Of cars, of travel more generally, the memories come thick and fast; domestic creatures are prone to trouble on the roads. This is where they cross paths with wild and predatory birds. Such encounters make their mark, through unexpected goodness, through evils previously unimagined. Killers, they’re just your average people, the police chief will say, and then all of a sudden you—you chicklet, you domestic little thing—you’ll accept it, you’ll get it; it’ll become part of you.

While on the subject of the police: the doctors here enjoy their own special relationship with the force. Whether it’s getting a patient up the stairs when the elevator’s broken down, locking up the drunks till morning so they don’t brawl in the wards, or even towing an ambulance out of the mud, they have the police on speed dial. They too wear a uniform and give the local populace the illusion of security.

Just outside the casualty ward there’s a policeman with a man in handcuffs. The man is young, a little roughed up, must have done something serious; around here they don’t cuff just anyone. If you’d just played the wife-and-kids card straightaway. . . the policeman berates him, but no, you had to go on about that lawyer of yours and your Moscow thugs.

Suddenly, alongside the guy who put out the flames in my car, I remember a sweaty, unkempt ice-hockey player. You must be doubly pleased to have beaten the nation that invented the sport in their own backyard? an interviewer asks. The ice-hockey player smiles a toothless grin, Like I give a shit! With an income like his, he could afford some new teeth, but clearly this man can still chew his meat perfectly well, thank you very much. The impression is resounding.

What else? A sermon once heard on the Intercession of the Theotokos: the day on which our pagan forefathers were defeated is now one of our most respected holy days. There’s no easier pastime than bad-mouthing the church. Much like bad-mouthing Dostoyevsky: it’s true, of course, all true, but it also misses the point. The church is a thing of wonder, Dostoyevsky is a thing of wonder, and the fact that we Russians are still here—that, too, is a thing of wonder.

You out of your mind, dear?

That could easily have been one of our grannies in ward one. Grannies is no insult here; it’s what they ask to be called. The one who’s in the worst health hears and sees things: Yuri, that you? she’ll ask the patient next to her.

Nope, not me, she’ll reply.

So who are you?

Granny.

Then who’s this—Yuri? she’ll ask the patient on her other side.

No, Granny Three will reply, I’m Granny, too.

To these women, there’s nothing insulting about the word granny, even if they don’t in fact have any grandchildren; they view themselves not as sharp-witted ladies of advanced years—like their city-dwelling avian contemporaries do—but as grannies.

In the afternoon, two of the orderlies have a loud argument. One of them works here so that she can pocket the food the patients don’t eat and take it home to that swine of hers, while the other owns several hectares of land, holidays by turns in Turkey and Europe, and became an orderly just to find a place for herself in society. Apparently it gets messier: Orderly One went on holiday to Europe, and, poor as she is, put it on credit. The bailiffs have already paid her a visit.

Around here, the private comes before the public. A tax official, a twenty-something kid, does our auditing. Oh, he’ll say, good thing you’re a doctor . . . as it happens, the army have . . . I’m trying to . . . you know? It’s not hard to catch his drift. On compassionate grounds is a reliable turn of phrase—we’re all in one another’s hands. But where Moscow doesn’t believe in tears, as they say, around here tears are the only things we do believe in. When the need is great, we make an exception.

It’s ugly—we shouldn’t allow ourselves to be touched by it—but this happy-go-lucky collective deceit unites the nation just as well as any good law. Electricity, gas, phone bills unpaid? In the capital, a lack of money is something to be ashamed of; here, it’s pretty much the norm. The utility-company employees try to help us out here and there: These meter readings look way off. Why don’t I reset a few values for you here . . .

Thank you, that’s just what I thought. And if you or your family ever need a doctor . . .

Uncles, goddaughters, nieces; water, electricity, gas. It’s familiar, comfortable, benign. And though it may have its drawbacks, as a way of life it’s pretty stable. Here nobody has any secrets. Just like in heaven.

The orderlies and the grannies are the afternoon’s affairs, and by evening it becomes clear that far too much time and energy have gone into one of the day’s tasks, while many are left undone. Twilight sees the return of cruel, exasperated thoughts, specifically: Where did all the bright people go? When we were young there were enough of them around. What, did they all emigrate? One thought latches on to another—it’s a vicious cycle. Night and its fears make the spirit more vulnerable to evil. To make matters worse, swallows and tits often fly into the house—a very bad omen. But there’s nothing you can do; you can’t live your life with your windows closed: either move, if you’re afraid, or let go of these superstitions. Such are the thoughts that churn in the mind until dawn arrives, with its brief respite of sleep.

Life is scary, whether you’re in Moscow, Saint Petersburg, or the provinces. We can say as much—it is scary. There are things in life of which it is impossible to write: the deaths of innocents, young people, children. The terrifying, unnecessary experience of their deaths stays with us. That can’t be cried away; no cry can drive it out.

But then day will come, and the birds will still be there—fowls of the air, fowls domestic, wild, all of them. The world doesn’t break, no matter what you throw at it. That’s just how it’s built.

September 2010

Translated by Alex Fleming

MOSCOW–PETROZAVODSK

Mark well, O Job,

hold thy peace, and I will speak.

—Job 33:31

TO DELIVER man from his neighbors—isn’t that the point of progress? And what are the joys and calamities of humankind to me? That’s right—nothing at all. Then why is it that I can’t have any time alone, even when I’m traveling?

They asked us: Who’s going to Petrozavodsk? A conference. An international conference. Come on, doctors, someone has to go! Yes, we know what these conferences are like. A couple of émigrés—that’s the international for you. The short bout of drinking, the hotel, the lecture, the long bout of drinking—then back home again. After the lecture, you’re still answering questions, but behind your back, brawny little red-faced men are pointing at their watches—time’s up. These little men are the local professors—in the provinces these days any fool can be a professor, the same way that in the American South any fool, if he’s white, can be a judge or an army officer.

Well then, who’s going to Petrozavodsk? So I volunteered: Lake Ladoga? All right, why not?

Not Ladoga. Onega.

What’s the difference? Have you been to Petrozavodsk? Nor have I.

•

The station is a pretty frightening place. For my own protection I assume the air of a veteran traveler. I walk to the carriage pretending I’m bored, so that it’s immediately obvious I’m no stranger to railway stations—no point trying to rob someone like me.

The train from Moscow to Petrozavodsk takes fourteen and a half hours, incidentally. Your fellow travelers are almost invariably a source of unpleasantness—beer and vobla, cheap cognac, typically Bagration and Kutuzov, pouring out their hearts one moment, picking a fight the next.

The train begins to move. Everything’s okay. I’m alone for now.

Tickets, please.

Excuse me, I ask the conductor, but could we reach some sort of . . . I mean . . . so I can have the compartment to myself?

She looks at me. That depends on what you’re going to do in it.

What is there to do in it?

Read a book.

In that case, just five hundred rubles.

Suddenly, these two turn up—they had all but missed the train. They take the lower berths. There they sit, panting. Just what I needed. This is not the sort of trip I had in mind. Damn it. Go on, then, make yourselves at home—I won’t get in your way. I climb to the upper berth and turn my back to them; they go on busying themselves down below.

The first one is simple, primitive looking. His head, his hands, his boots—everything is big and crude. He sits with his jaw hanging open, like a moron. A sweaty moron. He has his phone out and he’s playing a game. Trrrink-trrink for wins, and if he loses—blllum. He’s tugging at the zipper of his jacket with his free hand—another noise. And he’s sniffling, too. Still, at least he’s probably sober.

Below me, the second one says with disgust: Take off your jacket, you halfwit. He’s irritable. "Stop that shnuffling!"

It’s hard going. The sound of the train wheels. The phone below me going trrrink-trrink. And I’m supposed to read a book in this din? It won’t be like this all the way to Petrozavodsk, will it?

I step into the corridor. I can hear them talking in the next compartment. Russia is one of the oblong countries, says a pleasant young male voice, unlike, let’s say, the USA or Germany, which are round countries. I have, by the way, lived in both for some time. A young woman makes a delighted sound. Russia, continues the voice, is like a tadpole. You can go only from east to west and west to east, apart from the body of the tadpole, which is relatively densely populated, and where it’s possible to go from north to south and south to north.

This is to the left of my door; to the right, they’re drinking. Pulling apart a chicken, splitting tomatoes with their hands, the men are clinking glasses and roaring with laughter.

I return to my own compartment. My God, the time is passing slowly—we’ve only just left Moscow.

Half an hour passes, then an hour. Soon we’ll reach Tver. Trrrink goes the moron. The second one springs to life.

Turn off the sound.

But To-ol . . .

Tolya, apparently. He’s tall, probably two meters. Fingers long and white, nails rounded. His face is ordinary enough. Thin lipped. But it’s as if he doesn’t have a face. I’m not sure how to explain it, but there’s something about Tolya I don’t like. I’m not picking up any signals from him—that’s what. Anesthesia dolorosa—the painful loss of sensation. You can brush your hand against something, but you can’t tell whether it’s smooth or rough. Am I being too critical? He’s sober, he’s courteous, and he’s trying not to bother me.

Newspapers! Get your newspaper, hot off the press.

Thanks, but no thanks. We know your newspapers. Female tennis star poses nude for journalists. Tragedy in a lady TV anchor’s family. Billionaire’s daughter abducted. Secrets for a flatter stomach. Crime pages. Color pictures of the dead. Pah! But Tolya takes a paper, rustling its pages down below. After a while he says to the moron: Let’s go.

I’m left alone for a while. Some trip this is.

Before everyone turns in for the night, there are a few other minor incidents.

First, one of the drunks from the compartment next door wanders in with a camera in his hands. He opens the door and starts to take a picture. Tolya lunges at him, but then, suddenly, turns away and hides his face. So that’s it—he’s FSB. Secret police. Now I get it.

The drunk pulls me to his compartment—I’d just been on my way to brush my teeth. I’m supposed to photograph him with his friends. I take a picture. Is that enough? No, not yet. I’ve got to listen to the story of his life. He’s falling all over me: vodka, sweat, tobacco—there, enjoy, breathe it in! People ought to maintain a certain distance from one another. Like in America.

His mother, back in the day, had given him a hundred rubles to buy himself a camera. Then she’d taken the money back—she’d needed it. But he’d really loved photography, ever since he was little. Just my luck, eh? he says.

I express my sympathy. I’m going now.

Wait! He’ll read me a poem—a really cool poem.

Pardon me, I say, Nature calls. I’ll be back. I barely make my escape.

Out o-o-on . . . the tundra! Out o-o-on . . . the railroad! he begins caterwauling, throwing open his arms to embrace anyone who can’t dodge him.

Clearly I could have worse traveling companions. So what if Tolya is FSB? At least he’s quiet and he doesn’t stink. And he keeps his distance—he’s squeamish, like me.

Second, we can no longer use the nearest bathroom: someone has stuffed the toilet bowl to the rim with newspapers. Sodden color pictures. Why?

Third, the water for tea is only lukewarm, and possibly not boiled at all.

Just like the goddamned Soviet Union, mutters Tolya.

No, not FSB.

The overhead light goes out. Try to get some sleep. What’s the link between those two? Nothing good, that’s for sure. Not relatives, not colleagues. Maybe they’re queer? Who knows? And what’s it to me? Maybe they are queer. It happens among average folks, more than you would think.

The same sounds, over and over: tuk-tuk, sniff, sniff. I feel sorry for myself. I fall sleep.

•

I fall into an unexpectedly deep and long sleep, and when I awake, awaiting me are the early sun, the snow, and a very cold morning outside the window, judging by the frost on the spruce trees.

Without looking at my companions, I leave the compartment. The train has come to a stop. We’re at Snyt . . . or at least I think so, although I can’t quite make out the sign. Another sign reads: Do not use toilet during stops. Okay, so I’ve got to wait a while for the bathroom. But it’s only a couple more hours until the long-awaited Petrozavodsk, the hotel, the hot water, the dinner with wine. My spirits are much improved. I shouldn’t let these little things get to me—life’s too short.

My neighbors are ready to go. Tolya clearly never went to bed at all. He’s sitting by the window, agitatedly turning his head this way and that.

What’s going on? Why are we just standing here?

I think we’re at Snyt, I say. Snyt station.

What’s that? Sery, where are we?

Svir. We’re here for half an hour. Sery now cuts a far better figure. No sniffling, no juvenile games.

Sery leaves, and the train gets going. Somehow or other I manage to wash my face and drink some hot tea. I begin to feel even more cheerful. I want to live: have my breakfast, play the joker, gossip about the Moscow professors, charm the young women doctors. We aren’t running behind schedule, are we? I find the conductor and ask. Apparently not.

But what’s up with my neighbor? Now, alone and in the light of day, it’s Tolya who is a sorry sight.

Tolya, are you okay?

What? He turns towards me.

My God, his whole body is trembling. I’ve seen this many times: towards the end of the first twenty-four hours in the hospital, the patient will begin to tremble. He’ll start chasing away devils or make a dive for the window. . . Delirium tremens. Simple as that. Tolya is an alcoholic.

I yell for the conductor. This passenger is suffering from delirium tremens. Do you understand? Alcoholic delirium. Have you got a first-aid kit? No, there’s no first-aid kit. It really all is just like the Soviet Union! I’m supposed to go and find the train manager. Fat chance of that—where am I going to find him? Give him some wine or something. I’ll pay—otherwise he’ll wreck the whole train!

Calm down, passenger, says the conductor. Where’s his friend?

He got off at that Sviri, Sveri—whatever it’s called.

Why did he get off there? He has a ticket to Petrozavodsk! She starts shouting. He’s blocked up the toilet with his newspapers! A whole big bundle! There was plenty of toilet paper . . .

What does the bathroom have to do with it? A passenger is unwell. It’s her job to assist, not to pitch a fit. By now he’s probably banging his head against the wall. But it’s too late—she’s off on a rant:

We’ll deal with your compartment right now, passenger. We’ll have him removed from the train! She dashes off somewhere. Damn, but I’m afraid to go back into the compartment. I stand by the door and wait.

Pyazh Sielga station, the last stop before Petrozavodsk. A policeman is waiting. Yes, this one will set matters straight. I, with my PhD in medicine, can’t deal with the problem, but he will. Yes, Comrade Dzerzhinsky has a nose for the truth.¹

Your documents.

He barely even looks at my documents. But there’s something awful going on with Tolya: he’s climbed onto the little table and begun to pound the window with his boot. It doesn’t break with the first blow, but break it does: and there are shards of glass, cold wind, and blood. Everything happens fast. The policeman is beating Tolya’s legs with his rubber truncheon, and Tolya is hanging there, hands clamped to the upper berth. Then he crashes to the floor. How they drag him out of there, I don’t see—the conductor has led me to the next compartment, to the pleasant young man and the young woman.

•

For no less than a minute they’ve been beating Tolya outside our window—a man had run up in a tracksuit, too lightly dressed, it seemed to me, and still more policemen. They’re beating him with their black truncheons and they’re beating him with their fists. This is how we in Russia treat delirium tremens—not, we have to admit, the most uncommon ailment. Do I have to describe the beating in detail? The police have a name for it—forceful apprehension. At one point I thought I heard the crunch of bone, although what can you hear, really, through double-paned glass?

They’re beating him and saying something; it even looks like they’re asking him questions. And they’ve dragged in Sery from somewhere or other and they’re beating him, too. Sery immediately falls to the ground and curls up into a ball, tucking his head in. With Sery they’re not trying so hard. They’ve worn themselves out, these servants of law and order.

We observe all this through the window; then the train gets going again.

How awful! the girl cries.

Why did we let her watch?

It’s horrible! I do not—I absolutely do not—want to go on living in this country!

That’s just what I was saying, the young man remarks. "But there’s no point weeping and wailing about it. That, in my view, is counterproductive."

I do not immediately grasp what I’ve brought about. It’s the same after a fatal mistake at the hospital—for a while you just stare, stupefied, at the patient, at the monitors, at your colleagues.

They suit each other perfectly, says the young man, continuing the conversation, both the victims and the perpetrators. If they went and beat up a professor at Berkeley that way, he’d hang himself from the shame of it. But these two, they’ll get up, shake the dirt off, and be better in no time.

What about you? I ask. What would you do?

Me? He smiles. I’d leave the country.

I don’t believe the three of us are giving much thought to what we’re saying.

Why not leave, the girl puts in, before you get beaten up? A normal person shouldn’t have to live here.

My new companion smiles again.

How would I have endured this trip without my sweet fellow traveler? This train hasn’t even got a first-class carriage.

I look around. It’s strange—the compartment is the same as mine, yet here everything emanates order and well-being. The young man gives off the scent of fine cologne. Yes, he’s also bound for the conference. Formerly a doctor, in his present incarnation he’s a publisher—he publishes journals (like Pushkin)—he’s president of some association, and much more besides. On the little table stands a half bottle of Napoleon. And the girl really is very sweet.

You need a glass. The little glasses he has with him are made from some kind of stone. Onyx, perhaps jasper. Stone glasses. Yes, it is very good cognac indeed.

The young man is explaining why he’s not yet left. Culture.

"Let me put it this way. For my American friends, the letters AAA suggest ‘American Automobile Association.’ But what do we associate with three As? He pauses for a moment. Anna Andreyevna Akhmatova! He looks at us triumphantly and adds, Yes, and biznesses." That’s what he said. Biznesses!

How good it is to warm yourself with a nip of cognac when you’ve brought about the misfortune of two people!

You’re absolutely right, agrees the young man. This isn’t our country, it’s their country. Had I really said something of the kind? Remember, it’s not you and I who hired these people to protect us. What’s happening here is a particular kind of negative selection. You won’t find a humane cop within the existing system. It isn’t possible. The system would just spit him out. So what can we do? Change the system. Or withdraw into a world of our own—internal emigration. Or, if worse comes to worst, he shrugs his shoulders tragically, "down-shifting."

I catch the girl’s eye. Hmm, yes . . . Downshifting.

There is a rap at the door: The train will arrive in fifteen minutes. Time to go back to my compartment for my things; the pleasant young man will help me. I thank him.

In the wrecked compartment a very important discovery awaits me: I learn who Tolya and Sery are. Beneath the bench, next to my small suitcase, are two enormous checkered bags, the kind carried by only one type of person—the petty trader. Now I begin to understand the strange friendship of my traveling companions—people of all sorts become petty traders. I also understand their horrific beating.

The competition was settling scores, the young man agrees. It was a contract job.

But why try so hard if it’s only a contract?

For the soul’s delight. I’m telling you, cops aren’t human.

Petty traders. My companion has an opinion on their line of business, too.

They carry out an important social function, you know, he says in his handsome voice. All of us, everyone in our society, suddenly we all began to want the same things—expensive clothes, Rolex watches, whatever. But if you can’t afford a Swiss Rolex—he flicks his left wrist—those traders of yours—whatever you call them—they’ll sell you a Chinese Rolex, or any other kind you want. They’re watches too, after all. They tell time. And they look good.

What heavy bags! And what am I supposed to do with them? Give them to the conductor? No way is that witch going to get anything from me! The young man shrugs his shoulders and I drag the bags into the corridor.

Could you give me a hand?

I’ve got an idea, he says. Give me your suitcase. I mean, what would I look like carrying those dreadful sacks?

Okay, thanks. I want to make him happy, so I say, You have such a lovely traveling companion!

Don’t be silly, he says, Not much to look at. A seven—seven and a half, tops.

Something makes me check: Is that on a scale from one to ten?

No, he laughs, "to seven and a half! And her head is absolutely topsy-turvy. You know what I mean? Upside down!"

I’m glad he hadn’t gotten anywhere with her. It’s strange how it bothers me in a situation like this, but it would have pained me to know that he and I had spent our night as differently as all that.

The conductor lets us off the train without any sign of emotion. Someone comes to meet the young woman and we tell her goodbye and wait for a porter. We follow the porter, only just keeping up with him, and see a banner that says, Welcome, Delegates! The conference is beginning to look serious.

We get into a taxi and the young man says, Listen, just forget about your clobbered companions . . . So they lost a little blood? I’m more worried about the page bleed in my journal. A publishing joke.

But it’s my fault that they’ve had so much trouble. No, trouble’s not the word for it—a disaster.

Ah, he says, waving dismissively, you’re suffering from the intellectual’s guilt complex. Cops are busting traders’ heads all over the country these days. You should know better by now—life’s not fair. Give it a rest.

No, you vulgar snob, I think, "I’m not going to give it a rest."

As we’re settling into the hotel, I ask for a telephone directory and begin calling everywhere—to the MVD, the RZD, the USB—a whole heap of abbreviations. To my surprise, I get straight through. Come on over. The colonel will see you. And an hour or so later, I’m already zipping along in a taxi to one of those dark, impersonal buildings, checkered bags at my side. The colonel is waiting for me.

•

Printed in black on gold on the colonel’s door is SCHATZ, and underneath, SEMYON ISAAKOVICH, and below that, in brackets, SHLYOMA ITSKOVICH. I’ve never seen that done before. Very bold.

The occupant of the office has only just gotten up and is still in a somewhat lethargic state. He’s sitting on a bare couch, without pillow or blanket, and dressed in a T-shirt and track pants. Semyon Isaakovich has stuffed one of his feet into a boot, but not the other. He’s a man of some seventy years, short and completely bald, without mustache or beard, but with hair springing abundantly from his ears and nose—in fact, from everywhere that hair shouldn’t be growing from. His hands, his shoulders, his chest are carpeted with salt-and-pepper wool. I think, A hairy man—like Esau.

What should I call the colonel? Shlyoma suits him, and I would prefer it, but do you have to be one of his friends to call him that?

Colonel Schatz, he says, hobbling up to the table, still wearing only one boot.

Understood. Comrade Schatz it is.

His stomach is big and his arms are thick, like a weight lifter’s. His broad, fleshy nose is pitted with scars, as are