Chapter 24
Osip Galkin trudged solemnly along the tarmac path back through the YunKom estate, tired now, but heading home. Twilight as it fell was almost granular, like soot, but at least the heat seemed to be lifting at last. On the corner, a feisty young mongrel was yapping at flies and passers-by, its head held stiffly, proudly, and behind the dustbins, from some withered bushes that rustled with the bright sound of tinsel, the inevitable crickets were scratching a weary tune. Coming towards him on the path, a tiny old woman, taking quick, short, bird-like steps, and wearing white pop socks on her sandalled feet, carried in each hand a galvanised-iron bucket of cold potatoes, which she’d probably been hawking down at the railway station. She was grimacing under the strain.
Vita hadn’t been pleased to see him: one of the women on her ward was having a difficult delivery and she would have to work late. She’d thanked him absent-mindedly for the chocolates and flowers, but would he mind taking them with him, and she would see him later at home? It occurred to Galkin that his wife might be having an affair. Who with? At the hospital, there must be plenty of opportunities. Osip's monobrow lifted at this novel possibility; what bothered him most was how little it worried him. What did he think of her, after all this time? They’d been teenage sweethearts and, apart from a brief and ill-advised marriage to a law student at the institute in Kharkov, they’d been together ever since—almost 20 years! Of course, he had no wish to see her harmed, and more often than not now he stayed silent when she said something he thought overbearing or crass. There was still a certain sentimental tenderness, but in truth he found her a bit vulgar, grasping, lacking in philosophical perspective, too swamped in life’s minutia to be able to develop an overview of it.
Alongside the tarmac strip, some telephone cables sagged mournfully between two wonky posts and a crooked birch leaned forward as if into a stiff wind. He looked behind him at the path spiralling up the hill he’d just climbed, continuing to harangue himself bitterly over of the day’s failures. Of course, he'd have shot Kulyeba, if Kulyeba had turned up—he had to believe that. It wasn't as if he didn't have the evidence of his guilt. But Osip couldn't even plan that properly. Time was running out and he was going in circles. What use was he? He felt transparent, light-headed, nauseous. There was a sensation, low in his belly and not fully articulated, that he was walking back through his own life, but could not recognise anything. He looked ahead again, but could not go on. Quite calmly, he considered the possibility that he was going mad—but what were the giveaway signs? How was he supposed to tell?
Osip frowned with the effort of thinking. What good was he? He recalled the look on Mila’s face once as she'd opened a box of perfume he’d bought her—crafty and bright-eyed, full of real delight and feigned surprise (she had a great sense of entitlement). At her flat, he liked to sit on the shabby sofa and watch her through the shimmering rainbow curtain over the doorway as she stood out of the balcony, puffing away happily on her long, slim cigarettes. This soppiness made him wince. The worst was he'd had no-one to talk to about her since her death, not even Arkady. Yet what was the use dredging up the past? He had long regretted confessing the affair to Vita—and not just because of the tears and tantrums, which he thought he understood. It was unseemly to foist yourself on others.
Alongside the tarmac strip, some telephone cables sagged mournfully between two wonky posts and a crooked birch leaned forward as if into a stiff wind. He looked behind him at the path spiralling up the hill he’d just climbed, continuing to harangue himself bitterly over of the day’s failures. Of course, he'd have shot Kulyeba, if Kulyeba had turned up—he had to believe that. It wasn't as if he didn't have the evidence of his guilt. But Osip couldn't even plan that properly. Time was running out and he was going in circles. What use was he? He felt transparent, light-headed, nauseous. There was a sensation, low in his belly and not fully articulated, that he was walking back through his own life, but could not recognise anything. He looked ahead again, but could not go on. Quite calmly, he considered the possibility that he was going mad—but what were the giveaway signs? How was he supposed to tell?
Osip frowned with the effort of thinking. What good was he? He recalled the look on Mila’s face once as she'd opened a box of perfume he’d bought her—crafty and bright-eyed, full of real delight and feigned surprise (she had a great sense of entitlement). At her flat, he liked to sit on the shabby sofa and watch her through the shimmering rainbow curtain over the doorway as she stood out of the balcony, puffing away happily on her long, slim cigarettes. This soppiness made him wince. The worst was he'd had no-one to talk to about her since her death, not even Arkady. Yet what was the use dredging up the past? He had long regretted confessing the affair to Vita—and not just because of the tears and tantrums, which he thought he understood. It was unseemly to foist yourself on others.
In the hallway of his flat, only the sour smell of burnt cooking fat, tinged with cabbage and gas, was waiting to greet him. Heavier than the air around it, his being sank. He stooped to switch on a low floor lamp under a row of coat hooks—it was quite dark now—but the lamp’s sphere of illumination was unable to penetrate very far into the gloom. As he hung it up on a wall peg, he felt as worn out as his bomber jacket—as if he were hanging himself up there, his own flayed hide. Really, what was the point of him? He forced off first one boot then the other, but without loosening the laces enough, side-footing them in the vague direction of the passage wall. Wiggling his toes into a pair of black slip-ons, the coolness of the slippers' lining through his socks gave him some momentary low-level relief.
In the kitchen, which was small and cramped, a saucepan of cabbage soup was laid out on the cooker and a wicker basket of bread on the folding table over by the window. There was a tea towel laid over the basket to keep the bread fresh. Trying the dials of the radio, a blast of raucous folk music assailed him, and he switched it straight off. From a biscuit tin on top of a cupboard by the cooker, he fished out a small package. Then he opened the door onto the balcony, which was little more than an oversized window box with a railing, and squeezed out onto the narrow platform, freeing from the light blue “Prima” carton a single cigarette.
Vita was sure to find out. A childish fear surged through him. He closed the door to, defiantly, the blaze of the struck match absolving him temporarily.
Behind the metals plant, the sun was melting away and the structures of the gas-storage tanks were the huge helmets of medieval knights in silhouette. How nice it was out there, above it all. Between his fingers, he let the cigarette consume itself. He couldn't understand why he'd stayed with his wife. He couldn’t fathom why he’d split with Mila. She wasn't everyone's idea of a beauty—she seemed always to smirk out of the side of a crooked mouth, and she wore an old black beret everywhere. But with her, it had always been easy: they’d just play cards, listen to music, chat about this and that, have a drink or two (she liked white beer and sweet Russian champagne). Also, she loved to dance and didn’t care at all if he wore his shoes indoors. But it was too late. He’d chosen the easy path: this cowardice not only sickened him, it baffled him, as he couldn’t quite work out how or when it had happened. For an easy life, he’d left important things unsaid. Or he'd tried to say them, but they'd come out sounding reflexive, insincere. One god-awful night towards the end, they'd been walking along a miserably rainy street in Donetsk, when she’d said without a lead up, “But I love you,” and he had mumbled to the pavement: “I love you, too”. Now, he could no longer tell if the memory was real. And his life had been no easier. He and Vita had so little in common. It was a strain simply to find new ways of avoiding her. He suspected that, at bottom, he might have stayed with her just to avoid an awkward scene. He looked down at the decrepit playground, which was deserted. In the distance, a great white smog-cloud had formed over the steel plant in the shape of an anvil, as if there had been an enormous explosion. Why was it so bloody difficult to get what you want?
From the direction of the steelworks came the clatter of numerous invisible machines, and a low unexplained rumble, like rubble, filled his ears. He peered up at the cosmos, but there was so little there he recognised: the Great Bear and the Little Bear, which looked more than anything like a couple of household saucepans, and the Milky Way, a stain on a tablecloth. Humdrum, monotonous, unspeakably dull. How tedious life was, how tedious it was to live—a bind, and irritation, the irritating buzz of an insect that you are not quick enough to swat, or even see. A humdrum buzz in the eardrum. Mundane as the clatter of domestic pots and pans. In the distance, Osip heard a discordant train whistle, like two bum notes on a harmonica fighting it out to make it to the top, struggling for air.
In the kitchen, which was small and cramped, a saucepan of cabbage soup was laid out on the cooker and a wicker basket of bread on the folding table over by the window. There was a tea towel laid over the basket to keep the bread fresh. Trying the dials of the radio, a blast of raucous folk music assailed him, and he switched it straight off. From a biscuit tin on top of a cupboard by the cooker, he fished out a small package. Then he opened the door onto the balcony, which was little more than an oversized window box with a railing, and squeezed out onto the narrow platform, freeing from the light blue “Prima” carton a single cigarette.
Vita was sure to find out. A childish fear surged through him. He closed the door to, defiantly, the blaze of the struck match absolving him temporarily.
Behind the metals plant, the sun was melting away and the structures of the gas-storage tanks were the huge helmets of medieval knights in silhouette. How nice it was out there, above it all. Between his fingers, he let the cigarette consume itself. He couldn't understand why he'd stayed with his wife. He couldn’t fathom why he’d split with Mila. She wasn't everyone's idea of a beauty—she seemed always to smirk out of the side of a crooked mouth, and she wore an old black beret everywhere. But with her, it had always been easy: they’d just play cards, listen to music, chat about this and that, have a drink or two (she liked white beer and sweet Russian champagne). Also, she loved to dance and didn’t care at all if he wore his shoes indoors. But it was too late. He’d chosen the easy path: this cowardice not only sickened him, it baffled him, as he couldn’t quite work out how or when it had happened. For an easy life, he’d left important things unsaid. Or he'd tried to say them, but they'd come out sounding reflexive, insincere. One god-awful night towards the end, they'd been walking along a miserably rainy street in Donetsk, when she’d said without a lead up, “But I love you,” and he had mumbled to the pavement: “I love you, too”. Now, he could no longer tell if the memory was real. And his life had been no easier. He and Vita had so little in common. It was a strain simply to find new ways of avoiding her. He suspected that, at bottom, he might have stayed with her just to avoid an awkward scene. He looked down at the decrepit playground, which was deserted. In the distance, a great white smog-cloud had formed over the steel plant in the shape of an anvil, as if there had been an enormous explosion. Why was it so bloody difficult to get what you want?
From the direction of the steelworks came the clatter of numerous invisible machines, and a low unexplained rumble, like rubble, filled his ears. He peered up at the cosmos, but there was so little there he recognised: the Great Bear and the Little Bear, which looked more than anything like a couple of household saucepans, and the Milky Way, a stain on a tablecloth. Humdrum, monotonous, unspeakably dull. How tedious life was, how tedious it was to live—a bind, and irritation, the irritating buzz of an insect that you are not quick enough to swat, or even see. A humdrum buzz in the eardrum. Mundane as the clatter of domestic pots and pans. In the distance, Osip heard a discordant train whistle, like two bum notes on a harmonica fighting it out to make it to the top, struggling for air.
