Be as Children E-Book

Vladimir Sharov

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Dedalus Europe
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 750

Beschreibung

At the centre of Be as Children is an ailing Vladimir Lenin, infected not with syphilis, as some historians have claimed, but with Christian fervour. Regressing stroke by stroke to an infancy of his own, he renounces his faith in the proletariat and puts all his hope in the many children left homeless and orphaned by the Civil War. Only they will be loyal to the cause and only they can save it. Around this story Sharov weaves two other plots: a murderer who converts a Siberian people to Christianity and the life story of a female holy fool. Epic in scope and highly original in execution, Be as Little Children shows exactly why, since his untimely death in 2018, Vladimir Sharov has been widely celebrated in Russia as one of the few outstanding novelists of his era and a true heir to the classic authors of the nineteenth century.

Leseprobe

Praise for Before & During

‘One of the most fascinating books in post-Soviet literature… even twenty years after its publication and translated into English, Sharov’s Before & During reads as if it were completed yesterday.’

Mark Lipovetsky in The Russian Review

‘If Russian history is indeed a commentary to the Bible, then Before & During is an audacious attempt to shine a mystical light on (Russian history), an unusual take on the 20th century’s apocalypse that leaves the reader to look for their own explications.’

Anna Aslanyan in The Independent

‘A Menippean satire in which historical reality, in all its irreversible awfulness, is for a moment scrambled, eroticized. and illuminated by hilarious monologues of the dead.’

Caryl Emerson in The Times Literary Supplement

‘Translation should not strive for perfection, but for excellence. Perfection is impossible, whereas excellence is only nearly impossible. And excellence is what Oliver Ready achieves in his rendering of Before & During by Vladimir Sharov. He captures the clear voice and confused mentality of the narrator who is able to love both Christ and Lenin, who prays for the sinner Ivan the Terrible and who tries to unravel the legacy of the Bolsheviks.’

Jury of the 2015 Read Russia Prize

‘Before & During is a darkly brilliant book which sometimes ironizes, sometimes genuinely challenges conceits woven through modem Russian history and culture: fleshly resurrection, holy foolishness, erotic utopia and the sexualization of terror.’

Muireann Maguire in Russian Dinosaur

‘Since the late Alexander Solzhenitsyn, no Russian novels have penetrated Western consciousness, and we have had to wait a long time for this one: Vladimir Sharov is 62, and this was first published in Moscow in 1993. Superbly translated by Oliver Ready it is worth the wait, and is the only one of his eight novels to have appeared in English. We should know more of him.’

Canon Michael Bourdeaux in The Church Times

‘Before & During is very much a novel from and of and about Russia, highly allusive and steeped in Russian history and literature. The real-life figures can serve as reassuring touchstones for foreign readers, but there’s clearly (and/ or unclearly) much more to it; nevertheless, even just superficially – without closer familiarity with Orthodox and Bolshevik history and creeds, for example – Before & During is rewarding, a rare work of fiction that is, on several levels (including literarily and philosophically), provocative as well as simply exhilarating. An impressive achievement.’

M. A . Orthofer in The Complete Review

‘Before & During remains a disorienting read. The novel invokes real historical events and people (Tolstoy, Madame de Staël, Saint John of Kronstadt, Alexander Scriabin and Stalin, among others), swirling them into a phantasmagoric alternative chronology. Stories germinate within other stories, unfolding in astonishing variations.’

Rachel Polonsky in The New York Review of Books

‘Before & During justifies Sharov’s place as one of contemporary Russia’s most significant literary voices, and Oliver Ready is most deserving as the winner of the 2015 Read Russia Prize for his remarkable English translation of it. The novel’s theme that a life is nothing more than others’ memories of it may feel bleak, but memories, as witness to our past, also offer hope: that humanity can avoid repeating history’s mistakes, that we can free ourselves from committing the same unpardonable crimes against our fellow man.’

Lori Feathers in Rain Taxi Review

‘Whatever your views on religion, you cannot fail to be impressed by Sharov’s undertaking. He has given us a radical view of Russian history, from the early nineteenth century to the present day. He has completely changed the historical facts about major historical figures: Stalin, Mme de Staël, Scriabin, Lenin, Fyodorov, not to mention a bit of Tolstoy and used them to make his point about a Christian Utopia. But this is not a simplistic view of the matter. He sees that it is complicated and he and his characters struggle with it. Reading it as a novel, and not as a religious and political tract, which, of course, you should, it is an outstanding work.’

John Alvey in The Modern Novel

‘When you put down Vladimir Sharov’s books you feel as if you have woken up from a strange but captivating dream. As in all dreams, you visit a reality that has been turned upside down. Oliver Ready’s thoughtful translation of Before & During and The Rehearsals guides us through the Russian past which at times is comically absurd, at times dark and poignant – but always personal.’

Elena Malysheva in The Forum Magazine

Praise for The Rehearsals

‘Sharov, whose historical fantasies allow us to confront not just the facts but also the emotional realities and hidden logic of a tortured past, will not be forgotten.’

Boris Dralyuk in The Literary Review

‘A good read for fans of Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and Solzhenitsyn.’

Book Blasts Top Ten Reads for Independent Minds

‘Nikon is a compelling mixture of piety, ambition and apocalyptic fervour, and at first it seems as if the novel will centre on his contradictory character. But Sharov, a trained historian, is also ambitious, and skilled at painting the bigger picture. So he leaves Nikon behind to follow the peasant-actors and their descendants right up to the twentieth century as, exiled in Siberia, they remain steadfast in their commitment to the play and its role in catalysing the return of the Messiah. This expanded scale, in conjunction with Sharov’s deft handling of allusion and Oliver Ready’s nuanced translation, allows the allegorical significance of the narrative to become apparent. As time passes, the peasants’ ascribed identity as “apostles”, “Jews” or “Romans” becomes their primary allegiance, trapping the community within centuries-long cycles of violence and recrimination that mirror the brutal patterns of Russian and European history.’

Jamie Rann in The Times Literary Supplement

‘This is a most original novel, and in particular, in the period when they are exiled to Siberia. It is clearly, at least to some degree, an allegory of the situation in the wider world. It is about Russian history, particularly the mid-sixteenth century and the time of the religious reforms in Russia, but also about the Russian Revolution (there cannot be many novels that feature Patriarch Nikon and Beria). It is about Russian character and the nature(s) of the Russian people. I judge novels in many ways but one of the ways that I judge them is whether I think long and hard about them after I have read them and whether I discuss the ideas that they raise with my significant other. This novel passed both those tests with flying colours. It clearly is a first-class novel and rather a pity that it has taken twenty-five years to appear in English but we must be thankful to Dedalus that it finally has.’

John Alvey in The Modern Novel

‘The backdrop is Russian history and its continually revived messianic themes of God’s chosen people and the Promised Land. With the advent of the Soviet period and the horrors of the Gulag, the village community, where the rehearsals had continued, turns into a labour camp, with the Apostle Peter as camp boss and the Apostle James as the secret-police chief. The novel’s end satisfyingly connects with its beginning when the identity of Kobylin, the mystery man, is revealed: as a small child, he alone survived a massacre in the labour camp, and was adopted by Maria Trifonovna Kobylina. The Russian word for a rehearsal is repetitsia: Sharov in this novel conveys the endless repetition of human folly and cruelty.’

Xenia Dennen in The Church Times

‘Rarely does one get this feeling when reading a translated book. The Rehearsals appears to be first and foremost a book about Russian history, but transpires to be more of a journey into an abstract few hundred years of Russian history. Written by Vladimir Sharov, who won the Russian Booker Prize in 2014 for Return to Egypt, this book is easily worthy of the same award. The basic synopsis itself is bizarre: it tells you that The Rehearsals is about a theatre production where the actors are untrained, illiterate Russian peasants, and nobody is allowed to play Christ. They are persecuted, arrested, displaced, and ultimately replaced by their own children. Yet the rehearsals continue, onwards and upwards.’

Carl Marsh in Buzz Magazine

‘Sharov’s structuring and tone are unique in world literature, with some parallels to the anonymous narrators of Julian Barnes, the nation-narrative allegory of Salman Rushdie, and the historical mastery of Umberto Eco… Sharov packs more content into one novel than most writers can dream of in a lifetime.’

The Historical Novel Review

‘Vladimir Sharov and Oliver Ready introduce us to a captivating and unsettling prose where the characters share an ability to see something hidden from the rest of us. They are devoted to memory and passionate about historiography in their endless effort to understand. To understand power, to capture the image of the epoch, to explain the changes in national character and identity, to understand history. After all history is theatrical and what is life but a rehearsal of an eternal play?’

Elena Malysheva in The Forum Magazine

‘Indeed, what is perhaps most surprising about this truly extraordinary novel is that a full thirty years after it was written, it remains as fresh and relevant – if not more so – than when it was first published.’

Bradley Gorski in The Russian Review

‘Vladimir Sharov plays with history, and the narrative is even compared by critics to both Tolstoy’s realism and Kafka’s absurd. Sharov looks philosophically at the Gospel and Russia’s past.’

Russia Beyond

‘Grand in its scale, epic in the telling, and clinical in the presentation this is an interesting thought-provoking book.’

The Messenger Booker

‘The Rehearsals pulls readers along to some strange places, not so much at a slow pace but in a roundabout fashion, but it’s worth the unusual ride.’

M.A. Orthofer in The Complete Review

‘…it’s phenomenal, a strangely riveting story of a group of peasants putting on a Miracle Play… this novel reads like the great metaphysical works of nineteenth-century Russian writing.’

Kasia Bartoszynska in Three Percent Review

‘Oliver Ready hears and renders into English many stylistic registers, reminding us that Sharov began creative life as a poet. If it is true – and I believe it is – that translation requires the most intimate dialogue possible with another’s consciousness, then Sharov’s rebirth into English in such staggeringly fine prose is the perfect tribute to commemorate the departure of his mortal body.’

Caryl Emerson in The Los Angeles Review of Books

THE AUTHOR

A historian of late-medieval Russia by training, Vladimir Sharov (born 1952) began his literary career as a poet before turning to fiction in the early 1980s. When his unusually imaginative and daring novels reached the wider public in the 1990s, they caused acrimony and controversy, yet by the end of his life he was widely recognised as one of Russia’s most distinguished recent writers. In the words of the new History of Russian Literature (OUP), ‘Sharov invented a new form of writing about the past’, and ‘his constant theme is the indivisibility of Russia’s spiritual quest’.

In his later years Sharov received several major awards, including the Russian Booker Prize and the Big Book Prize in 2014. Be as Children was named Book of the Year on publication in 2008. Sharov completed his ninth and final novel, The Kingdom of Agamemnon, shortly before his death in Moscow in 2018.

Disputing the characterisation of his fiction as ‘alternative history’, Sharov told Moskovskie novosti in 2002: ‘God judges us not only for our actions, but also for our intentions. I write the entirely real history of thoughts, intentions and beliefs. This is the country that existed. This is our own madness, our own absurd.’

THE TRANSLATOR

Oliver Ready is a Research Fellow of St Antony’s College at the University of Oxford, where he has taught Russian for a number of years. His translations include five books for Dedalus: The Zero Train and The Prussian Bride by Yuri Buida, and Before & During, The Rehearsals and Be as Children by Vladimir Sharov, as well as Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, and stories by Nikolai Gogol under the title And the Earth Will Sit on the Moon.

Ready was awarded the inaugural Rossica Translation Prize in 2005 for The Prussian Bride. In 2015, he and Dedalus won the Read Russia Prize for Before & During, while in 2018 they received the international version of the same award for The Rehearsals (for the best translation of contemporary Russian literature into any language).

He is the author of Persisting in Folly: Russian Writers in Search of Wisdom, 1963-2013.

FOREWORD

by Oliver Ready

Of the three novels by Vladimir Sharov now available in English, Be as Children is the first to be published post-humously. Sharov died from cancer in Moscow in August 2018, at the age of sixty-six. It is some consolation to know that in Washington D.C. in February of that year – his last public appearance – we were able to celebrate together the belated arrival in English of The Rehearsals (1986-88), a book towards which, as with Be as Children (2001-2007), Sharov expressed especially tender feelings. Then, just a month before his death, he witnessed the publication in Russia of his ninth and longest novel, The Kingdom of Agamemnon, written in and out of hospital and completed, as he put it, ‘under almost extreme conditions’.

The response from the literary community to Sharov’s passing was unusual both for its warmth and for the urgent sense that his death was also a beginning, that much, almost everything remained to be done: not by the author, who had been single-mindedly composing one substantial novel every three to six years for several decades, each as if it were his last, but by his readers. Eugene Vodolazkin, who in his own acclaimed novels has, like Sharov, brought the eye of a medievalist to bear on the modern period, described the late author as ‘the most undervalued writer of his time’, adding that ‘in a certain sense the epoch of Sharov will begin only after his death’.1 As if in response to such calls, Mark Lipovetsky and Anastasia de la Fortelle put together, at unacademic speed, a 700-page collection of essays and memoirs by authors, scholars, critics, translators, artists and friends. This remarkable volume, entitled On the Far Side of History (Po tu storonu istorii, NLO, 2020), opens with the sentence: ‘Vladimir Sharov (1952-2018) was a writer whose every book changed the notion of what Russian history is and of what kind of literature can assimilate it.’

There is little reason to doubt that Sharov’s work will live on among Russian readers, to be discovered by generations that have no personal memory of the traumatic history that Sharov experienced within his own family and described and refracted in his every book. This history, many feel, continues to play out in Russia today according to the scenarios his novels ‘rehearse’, issuing from the same unhealed schisms and wounds. Precisely because of this immersion in the Russian past, however, it is less clear when his novels will find the global audience they deserve. How ‘translatable’ is Sharov?

One contribution to On the Far Side of History, from a major living author to his departed friend, touches on this very issue. In his forty-five-page letter to the far side, entitled ‘The Runner and the Ship’, Mikhail Shishkin writes:

‘With your novels you managed to create your Russian reader – your translator must manage to create your reader, too. Become both a runner and a ship. The monstrous Russian twentieth century is, of course, untranslatable. What can be translated is family, and love, and death, and faith.’

These concise comments express both the problem and the remedy. The challenge is real, for translators and readers alike, and in some ways it is a deeper one than Shishkin suggests, since at the root of Sharov’s understanding of the Russian twentieth century lies his expertise, as a trained historian, in the country’s late-medieval period, the Time of Troubles in particular, the violent interlude between the Rurik and Romanov dynasties. Because of this historical density, coupled with a unique, spiralling method of composition, entering a Sharov novel is not unlike entering Dante’s Hell, with its factionalism, its saturation in complex local resentments and relationships, its foregrounding of convoluted local events against the backdrop of Empire and Church, of individual lives against collective history. The analogy holds in a topographical sense as well. Dante’s Florence is cramped; the damned just can’t get away from each other. Paradoxically, the boundless space of Sharov’s Russian and then Soviet empire is equally cramped, with ‘coincidental meetings’ engineered over thousands of kilometres by the dark workings of power. Sharov did not want footnotes to his novels, with good reason, but I have come to believe that, as with the Divine Comedy (which was much in Sharov’s mind in his later years), they are necessary, especially since Sharov supplies no Virgil-figure to guide us. I hope that they will save the non-Russian and non-Russianist reader pointless confusion and distracting internet searches, the better to plunge them into the more profitable disorientation that Sharov actively sought as an artist and which his Russian readers feel no less than those now coming to him in other languages.

As Shishkin also intimates, in Sharov’s art the local, the national, enfolds the universal. Peeling back the layers of Russian history in his novels, we reach a bedrock of myth that is genuinely global. Sharov himself described Russian history as a commentary on Scripture – one he explores from a non-confessional perspective. So it is that at the centre of the ‘Russian’ doll of his novels we find Biblical myths of the chosen people, Job and Jonah, New Testament parables and even apocrypha, all of which have been more central to modern Russian literature (from Dostoevsky to Bulgakov to Venedikt Yerofeyev) than they have to its anglophone counterparts of the same period. This is one way in which Sharov’s fiction opens out, from its very kernel, to parallels with other histories both collective and individual; thus, the ghost of the Children’s Crusade of 1212, said to have been led by the twelve-year-old shepherd boy Stephen of Cloyes, haunts the various strands of Be as Children. Another route is supplied by the direct transnational encounters that structure Sharov’s novels: the three lives of Madame de Staël among the Russian revolutionaries in Before and During, a Breton director teaching Russian peasants how to act out the Gospels in The Rehearsals, the friendships between Russians and the indigenous peoples of northern Siberia in Be as Children.

Finally, in Sharov the local enfolds the universal on a human as well as historical level: not only ‘family and love and death and faith’ but creativity, language (verbal and nonverbal) and sexuality, illness, aging and disability, earth and water, smell, touch and food. I was delighted to learn from Olga Dunaevskaya, Sharov’s widow, that her husband, who was no glutton, hated restaurants because you could consume only as much as you were given. Like their author, Sharov’s novels, and the characters within them, are free of limits and borders.

***

Bud’te kak deti – Be as Children – was published in Moscow by Vagrius in 2008. In 2017, it was reissued by AST with many small authorial amendments – chiefly aimed at eliminating any descriptive redundancy or literariness. My translation is based on that edition.

Complex as Sharov’s novels are in construction, their language is direct and unpretentious, and in their initial form virtually unpunctuated (anybody who ever heard Sharov read – a mesmerising, quasi-liturgical flow of language – will understand how this could be so). For the commas and full stops, as for so much else, I and Sharov’s readers have Olga Dunaevskaya, his wife of forty-four years, to thank. Sharov did not use email, so during work on my previous translations I would send questions to Olga to pass on to the author, if I could not see him in person. Now the answers come directly from Olga; the voice may be different, but the comments are just as clear and enlightening as if they came from her husband.

I have also been helped, in every paragraph and in every way, by Caryl Emerson, who read the translation tranche by tranche. It is a particular joy that our collaborative endeavour led to her afterword, the first serious appreciation of this novel I know. I would also like to express my gratitude to the Mikhail Prokhorov Foundation, the Institute of Translation in Moscow and St Antony’s College, Oxford, for supporting my work, and to Eric Lane at Dedalus for his steadfast commitment to the task of bringing Sharov into English. Thank you finally to Ania, mother of three young children of our own, for making it possible for me to complete this translation during the long months of lockdown.

1See https://iz.ru/779185/evgenii-vodolazkin/pamiati-sharova; and https://gorky.media/context/horoshij-chelovek (both in Russian). For my own tribute, see: https://www.themoscowtimes.com/2018/08/21/remembering-writer-vladimir-sharov-a62594.

CONTENTS

Praise for Before & During

Praise for The Rehearsals

The Author

The Translator

Foreword

Dedication

Story

Lesson One

Lesson Two

Lesson Three

Lesson Four

Lesson Five

Lesson Six

Lesson Seven

Lesson Eight

Lesson Nine

Lesson Ten

Lesson Eleven

Lesson Twelve

Afterword

Copyright

VLADIMIR SHAROV

BEAS CHILDREN

In memory of my father

In September 1914, when our offensive in Eastern Prussia hit the buffers, the GHQ of the Supreme Commander immediately sent in the reserves. Three counterattacks were launched. The main blow was struck in Petrograd, Moscow and regional cities, where mobs smashed the shop windows of hundreds of ‘Fritzes’, ‘Hanses’ and ‘Ludwigs’, and celebrated their triumph – proprietors hung signs out everywhere saying Sorry No German Spoken Here in big Cyrillic letters. Two auxiliary strikes were undertaken by the Imperial Mariinsky Theatre: in 1915, Wagner’s operas, those paeans to the national spirit, suddenly vanished from the stage, while in a gesture of solidarity with German-occupied Warsaw the management of the same theatre introduced alterations to the end of Glinka’s Ivan Susanin: to avoid any awkward questions, nobody was now remotely responsible for the plight of the wretched Poles – they just died from cold.1

Wagner was replaced by the works of Rimsky-Korsakov: first Sadko, then, a little later, The Tale of the Invisible City of Kitezh. The former was given a rapturous reception. The theatre was packed and Davydov, in the title role, earned a standing ovation lasting more than half an hour. Still more important was the fact that the merchants and industrialists favoured by our supreme authorities managed to double their production of howitzers by the end of 1915, while the quantity of shells supplied to the army quadrupled. As a result, by the spring of 1916 the front line had stabilized and the conflict took on a protracted, positional character.

The Mariinsky’s Kitezh is harder to evaluate. Perhaps it was just a poor production, or perhaps the mournful pealing of the bells of the churches that had sunk to the bottom of Lake Svetloyar were simply incapable of rousing the infantry against the enemy. Whatever the reason, on hearing that only the righteous are granted sight of the Holy City and that directly before the coming of Our Saviour the waters will part and it will float up from the depths in all its former splendour, the soldiers repented of their sins, and according to reports sent by front-line commanders in spring-summer 1917, entire armies began deserting their positions to go off in search of Kitezh.

Following the evacuation of Crimea some five years later, thousands upon thousands of refugees – mostly military men: officers and Cossacks – began arriving in Paris via Gallipoli. They already knew that hundreds of their comrades had been drowned alive by the Reds in the Caucasus, near Tuapse, and in Crimea, a little north of Sudak. It was in memory of these comrades, it seems, that Diaghilev put on a new production of The City of Kitezh as part of the Saisons russes under way at that time in Paris, with scenery by the late Mikalojus Ciurlionis, who became famous overnight. The backdrop consisted of his usual greenish canvases with seaweeds and rushes, and above them, from end to end, alternating strips and ripples of a somewhat lighter shade. In the distance, through that same murky-green shroud, one could see fortified walls surmounted by the golden domes and towers of the beautiful city.

The illusion that all the action takes place under water is total. Against this backdrop, stage right, is a long, long column of officers. The feet of each man are tethered with rope to large stones or lumps of iron. This deadly weight lies still and level on the lake floor but the officers themselves, supported by the water, stand bolt upright, just as they are supposed to. The figures are alive. Their bodies sway gently in the current, which tousles their hair like wind. It is almost as if, after seven years of war, they are still marching in file, marching towards the walls of the city that slumbers in the deep.

***

On 25th January 1970 we lost Sashenka. The death of this four-year-old girl and everything linked to it shocked all who knew her family. Her parents, Vanya Zvyagintsev and Irina Chusovaya, had been my friends since childhood. They married when they were still students and Irina was barely eighteen; Vanya was two years older, but they had always known, it seems to me, that they would live together when they grew up. The marriage turned out well. The husband and wife, as it says in the Bible, shall become one flesh. And that’s how it was with Vanya and Irina. Seen from the outside, theirs was a relationship without any great ecstasies or even passion, they just needed each other day in, day out, and they were always in each other’s thoughts.

They lived modestly enough, making do at first with student grants and the occasional bit of help from their parents, and later with university stipends as junior researchers, but Vanya would still bring home flowers every evening. The kind of love, in other words, that you only find in a romance novel. And, as in those books, there was only one sadness: for almost five years Irina was unable to have a child. She conceived easily but always ended up miscarrying, even though she would take herself off to the maternity hospital at the first sign of pregnancy. At the age of twenty-three, following a pilgrimage to the Kiev Monastery of the Caves, she finally gave birth and the child, a girl, was a true miracle.

At three months, when babies are still scared of strangers, Sashenka was already smiling at everyone and holding out her hands to them. There really was something radiant about her, and all who found themselves near her immediately began to smile and fill with joy, as if no other response were even possible. At the funeral nobody could remember ever seeing her cross; she might occasionally have felt sad, of course, but she was never angry with anyone. A month before she died, Sasha caught measles, and complications followed. Her temperature hovered around 40 for four days running, and the two doctors – both close friends of ours – said that the child was so weak there was no guarantee she would recover. The fourth night was especially bad: she didn’t respond to any medicines or injections and she was unconscious for hours. Her pulse was just a thread, her breathing almost inaudible. On two occasions they even brought a little mirror to her lips: they thought she had died.

The previous evening, when the situation did not yet seem hopeless, Dusya, a holy fool famous throughout Moscow,2 mentioned to the doctors in passing: ‘Stop all this pointless fussing, I’ve already begged her death.’ Then, to Irina: ‘Now she’s a pure angel, if she dies she’ll see Heaven, but let her grow and there’ll be so much sin that no prayers will help.’ Dusya’s words, however, were ignored amid the general hysteria. When the doctors said there was nothing more they could do, Irina took her daughter into her arms, pressed her close, started stroking her, kissing her, and Sashenka began to breathe once more. Towards morning her temperature suddenly dropped and it became clear that the crisis had passed. Now, God willing, she would start to pick up.

After that night, with her mother never letting go of her for even a minute, Sashenka was visibly on the mend. But two days later her temperature suddenly shot up again. Nobody had been expecting a relapse, and by the time anyone reacted it was too late. The sickness spread instantly to her brain and the little girl was dead within twenty-four hours. It was all so terrifying, so unjust that even now, a quarter of a century later, the pain has barely lessened.

Then came the funeral. They buried her at Vostryakovo Cemetery, where the Zvyagintsevs had their own plot. Sashenka’s father, Vanya, was still holding himself together, but her mother was black and puffy with tears. She couldn’t walk on her own: two friends took an arm each and more or less carried her. When it was time to lower the coffin into the grave, Irina asked, against the usual custom, for the lid to be removed one last time. She was obeyed. Nearly a hundred people had come to say goodbye. The girl lying before them on a satin pillow was, beyond all doubt, an angel, but an angel that, contrary to nature, was dead. It seems to me that all those present were simply afraid of placing Sashenka in the earth, and not knowing how to put a stop to everything, began talking about her as if she were alive.

The workmen with their ropes and spades were keeping a distance, but they soon got fed up waiting and moved in closer, to hurry things up a bit. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, but there, walking in front of them, was Dusya. A woman of saintly life, Dusya loved to pray, and I thought she would find the words to reconcile us, at least in part, to Sashenka’s death. The Zvyagintsevs needed this desperately, as did everyone else. Instead we were told that there was nothing to cry about: she, Dusya, had sung for the little girl’s repose four days earlier, which was when Sashenka should have given up her soul to God.3 But at first her mother had managed to pray it back, beg it back from the Lord. She shouldn’t have done so. If the good Lord had let her live, the girl would have become the Devil’s own spawn, would have been the ruin of many, lured them into sin and temptation. Which was why she, Dusya, had intervened. For as long as Sashenka had not yet committed her first reprehensible deed, salvation and eternal life awaited her; beyond that point she could expect only the flames of Hell. Then Dusya mentioned to Irina, as if throwing her a bone, that the mothers of innocent children abide with them in the same place after their own deaths.

What was said at the cemetery shocked everybody, but I was no less astonished by the fact that Vanya and Irina, the parents of the little girl whom Dusya had essentially killed, did not break off contact with this holy fool; instead they drew even closer to her. Dusya was at their home day and night for almost a year. The Zvyagintsevs had treated her reverentially even before this but now they fawned on her, almost grovelled, as if they thought that just because Dusya had once succeeded in begging Sashenka’s death from the Lord, she would also be able to beg her resurrection. People said that they even prayed together, and following the holy fool’s cue, thanked the Lord for taking back their only daughter, for not allowing her to grow up and become a tool in the hands of the Devil. I don’t know whether that was true or not, but the day came when I realised that I could no longer bear to watch them kissing her hands and to hear their endless keening: Dusyenka, sweet Dusyenka. My parents also carried on seeing her, and whenever I knew she was due to visit I would make sure I was out. Then I got a room of my own near the Arbat and some seven years must have passed before I so much as saw her. We only started having anything to do with each other again after the death of her son Seryozha, whom I had loved deeply since childhood and to whom I owed a great deal.

After her daughter’s death, Irina took to drinking. Every now and again she appeared to come to her senses, said she had to have another child, as simple as that, or else she would never get over it, but then she went off the rails again. I’m not sure though, whether she could have had any more children – her last experience of labour had been very tough – or whether she even wanted any. I once heard a friend of hers tell her own mother that ever since Sashenka’s funeral Irina hadn’t let her husband near her.

The strange triangle of Dusya and the Zvyagintsevs lasted just over a year. Then Vanya went off to Zarechny, on the other side of the Urals, where we were still building one of our first nuclear power plants (he was a good experimental physicist). By that point Irina was already out of control. Nobody, it seems, was especially surprised. After Vanya left, Dusya also stopped visiting.

The terrifying thing about Irina’s debauchery was that it brought her no pleasure; she didn’t even manage to lose herself in it. She was chaste by nature, and once she became Vanya’s wife she was no longer capable of taking an interest in anyone else. Irina was pretty, but her indifference to other men was so strong that before Sashenka died nobody had even tried to flirt with her. Her whoring, it seems to me, had a purpose. She reckoned that this was how she would prove to the Lord, at the cost of her own salvation, that He had been wrong to take Sashenka from her. That the world had not become better without her daughter, in fact there was more evil now than before.

And so, in the space of three years and for no obvious reason, she destroyed some fifteen families. Shuffling her lovers, she would live a week with one, six months with another, but sooner or later she dumped them all. Later, when her drinking was totally out of hand, she liked to say that the first thing she did in the morning, instead of brushing her teeth, was to check whom she had spent the night with. And yet, however much Irina tried to play the field and act the slut, she didn’t learn anything from anybody. After ten years of whoring, she was still the same woman at heart: a Christian wife for whom sex could only be justified if there was a child at the end of it.

I don’t know what it was about her that made us desire her so much. Some, I expect, hoped to awaken her senses, to be her first come what may, others were pulled in by her beauty, but we all failed equally. And we all suffered just as badly when she left us. I’m not the only one to have gone through life in the knowledge that the main woman in it was Irina, and this woman never loved you, she just used you in her quarrel with God. For Dusya’s son Seryozha, things turned out even worse.

***

According to Dusya, her confessor Bishop Amvrosy once remarked in the course of a conversation in 1926, shortly before his next arrest, that we had all become tangled up in two neighbouring verses from St Matthew’s Gospel: ‘Verily I say unto you, except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the Kingdom of Heaven’ (18:3) and, ‘But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea’ (18:6).

I first decided that I had to write about all this nearly thirty years ago, in Salekhard.4 Sashenka was still alive and the world was no better or worse than it had always been, at any rate there was nobody in it whom I could never forgive under any circumstances. There was plenty of evil around, of course, but there was good as well, and with a bit of effort you could make ends meet. Besides, after five expeditions to the North I’d gained both knowledge and skills. Looking back, I can see that this was a kind of watershed in my life. The path I had taken to that point was still easily discernible, and where I was headed seemed clear enough, too. Later on, no doubt, the road would start to dip, but I wasn’t too bothered.

Say what you like, but the end of June in the Arctic is really something. Blazing sunshine round the clock, night a distant memory. I’d always loved fieldwork, ever since my student days, but now it was goodbye to all that. The self-propelled barge that had left Tyumen with the stuff needed for some twenty research trips, including our own, had hit a rock and promptly sunk. The handouts we were relying on were just enough for bread and processed cheese – we could forget about booze. We weren’t being thrown out of the hotel quite yet, thank God, but nobody knew how long this charity would last.

I couldn’t complain about my room, though. My one neighbour, an oilman, only came back to sleep, so I was on my own, as free as a bird, with plenty of time on my hands. No curtains can keep out the sun in the Arctic – five hours’ sleep is the most you can hope for, then you’ve got the whole day to yourself. With nothing to do and no money, it took less than a week for us all to fall out with each other, and now we were doing our best to keep out of one another’s way. After two days spent wondering what to do with myself, an old idea came back to me: to retell, along with circumstances that concern me personally, a cycle of modern Enets legends which I had collected not there, but in Eastern Siberia, on the Lena. And no, I don’t mean their fellow Samoyeds, the Nenets: the Enets are a small northern people numbering some two hundred souls.5 Once there were several thousand of them, but thanks to smallpox, TB, syphilis, other gifts from Europe, and above all vodka, they’ve been dying out one camp at a time.

What’s more, just before the war, the entire North was reduced to beggary. Some bright spark in Moscow decided that the Samoyed peoples were no better than anyone else, and that it was high time to dispossess – dekulakise – the Enets. As a result, all that remains of the enormous reindeer herds that accompanied the Enets for centuries as they roamed across the tundra are eight or nine head per chum6 Most don’t even have that. Some fifty or even sixty of their tribesmen have settled permanently on the outskirts of Tiksi, right behind the warehouses at the port. They huddle together in shacks knocked together from crates. Some beg, the rest find bits of work guarding this or that. They’re never taken on for anything else.

Even those with regular pay can’t afford to feed their children so their women, still barely on their feet after giving birth, go and hand them over to the state crèche. Rampant alcoholism and general filth mean that nearly one in three infants has serious health problems. In the institutions the young Enets are of course cared for, fed, treated, taught, but they leave them with no memory of their own language or customs.

The cycle I’ve mentioned began to take shape no earlier than the second half of the nineteenth century and never seems to have attracted anyone’s attention. The older, the better, we were always taught, and that lesson has certainly stuck. The only reason I collected these legends then, was personal interest, with no particular purpose or plan. Their chief protagonist is Yevlampy Khristoforovich Peregudov, a latter-day St Paul, Apostle to the Enets. He caught my interest for the following reason. When I was ten, my father – if he happened to be at home when my sister and I were sent off to bed – read us American legends and folk tales all winter long. He read from a thick old book published, if I’m not mistaken, in the early ’20s. On the one hand, these were bedtime stories like any others, so you didn’t have to worry about things ending badly, only the people in them didn’t get around on broomsticks or stoves but by steam train, and they didn’t send carrier pigeons to each other, but telegrams. The bandits – typical baddies, only with Smith and Wessons – would rob some bank with a far from magical name, and the next moment the sheriffs would show up and after a quick shoot-out the good guys would triumph and the criminals would end up in the graveyard or behind bars.

For me, this coexistence of objects from one century with the worldview of a completely different era was something new and exhilarating. What was more, it said in the notes – those were read to us too – that these were stories about real people; we knew when they were born, where they lived, how they died. My father enjoyed the legends of the New World just as much as I did; it was only my sister who sometimes asked shyly for The Hunchback of Notre-Dame instead. Evidently, all this American folklore made a strong impression on me, because when I encountered something similar in the Russian North, I was immediately hooked.

There was one other catalyst. I recorded my first Enets legend in my fourth year at university, when I joined a group of ethnographers on a field trip to Yakutia. That experience didn’t just determine my future interests – the North from the Urals to Chukotka and on to the Sea of Okhotsk, with all its ‘small peoples’ – it also made me more accepting of a medical problem that I’d been unable to come to terms with until then. My condition was serious and I was expecting the worst; a whole year in hospital had brought only minor improvements, if any. But now I discovered that there was no need to hurry, that perhaps my illness wasn’t actually a curse, a sentence, and that everything that had come before it, and the illness itself, hadn’t happened for nothing: in fact, I’d been given a master key without which you couldn’t make sense of anything.

In matters like this, of course, things always move slowly. A great deal of time had to pass and a great number of things had to be worked out in my mind before I could take up this task in my hotel bed in Salekhard. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, it’s perfectly clear to me that the failed expedition of ’68 – that month and ten days before we were finally sent back to Moscow after endless negotiations – was far from the worst stretch of my adult life; it was then that I began to look to the future without my usual apprehension.

I’m aware that the story that follows contains too many strands. Matted and torn, they got tangled up into a ball, and it took me a long time to find the right thread to pull. From the very beginning, when I was still sketching out a plan, I knew that even the dates were a problem. So too was the jerkiness of my progress. For several years everything would go quiet, as if under wraps, then all hell would break loose; but as soon as I let off steam, the silence would return. And so, although the gist of the thing was easy enough for me to hold in my mind, work would quickly grind to a halt. Sometimes I had the impression that only a Chekist would have managed to tie this all up into a neat little story – the kind of man who prepared the Show Trials back in the ’30s. 7

Whether it was just to get myself going, or to prove to myself that nothing was off limits, I began with things that in the past I would have left well alone. But for various reasons everything I managed to write in the summer of ’68 in Salekhard, and then during autumn in Moscow, had to be set aside in December. Apart from one brief interval, almost seventeen years would pass before I returned to my notes. When I did so, I was taken aback by the tone of the first twenty pages. With the passing of time, a young man’s mixture of spunk and timidity loses most of its charm. But never mind: the bit that follows remains exactly as it was.

***

My own experience has taught me that being at the centre of events makes you the worst possible witness. I’ve seen other people have epileptic fits of course, but there would always be an aura, a warning sign, and even if it came with only a second or two to spare, the person would still manage to find somewhere to lie down, on a bed if there happened to be one, otherwise on the floor, so that, however severe the convulsion, you would still come out of it more or less in one piece. But nobody ever warns me, so I always get the full works.

My only source for what happens to me then is my family, but it’s not their favourite topic and they always spare me the details. What I do know is that I begin by screeching my head off. My vocal chords have already seized up from the spasms and I barely sound human – more like a factory siren being strangled, my mother once said. During a fit I’m as strong as a madman on the rampage. So there I am, screaming away, when suddenly I stop and try, as it were, to screw myself back into whatever I’m standing on. The screw is right-threaded, because it’s the left part of my brain that’s damaged and it’s there that everything starts. Who knows what I’m after: maybe I’m dreaming of a straitjacket, of something to squeeze me and grip me tight, with no slack at all, so that I can no longer breathe. But either the floor is made of stone, or the screwdriver itself is no good, in any case for a minute or so I jerk about like a dancer and pointlessly shuffle my feet until I finally pick up some speed and start spinning properly. Speed is an amazing thing – it sends fear packing. Just like a plane, I need it to take off and fly, even if I only travel one metre. Then it’s back to the usual misery – you’re hurled in the same direction that you were spinning in, and before you fall, and when you actually fall, the shaking and thrashing take over mercilessly.

My fits last for about fifteen or twenty minutes (they are categorised as grand-mal, or generalised, seizures), after which I’m flat on my back for another few hours, shattered, covered in blood and with a tongue like chewed paper. I wake up, fall back asleep, regain consciousness, lose it again – but there’s no pain. Usually I don’t come round fully till the next morning, then I start counting my losses. Patiently inspect my wounds and tell myself, in the same spirit, that I’ll need another six weeks at least to sort myself out. The most painful thing, if nothing’s broken, is my tongue – I can’t eat properly, can’t talk properly.

Even the government takes my condition seriously. Epilepsy gets you second-category disability benefits, sometimes even the top category, with a pension to boot. And it’s true, you wouldn’t want to trust me with anything. Certainly not a machine tool or a steering wheel. I can’t even take a shower on my own – I’d be hurled from the bath and that would be that. As for life’s pleasures – vodka, say – forget it: my relatives won’t pour me a single shot, however much I beg them. All that remains is to live a quiet, sensible life and hope for the best. And to keep that hope alive, there’s a handful of different pills, three times a day.

I should add that I didn’t inherit my epilepsy, I earned it myself. When I was nineteen and as drunk as I usually was at that time, I tried to slide down the banisters at the cultural centre in the Zuyev Workers’ Club. The banisters were wide enough but I slipped and took a dive, head first, from a height of six metres. The doctors at the hospital managed to return me to some semblance of my original appearance, but a month later it became apparent that something crucial had been damaged in my frontal lobe.

Convinced I was stuck with this for the rest of my life, I went downhill pretty quickly. Dropped out of university, stopped seeing friends, stayed in for weeks on end. My parents tried to help, of course, and I saw one doctor after another. But it was pointless. They all asked me identical questions as they tapped me with identical nickel-plated hammers, then took their leave without offering a word of hope. Probably only time and meekness could teach me to live with it. I had plenty of the first – no one was rushing me – and, to begin with, no shortage of the second. I lay on the couch all day long, sometimes with a book, more often just staring out of the window. I had no particular regrets, and remorse had also lost its appeal.

In short, all was calm, but then, out of nowhere, rage would come over me like a fit, any time of the day. I must have been terrifying in that state, because one day it suddenly got through to me that both my parents were far more scared of my fury than they were of my epilepsy. At that moment I was able to see myself as they saw me and I felt bad: they were suffering through no fault of their own. Which was why I asked to be put into psychiatric care. We had the famous Kashchenko hospital in our district, and that’s where I was placed.8 I spent nearly a year there – eleven months and six days, to be precise. That’s a fair stint, and I came out a completely different man. The changes had begun back at university, but it was in the Kashchenko that the shell in which I had been growing finally shattered.

My epilepsy and raging fits earned me a bed alongside the moderately severe cases in Ward No. 2. In any mental hospital, pretty nurses are common enough. The money’s always reasonable, thanks to bonus payments for this or that, it’s always easy to arrange twenty-four-hour shifts if you need half a week off, and there are perks if you sign up for medical school. It was one of the nurses on the ward, Nastya, who took me under her wing after my first month of treatment. I owe her a lot. Thanks to Nastya I had a nice enough time in the hospital, better, in any case, than at home on Leontyevsky Lane. I became more stable, more cheerful, and my doses of phenobarbital and tranquillizers began to come down. Half a year later there was even talk of discharging me. But I didn’t want to leave. By that time Ward No. 2 had already become my home, my burrow, and I wasn’t about to go back out into the world without a very good reason. The doctors tend to be quite understanding in such cases, they don’t usually just throw you out. Later, after I got tired of Nastya, I brought up the topic of my release myself, and I was moved to the convalescent ward – No. 5 – just as soon as a bed became free.

That ward, known as Kanatchikov’s Dacha, is something of a halfway house between a prison and a home. It was built by the merchant of that name, or else Pyotr Kashchenko would never have agreed to treat Kanatchikov’s crazy daughter. To this day the place has never been plundered: the same Empire mirrors reaching up to the ceiling in their mahogany frames, the same Louis XV-style drawing room with its authentic, superbly restored furniture. The hospital is an enormous city, and there are plenty of people around who are good with their hands. There’s also a modestly sized billiard room: a German-made table with a marble base, a moderately worn cloth, and genuine ivory balls. It was all kept in order by a long-term patient, an old billiards marker who had once plied his trade in Gorky Park. He also tapered and glued excellent cues from various types of wood. Of course, in the hands of people who, legally speaking, are not responsible for their actions, cues can become weapons pretty quickly. They should have no place in a madhouse, but the head doctor in Ward No. 5, Valentin Nikolayevich Grigoryev, who was an ardent billiards player and a student of the renowned Semanov, turned a blind eye.

But there’s no paradise anywhere. At Kanatchikov’s Dacha it wasn’t the massive, almost fifty-bed ward that bothered me, even though half the patients snored as if they were at death’s door and actually passed through that same door at the rate of one a week. People give up their souls to God in every hospital and it’s not so hard to get used to, especially when you have sleeping pills on tap, no questions asked. But along with all the Empire furniture, the mahogany and the billiards, the Dacha also boasts a completely insane bathroom. It, too, is quite splendid, with a stuccoed ceiling, four lancet windows – this is Moscow Art Nouveau – and lined up along the wall, fifteen standard-issue Soviet toilet bowls which, as is always the way in a madhouse, have no partitions either in front or on the sides: God forbid that anyone should hang themselves.

You can find toilets like that on any ward, of course, but here they look especially absurd. The man who sculpted them must have had excellent taste – their flowing lines are beyond reproach. But that’s lost on the poor devil with chronic constipation from all the pills he’s taking who clambers up on the bowl and after shifting from foot to foot, perches there like an eagle for almost an hour, vainly trying to empty his bowels. Not to mention the permanently leaking cisterns and the pure, transparent stream which flows beneath you and never runs dry, as if to mock you. Even now I remember the horror that seized me every time I entered that room: there are, after all, certain things we’ve been trained to do in private. In fairness though, Kanatchikov’s Dacha was not the worst place to end up.

Nastya loved me. Mental hospitals are quiet places at night – apart from the patients, there’s no one about. While I was in Ward No. 2, the doctors’ mess, the senior consultant’s office and the head nurse’s room were all at our disposal. Nastya usually chose the sofa in the consultant’s office, but she wasn’t above using the head nurse’s couch when circumstances required. She was the most generous of lovers, and if we slept together less than three times in a shift she would first blame me, then the pills, then her whole sorry life.

When she heard that a bed had become available in Kanatchikov’s Dacha, she told me that she wanted a child, that she would take me out of the hospital and marry me. The little town of Naro-Fominsk wasn’t Moscow of course, but she had her own room there, which if nothing else, was better than a loony bin. But I changed the topic. Nastya was caring and devoted, and I’ve had more than one occasion to regret turning her down. I remember her and the hospital gratefully to this day. It was the first time since I went flying off those banisters at the Zuyev Workers’ Club that I’d felt protected, the first time I knew that if things went badly for me in the world outside there was one place, one life, albeit a very different life, where I would be made welcome.

In hospital I had the strong suspicion that Nastya was messing about with my drugs – lowering the dose of some, increasing others – but I wasn’t really complaining. I’d managed to go ten months in Ward No. 2 without a fit, so whatever she was doing seemed to be working. Perhaps it was Nastya herself I had to thank for my improvement rather than the drugs themselves, or maybe it was the fact that nobody has any reason to bother you in a mental hospital, but either way, once I got back home, the seizures returned within a week. I was put back on heavy medication, and the doses kept rising. I did everything the doctors told me until I realised, all over again, that ever since the Fall there has been no such thing in our world as pure good: the drugs might stave off the fits – if you’re lucky, of course – but they will also turn you into something resembling a plant.

I lived like that for almost a year, struggling even to walk, until I finally decided: to hell with it all. What will be, will be. And that was when my day-to-day life became a kind of Russian roulette. When you never know when you’ll be struck down or where. What you do know is that after any given fit you might wake up crippled for life with a broken spine or, having choked on your own tongue, not wake up at all. Somehow, many dozens of seizures later, my lucky streak continues – so I have good reason to thank God, after all.

I’m a gambler and an optimist by nature, but one thing my maths teacher taught me at school was that outrageous flukes can’t go on for ever – probability theory has not been disproved. In other words, if fate had left me with any other option, I would never have accepted these odds. The day after a fit I understand this particularly starkly and I feel grateful, say thank you, and sometimes even cry. Once I’ve calmed down again, I tell myself that I’m not the only person who won’t live for ever.

I used to think that if Dusya had wanted to, she could have healed me no worse than Nastya. After a seizure, when I’m pretty much out of it for hours at a time, I often dream of one and the same thing – that we’re living not on Leontyevsky Lane, but in the country, at my grandma’s log house, and we’re fattening a pig. It’s cramped in granny’s izba, so the pig and I have been put in the sty, in two neighbouring pens. There’s only a little wooden partition between us but we’re still not friends. What kind of friendship can there be when I’ve got the black illness, when I’m possessed and flailing about, while next to me a chubby pig munches away calmly in the trough. That scumbag’s sitting pretty – a whole month to go till Christmas, and it won’t cross anyone’s mind to slaughter her any sooner.