Pushkin Hills / Заповедник. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Сергей Довлатов

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      “Be careful with it – we only have three copies.”

      I took the papers out and attempted to smooth them with my hands.

      “And one more thing,” Marianna lowered her voice. “You asked about love…”

      “It was you who asked about love.”

      “No, it was you who asked about love. As I understand, you are interested in whether I am married? Well, I am!”

      “You have robbed me of my last hope,” I said as I was leaving.

      In the hallway Galina introduced me to Natella, another guide. And another unexpected burst of interest:

      “You’ll be working here?”

      “I’ll try.”

      “Do you have cigarettes?”

      We stepped onto the porch.

      Natella had come from Moscow at the urge of romantic, or rather reckless ideas. A physicist by education, she worked as a schoolteacher. She decided to spend her three-month holiday here. And regretted coming. The Preserve was total pandemonium. The tour guides and methodologists were nuts. The tourists were ignorant pigs. And everyone was crazy about Pushkin. Crazy about their love for Pushkin. Crazy about their love for their love. The only decent person was Markov…

      “Who is Markov?”

      “A photographer. And a hopeless drunk. I’ll introduce you. He taught me to drink Agdam[34]. It’s out of this world[35]. He can teach you too…”

      “Much obliged. But I’m afraid that in that department I myself am an expert.”

      “Then let’s knock some back one day! Right here in the lap of nature.”

      “Agreed.”

      “I see you are a dangerous man.”

      “How do you mean?”

      “I sensed it right away. You are a terribly dangerous man.”

      “When I’m not sober?”

      “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      “To fall in love with someone like you is dangerous.”

      And Natella gave me an almost painful nudge with her knee.

      Christ, I thought, everyone here is insane. Even those who find everyone else insane.

      “Have some Agdam,” I said, “and calm down. I want to get some rest and do a little work. I pose you no danger…”

      “We’ll see about that.” And Natella broke into hysterical laughter.

      She coquettishly swung her canvas bag with an image of James Bond[36] on it and walked off.

      I set off for Sosnovo. The road stretched to the top of the hill, skirting a cheerless field. Dark boulders loomed along its edges in shapeless piles. A ravine, thick with brush, gaped on the left. Coming downhill, I saw several log houses girdled by birch trees. Monochrome cows milled about on the side, flat like theatre decorations. Grimy sheep with decadent expressions grazed lazily on the grass. Jackdaws circled above the roofs.

      I walked through the village hoping to come across someone. Unpainted grey houses looked squalid. Clay pots crowned the pickets of sagging fences. Baby chicks clamoured in the plastic-covered coops. Chickens pranced around in a nervous, strobing strut. Squat, shaggy dogs yipped gamely.

      I crossed the village and walked back, pausing near one of the houses. A door slammed and a man in a faded railroad tunic appeared on the front steps.

      I asked where I could find Sorokin.

      “They call me Tolik,” he said.

      I introduced myself and once again explained that I was looking for Sorokin.

      “Where does he live?”

      “In the village of Sosnovo.”

      “But this is Sosnovo.”

      “I know. How can I find him?”

      “D’ya[37] mean Timokha Sorokin?”

      “His name is Mikhail Ivanych.”

      “Timokha’s been dead a year. He froze, havin’ partaken…”

      “I’d really like to find Sorokin.”

      “Didn’t partake enough, I say, or he’da[38] still been here.”

      “What about Sorokin?”

      “You don’t mean Mishka, by chance?”

      “His name is Mikhail Ivanych.”

      “Well, that’d be Mishka all right. Dolikha’s sonin-law. D’ya know Dolikha, the one that’s a brick short of a load?”

      “I’m not from around here.”

      “Not from Opochka, by chance?”

      “From Leningrad.”

      “Ah, yeah, I heard of it…”

      “So how do I find Mikhail Ivanych?”

      “You mean Mishka?”

      “Precisely.”

      Tolik relieved himself[39] from the steps deliberately and without reservation. Then he cracked open the door and piped a command:

      “Ahoy! Bonehead Ivanych! You got a visitor!”

      He winked and added:

      “It’s the cops for the alimony.”

      A crimson muzzle, generously adorned with blue eyes, appeared momentarily.

      “Whatsa… Who?. You about the gun?”

      “I was told you have a room to let.”

      The expression on Mikhail Ivanych’s face betrayed deep confusion. I would later discover that this was his normal reaction to any question, however harmless.

      “A room?. Whatsa. Why?”

      “I work at the Preserve. I’d like to rent a room. Temporarily. Till autumn. Do you have a spare room?”

      “The house is Ma’s. In her name. And Ma’s in Pskov. Her feet swolled up.”

      “So you СКАЧАТЬ