Marilyn Monroe’s Russian Resurrection. Dmitrii Taganov

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      They left the cottage in half an hour, three of them sitting at the back of Party’s BMW. Marilyn sat in the middle, looking fixedly forward at the running belt of gray asphalt. She wore the same dark shawl. They were silent all the way. Their car firstly went closer to Moscow, then some miles around it by the ring highway, and then again away from the city, though soon their elegant car turned off the highway to a narrow dirt road. Fomin cleared his throat, and softly, so the driver wouldn’t hear, said, “Marilyn, I beg you, do not upset your daddy, please. It will injure him, he might even die.”

      Marilyn did not reply. The car bumped over potholes, and entered the gate of the nursing institution for the aged.

      Three of them entered the lobby of the two-storied wooden house and stopped at the vacant office desk. Irritated, Fomin looked around. On the bench in the dark corner of the lobby sat some old men and women looking at newcomers with immense interest. The oldest of them had stood up, “Oh, I’ll find him, wait a minute”.

      The attendant was as ancient as the first man, but walked to his desk quite firmly. He opened a thick registration ledger, took a pen, and then sternly looked over his spectacles at Fomin, “Do you have a passport? Whom do you visit?”

      Fomin, well acquainted with the routine, just declared full names of the three, and the old man scribbled it down, satisfied. The second name, Marilyn’s, held him up, “Sorry, what’s the last?”

      “Monroe.”

      ‘O, yeah, Monroe, I remember the name. You come frequently to Sedov, a good girl.”

      They ascended creaky tilted stairs, passed the corridor with badly worn linoleum, and stopped by the door of thin plywood. Fomin cautiously put his ear to the door, then knocked softly and called, “Dr. Sedov, may we come in?”

      As Marilyn crossed the threshold, she cried, "Daddy!" then dashed to the bed, and fell sobbing on the chest of old man. The man lay under the blanket, and just his bald head with unkempt grey beard was seen on the pillow. Fomin and Myacheva stepped shyly closer and stopped at his feet.

      Fomin said, “Dr. Sedov, today we escorted your son Sergey on his final journey.”

      The old man looked at them with teary bleary eyes and answered with an effort, “What a grief, what a pain! Thank you for coming. Please, sit down.” He got his hand from under the blanket and awkwardly patted the Marilyn’s back. “Daughter, you shouldn’t grieve so much, you know our Sergey may not die, you very well know that.”

      “I want to be with him,” howled Marilyn with her head still on old man’s chest. “And I want to go home.”

      “Our home is here, daughter. Forever.”

      “Oh no, no!” Marilyn had risen rapidly shaking her head, and her blond curls sprang from under the shawl.

      “Here are some fruits and grapes we brought for you. Please, take a bite, comrade Sedov,” said Myacheva unwrapping two heavy packages.

      Sedov was ninety-two years old. After his second stroke he was paralyzed below the waist. His real name was not Sedov, though that was known only to Fomin. They silently sat by the bed of old man for another half hour, and Marilyn sobbing occasionally. Then she started to feed old man with the grapes, saying, “Please, eat, Daddy dear, eat. You’ve fed us like that at home – remember? Oh, I want to go home, Daddy, I can’t live here any longer,” and she sobbed again.

      Finally, Fomin looked at his watch, and with his eyes gave a sign to Myacheva. The woman suddenly roused herself, “Marilyn, my dear, your Daddy is tired, he needs some rest, and we should go. Come with me, I’ll help you to tidy up. Come, my dear.”

      Obediently Marilyn followed Myacheva out the door. The old man was still chewing a grape with his toothless mouth, and Fomin cleared his throat.

      “Alexander Ivanovich, he arrives in two days,” said Fomin and straightened his back.

      The old man ceased chewing and looked up. “So what do you want of me?” He looked really tired, breathing heavily.

      “Same thing, Dr. Sedov. Nothing new.”

      “He is a mature adult, and I’m a feeble dying man.”

      “He will listen to you and do whatever you ask, and you perfectly know that. He wouldn’t decline your demand.”

      “Demand? I’ve never demanded anything of him in fifty years. Not a thing!”

      “If it’s so, I’m afraid, you wasted these fifty years of his, and twenty five of yours. You lived in vain! You suffered in vain! Why don’t you think of millions, billions of working people around the world? Shame! Thus you will break the promise you had given to the late Secretary General of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. You will betray the hopes of all the Communists of the world! The history will never forgive it to you. That will bring shame on you for the years to come!”

      “OK, I’ll talk to him,” simply said the old man and tiredly closed the eyes. “It’s for him to decide. Please, leave me now.”

      “And one last thing, excuse me. Please, allow us to move you out of this impoverished refuge to our cottage? We feel ashamed you live in such a hole.”

      “Never! And don’t ever mention it to me.”

      Fomin left the room, then waited for his women in the corridor and said to them, “He is very tired, no need to disturb him with farewells, let's go.”

      Down in the lobby Fomin met the nurse that looked after the old man, and said to her, “We’ve just visited him, he looks worse. Here, take it for expenses, and feel free with this money.”

      When СКАЧАТЬ