Читать книгу The Red House - Derek Lambert, Derek Lambert - Страница 12

4

IN a students’ livingroom in Alma-Ata near the Kazakh State University a girl of eighteen with braided hair—now loosened—and wide eyes, just a little Mongolian, surrendered her virginity with enthusiasm.

She anticipated the textbook possibility of pain and absence of sensual feeling—‘the pleasure will come later, my dear’. But it was there the first time. Insistent pressure from his hard muscle, then oh! like a finger through parchment. And as he filled her the pleasure was instant, mounting, so that she clawed and bit and cried out, ‘I love you, Georgi. Oh, I love you.’

Not that Natasha Zhukova did love Georgi Makarov. But, she decided, I am certainly going to enjoy sex. With a few selected and privileged men who were clean and strong, handsome and intelligent; particularly intelligent. Like Georgi with his muscled belly, arrogant features—a little petulant sometimes—and his defiantly shaggy hair. A few such selected affairs before marriage and children and fidelity. I hope I’m not pregnant, she thought in alarm as his fluid escaped; but still, abortion was a mere formality.

‘I’m sorry, Natasha Zhukova,’ Georgi said, lying back and lighting a cigarette and not looking sorry at all.

‘Don’t be so bourgeois,’ she said irritably. Beneath the coarse blanket she explored the expended muscle, limp and sad. Such was the transience of masculinity: she would have liked to try it again.

Her thoughts wandered from the satisfied body beside her and wondered what sex would be like with the man she loved. If mere physical attraction could produce such earthy pleasure what delight lay ahead when love partnered consummation?

Another alarming thought: what if the man she loved and wished to marry despised her because she wasn’t a virgin? Wasn’t it Lenin himself who had said, ‘Does a normal man under normal circumstances, drink from a glass from which others have drunk?’ But, Natasha reassured herself, the alarm was academic: she would never love a man so narrow-minded. And it was certainly too late—by about five minutes—to worry.

The trouble with Soviet morals was that they were so confused. The Party denounced promiscuity but made abortion easier than a visit to the dentist, and divorce not much harder. And only fifty or so years ago, before the Glorious Revolution, a red cloth used to be flown over a bride’s house if she turned out to be a virgin, a white cloth if she didn’t. And when she was eight, only ten years ago, Natasha had read in Komsomolka about a girl, suspected of adultery with a married man, who had been solemnly advised to visit a clinic and get a certificate of virginity to display to her accusers.

Nowadays the Party was more concerned with general liberalism, with suppressing free expression. Natasha agreed with most Kremlin edicts. Its foreign policy (vaguely), its calls for collective effort to farm and weld, and research, its severity with drunks and those who were not sufficiently energetic in building socialism. Although she became quickly bored with the dreariness of their pronouncements.

What Natasha Zhukova could not countenance was the Kremlin’s treatment of intellectuals. Georgi Makarov was an intellectual. And a rebel, too. Every girl was attracted by a rebel. She slid her fingers through his thick brown hair, cut and combed with a suspicion of decadence.

‘You’re a strange girl, Natasha Zhukova,’ Georgi said. ‘The others have always cried.’

She knew he expected her to whine, ‘Others? Have there been others?’ Instead she said, ‘What’s there to cry about? It happens to most girls at some time or another.’ She also knew that he resented such practical reactions: they were the property of men.

‘Have you no romance in your soul?’

‘Of course—I am Russian. I have the soul of the taiga. And I am almost a Kazakh so I have the soul of the mountains. Or’—she turned on her side and grinned at him—‘a ripe Oporto apple waiting to be plucked.’

He shifted petulantly on the bed and lit another cigarette; his fingers were tobacco stained like those of all true revolutionaries. Except that his revolution was confined to a few secret essays, a signature on a petition seeking the release of Daniel and Sinyavsky, a few progressive jazz records. Outwardly it was all virile protest: inwardly bewilderment at the conflicting calls of patriotism and enlightenment.

Georgi said, ‘You sound like one of those American women with their demands for equality and free love. By love they mean sex. Conveyor belt sex. A woman should love from the heart.’

‘And not a man?’

The rebel shrugged.

‘It seems to me,’ Natasha suggested, ‘that the Americans and British are a long way behind us in many ways. We had the revolution of the sexes after the Great Revolution. “Down with bourgeois morality.” Wasn’t that the cry? Didn’t Alexandra Kollontaya preach that we women should free ourselves from the enslavement of love to one man? Don’t the older women still talk rapturously of those days when virginity was held up to mockery?’

‘Attitudes have changed again,’ Georgi told her. ‘Extremes always follow revolution. We have come to our senses again. Only the West pursues self-indulgence. Like the Romans—and the Romanovs—the people of the West are pursuing their own self-destruction.’ He sat up self-importantly.

Natasha stood up and walked to the window. Naked, enjoying his gaze. She looked across her father’s city, blurred with gentle snow that belied the dagger of winter. The City of Apples, karagachs, Lombardy poplars and birch trees, of wooden cathedrals with gold domes, of apartment blocks as standard as dogma, of ditches that sang with melting snow in the spring. And, of course, V. I. Lenin in the central square: a reminder, stern but gentle, of the dangers of too much frivolous appreciation.

And beyond Alma-Ata … the cuff of crumpled mountains, burnished wheat in the virgin lands, the gold of Ust-Kamenogorsk, the grapes of Chimkent, the sounds of stars above the launching pad at Baikonur. All helping to confuse allegiances, to the Republic of Kazakhstan (‘We occupy one-eighth of the Soviet Union and we are still regarded as peasants’), to Russia, to the Party, to young private doubt.

‘Georgi,’ she said, turning her back on him, proud of her smooth arching back, ‘why do we only read criticism about the West? Drugs, racism, exploitation.’ Pravda’s dictionary opened up in her mind. ‘There must be a lot of benefits from life in America and Britain.’ She knew she was being naïve.

‘Because impressionable young language students like you might get ideas.’

‘And you—don’t you get ideas? About music, about art, about self-expression? Isn’t that what your protest is all about? That writers here can’t write the truth as they can in the West?’

‘We do what we do for ourselves and for our country—even if our country doesn’t appreciate it. We don’t imitate what they do in the West.’

‘Why are copies of that magazine you read smuggled out to the West then?’

‘So that they don’t believe all they read about Russia.’ He wrapped a sheet around his waist, more shy after love than this formidable girl at the window, and stood beside her.

‘That’s what’s so sad,’ she said. She felt the warmth of his body behind her, smelled his sweat. ‘We don’t know the truth about America and I’m sure few Americans know the truth about us.’

About our gaiety most of all. Sad that the Americans never heard guitars strumming in the parks, smelled stews cooking in communal apartment blocks, ate cheese and sausage sandwiches or drank kvas at student parties, sang and cried (drunk even on mineral water), camped on river beaches, kissed on steamers. To Americans, Natasha suspected, Russia was a prison camp. And the smuggled literature of Georgi and his dangerous friends only encouraged that belief: it was ironic that all this free thought only made the picture of Russia blacker.

‘The West must know the truth,’ Georgi, who was studying political science, had explained.

‘But they already know everything bad about Russia.’

‘Only from their own propagandists.’

‘And what about our propagandists?’

‘Their work is so crude that no one in the West bothers to print it.’

‘So no one in America ever reads anything good about the country?’

‘I suppose not. And no one here ever reads anything good about America because their own propaganda is just as crude and no one bothers to reprint it here.’

‘It’s very bewildering,’ Natasha pronounced. ‘No one seems to make the effort to tell the truth. Either about themselves or the …’ she had hesitated then.

‘Or the enemy?’

‘I was searching for a more suitable word. But what chance have any of us if no one tries to explain?’

He had kissed her fondly, patronizingly. ‘I am glad you’re studying languages and not philosophy or logic or politics.’ Stick to your English and your sweet singing, his tone indicated.

But that was before they’d made love. Now the arrogance had receded, a dog’s bark lost in a blizzard. Paradoxically her loss had given her strength, and the spirit of Alexandra Kollontaya stirred within her. She giggled and led her confused lover back to the bed. The snow had stopped and the late sun cast dying light on the City of Apples. A snowplough prowled, a branch of silver birch, ice-sheathed and glittering with diamanté, scratched the window.

‘How much longer do we have?’ Natasha asked.

‘About half an hour. Yuri and Boris are very tactful.’

‘Since when?’ asked Natasha, thinking of Georgi’s two boisterous roommates.

‘They understand.’

‘You mean you made a pact with them to stay away while you deflowered a poor virgin?’

Georgi denied it so indignantly that Natasha knew he was lying. She was pleased with this new insight into the behaviour of men. She told him not to be so dramatic: someone had to deflower her.

‘Is that all it meant to you?’

Instinctively she knew that it was the woman who usually said that. ‘You were a wonderful lover,’ she said, taking up the script.

‘How would you know about that?’

‘Certainly I can’t make any comparisons. But you were wonderful.’ She combed his hair with her finger so that it fell in a thick fringe across his forehead. How many more scripts? She was not even sure what sort of man she would love. Big and strong and brainy was all very well, but she knew that such statutory requirements were discarded when love (not infatuation—she was prepared for that treacherous experience) finally surfaced.

She looked down at Georgi the rebel with affection. He is an attractive boy and at least we share bewilderment. And now, I think, a little honesty. She brushed a nipple across his face, felt his sharp ribs, hips, the awakening phallus—more arrogant now than its owner.

Then he made love to her again. Or was it the other way around? Anyway it was even better than the first time.

‘Georgi,’ she said, pulling on her grey skirt and black sweater, ‘don’t you think you should get your hair cut just a little?’

‘You sound like a wife already,’ he grumbled. He lingered on the bed, probably hoping to be caught in the middle of dressing—the conquering lover disturbed. How shallow, how presumptuous, how conceited. Perhaps she should say, ‘There he is, gentlemen, I have just seduced him. He’s all yours.’

She said, ‘I was only thinking of your own safety. The other night a Komsomol patrol grabbed a student off the street and forcibly cut his hair. They also read his notebooks.’

Georgi shrugged. ‘It’s a cheap way to get a haircut.’

‘But your notebooks, Georgi …’

‘I’m not stupid enough to write anything incriminating in them.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘Anyway they probably only did it for a little fun. It’s their job to stop hooliganism. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

Natasha agreed that there wasn’t and began to braid her long shiny hair. She searched herself for the irreparable sense of loss that was supposed to accompany the loss of the maidenhead. She felt only satisfaction and a little soreness.

Georgi continued to lecture. ‘Although there are still changes to be made we’re lucky to be young now in 1968. No Stalin, no Beria, no 2 a.m. knocks on the door. And also we’re just young enough not to have been too badly affected by Khrushchev’s denunciation of Stalin. In 1956,’ he added in case she wasn’t too good on contemporary history. ‘Can you imagine what it must have meant to those kids? Why, once upon a time they used to sing a hymn to Stalin.’ He sung a few bars. ‘Leader, scattering darkness like sun, Conscience of the world, Luminary of the ages, Glory to him.’

They heard footsteps outside and a tentative knock. Georgi leapt out of bed, pulling on undershirt and pants. ‘Answer the door, Natasha. That’ll be Boris and Yuri.’

She smiled at him with maternal indulgence and went to the door.

The two plainclothes policemen pushed past her. ‘Georgi Makarov,’ one of them said, ‘please finish dressing and come with us.’