Читать книгу Marilyn Monroe’s Russian Resurrection - Dmitrii Taganov - Страница 5

Because of the heavy rain that showered me on the motorbike, I came to the crematorium later, and at once had to go the men’s room to wash my spattered with dirt face. When I found the assigned ritual hall, all the mourners were there, with bunches of flowers waiting for the doors to be opened.

I saw many familiar faces there and solemnly nodded them. Those were twenty or so men and women I saw in the corridors of the party headquarters, all of them colleagues of the deceased. Although, there was nobody who looked like his relative, or fan, or lover. That seemed quite unnatural to me. After all, this Sergey was a poet, and not just another unhappy poet, but someone bearing striking likeness to the great, long dead Russian genius. One person there attracted my attention, because he wore a red turban on his head. Apparently, he was the Indian Consulate official, to testify the transition of his compatriot to another world. At last, the doors were slowly opened, and the solemn crowd was let inside the ritual hall.

Poet lay in casket dressed in a black suit, with a white strip of cloth and a small wooden cross on his forehead. The wreaths and bouquets of flowers were heaped around, and still more was being laid, covering up the polished wood of the coffin.

Just behind the head of deceased his portrait was placed on adjoining pedestal. It was black and white, and extraordinarily enlarged. When I looked at it closer I was just dumbfounded. “My God,” I thought in amazement. “What a bad-taste spectacle!” Because it wasn’t a portrait of the unfortunate poet Sergey from India, but it was the portrait of great Sergey Yesenin himself, his widely known photograph that was made a hundred years ago, with his blond hair parted in the middle. In a deep amazement and shocked to the core, I looked around at the mourners: “Why don’t they notice it, they look like educated people!” All of them now silently and mournfully stood around the coffin, looking at the pale face there, at the portrait, and apparently awaiting for some speeches.

I was also surprised yesterday, being introduced to the subject of my job in the party. Whatever I asked seemed to be the top secret no one had authority to disclose. All the day I was taken care of by the party official of high rank, comrade Myacheva. She was a tall and massive woman with a shock of a blond hair, in a bland dress and with a loud voice. Most noticeable about her were long and red shining nails, warning perhaps of some danger. I was put in some kind of a library, and Myacheva had brought me a pile of their election leaflets, flyers and a complimentary textbook on the history of the Communist Party in this country, and asked me to acquaint myself with it. I think that was a standard procedure for all new members of this party, because she wasn’t sure of my function here. With a feeling that I'm wasting my time in vain, I honestly flipped through all these glossy papers, and even read some pages of textbook, though I knew this embellished party history from my college years, and there was nothing new to me.

Finally, when Myacheva was passing me by in the aisle, looking like a stern school teacher, I addressed her very politely, “Madam, I have acquainted with all these, thank you, but I was invited to work here. I was told there would happen something extraordinary very soon. What’s that? Who will tell me?”

At first her eyes widened like angry teacher’s, then looked warily sideways, right and left, as if checking foes, and then her hand jerked with frightened gesture to her lips.

“Who, who told you that!”

“Your Secretary General told me that.” I said. It seemed as if I unintentionally offended her because her face turned red.

“I am not authorized to discuss it with you.”

“Who is authorized? Let me see that one, because I waste my time here.”

“I’ll find out. You study meanwhile.” She turned around and almost ran out of the room.”

To the end of a day I sat being bored at the table waiting for somebody with enough authority to introduce me to my job. Sometimes I left the room to stretch out and walked through the corridors, observing the colleagues. Finally, with no one coming to me, I gave up waiting and went home.

At the head of the coffin, besides the portrait, was standing the Poliburo of this party: Fomin, Myacheva, and others that I had noticed yesterday. First was to speak Fomin, the Secretary General.

“Comrades, friends! This is a sorrowful day for all of us, because we pay tribute to our young colleague, ardent Communist, the faithful Leninist Sergey Yesenin.”

“Oh, my God,” I thought, “Why drag in the last name of the great poet, that’s over the top! He is out-of-time twin, a poet, a namesake, he got the same portrait at his head, but why Yesenin?” Of course, I did not know then that his last name by his Indian passport was also Yesenin.

“He gave his life for our common righteous cause!” roared Fomin. “He fought to the last moments of his life. His words and verse in the leaflets and media publicity materials will long live, they will guide whole our nation to the Leninist goals. Duma elections are coming, and no doubt we will win. But Sergey will not rejoice with all of us, we shall never see again his disarming smile, nor hear his delicate voice. But you, Sergey, did not in vain live your short life, not in vain you came to us from far away India. You’ve struggled honestly and courageously.”

That was a recurring and lengthy speech, and I observed the people around the coffin. The sorrowful faces of men and women were now brighter, and chins were up, eyes glistening. Drizhinniki, party militia with red bands on the sleeves, drew closer from their post at the doors, their faces shining blissfully.

I noticed also four new mourners who just entered the doors and were standing behind. These were altogether different: in expensive black suits, with grim and bored faces, one of them with his hands in the pockets. It was easy to guess: professionals, sponsor-bank’s Security. One of them was huge and powerful like a hog, another two tall muscular athletes, and the fourth was strangely both sinewy and thin, with a dead face as if cut of stone.

Suddenly mourning silence that was strained by General Secretary's firm echoing voice was pierced by shrill hysterical cries. I heard some strange sounds some minutes before, but I thought they come from adjoining ritual hall: nervous breakdowns and hysterics were commonplace here. The sounds seemed muffled at first, but then they rang out closer, and I could make out two arguing shrill female voices. Suddenly the door of our ritual hall banged open, and I saw in the doorway two women that were nearly fighting. One of them was breaking her way forward to the hall, and another one was pulling her backwards trying to stop her. Finally the first one freed herself, and with shrill “A-ah!” pushing everybody aside ran to the coffin. Dark shawl slipped from her head, but being caught by the collar flapped on her back like a black bird.

I was standing near the coffin, at the feet of the deceased, in the aisle, and she ran nearby. I closely saw the curled and luminous hair of this young blond. She ran around the coffin, scattering the flowers with her feet and fell, prostrated, on the chest of the dead man, covering his face with the kisses. In a moment her shoulders began to shudder with silent sobs. Secretary General Fomin broke off his speech in a mid-sentence and anxiously stepped aside.

I looked back. The second woman stayed at the open doorway, with a horror on her face, but all the four of the sponsor’s Security moved forward, closer to the coffin; no more boredom was seen on their faces, but acute alarm. Suddenly the blond girl rose to her full height and turned to the hall. I was standing some three yards away from her, and when I saw her face, her hair and bright red lips, I thought I was losing my mind, or already lost it. “Jesus Christ!” I thought feeling cold shivers on my spine, “She is a dead spit of Marilyn Monroe!"

Maybe something strange was happening then to my mind, but undoubtedly that was Marilyn Monroe who was standing at the coffin with gleaming eyes. Yes, that great American actress, a singer, the eternal icon of western pop culture, genuine and everlasting sex-symbol of America. When she was still alive, some fifty or sixty years ago, any man – as it was in the papers – without doubt would give his right hand for just one night with Marilyn. That was excess, but popular one and very close to the point. She was delightful, charming and most beautiful woman in the world, who, alas, committed suicide half a century ago, taking as a nightcap an over-dose of barbiturates. I saw this fascinating woman in a dozen of old movies, I viewed her risky sexy photos, and I did vividly remember her velvety voice, when she sang “Happy birthday to you” for President Kennedy, who without doubt loved her. I adored this woman. I loved Marilyn Monroe from my adolescence.

Shocked and fascinated, I looked with awe at these three faces, jumping from one to another: pale one in the coffin, black and white oversized face of the great poet on the portrait, and indescribably lovely one, sweetest in the world – and beyond all the questions very alive – the face of Marilyn Monroe. I felt there was some incomprehensible, inaccessible to my mind link among three of these – mysterious, monstrous. Nothing of it coincided neither in time nor in logics, or in common sense. The dead man in a coffin, whom Marilyn Monroe was kissing now, and whose portrait was put beside as quite appropriate, should have been in a grave for ninety years. This blond actress Marilyn Monroe was born two years after his real death, and by no means could sob here, but abide half a century at the heavens. The natural chances of such freakish doubling and a crazy performance were zero.

“He didn't die! He couldn't die!” suddenly yelled the blonde girl in Russian, though with a distinct British accent. “You killed him, you – the Communists! God damn you, killers! He couldn’t commit suicide, he loved life! Oh, Sergey …”

But they didn’t let her yell any more. One of those four in expensive suits, who reminded me of a hog, leaped over to her, grabbed her arm, and rudely dragged her away from the coffin. But this girl happened to be surprisingly lively and fast, she managed to slip out of his grip, then seized from under her feet a bunch of flowers, and then went on lashing with it his fat red face. That bouquet was of roses with the thorns, and the “Hog”, clutching his face and protecting the eyes, backed away from her. This moment the fourth of the sponsor’s Security, sinewy one, with a stony and somewhat sickly face, jumped to them, grabbed the girl’s hand and twisted it so hard that she briefly screamed, then he pushed her back, and rudely dragged her down the aisle to the doors, with mourners hastily stepping aside ahead of them.

The girl did not really walk: her legs were trailing behind, she was carried away. Sinewy one dragged her from the side that was closer to me, and the “Hog” dragged from another. I could not stand it, not because she was a pretty blonde, but because when I see anybody weak being offended or hurt, I take it as a personal offense. That's all. When the girl’s shoes scraped the floor just in front of me, I seized the sick-faced man’s hand.

“Hey, easy with the lady!” I shouted, and heard my voice echo in the silent hall.

That man didn’t even look at me; he just hit my arm with his fist, on the biceps. His blow was so quick and painful that I let the girl’s arm go, and both of those proceeded to drag the blond girl to the doors. Something flashed in my mind, and everything around me turned crisp and clear. I grabbed the shirt’s collar of that man from behind, jerked it back, and in the frozen silence of the hall rang the ripping sound of his shirt. The man let the girl’s hand go, though also losing his balance and falling back. I jerked his collar down, and sinewy man fell, with a swing, to the base of the coffin stand, with back of his head into the heap of the flowers.

The hall was silent, the only sounds heard were the rustling of flowers under the coffin. I didn’t even notice beside me the second man, the “Hog”, because I looked to the right at the fallen man. Then I heard the calm voice of the sinewy man, rising from under the coffin, “Don’t touch him.”

I looked at my left and saw the “Hog” with a raised fist ready for the blow. He was really huge, taller and heavier than I, and he was all ready. I wouldn’t have had even a chance to raise my arm for protection. I stepped back, but the “Hog” with indifferent air obediently turned away from me, stepped to the coffin, and helped his boss to get up.

I looked around for the blond girl, and saw her standing with her arm held by comrade Myacheva, party-official already well-known to me. And I heard her saying softly: “Marilyn, stop it! Behave yourself!” She said it in Russian, and then repeated in English with a terrible accent.

“My God, what I hear, she called her Marilyn!” I thought in amazement. ”The dead twin is a double namesake, and this grieving lover here, who is strikingly Marilyn Monroe in her looks, is also Marilyn!”

Marilyn was led away to the doors. She was calm now and did not resist Myacheva. At the doorway she suddenly stopped and turned around looking for someone in the crowd. I was staring at her, as all silent mourners did, and I saw her eyes running from face to face. When our eyes met, she stopped her search. Seconds were passing, and as I looked into her eyes I felt I was drowning. All of a sudden she smiled, barely, with just a stir of her lips, but her eyes sparkled – for me only, I was sure.