Читать книгу VanCleef & Arpels on the summer night - Nonna Ananieva - Страница 3

Sergey invited me to a Balanchine evening at the Bolshoi Theatre. Bach’s Concerto Barocco was being played, along with a pas-de-deux from Tchaikovsky’s Lebedinoye Ozero (Swan Lake), Agon by Stravinsky, and Bizet’s Symphony in C-major.

What did I know about Balanchine, about his life and works? I knew that he had been Jacqueline Kennedy’s guest of honour at the White House in winter of 1961. Once, a long time ago, I had read about this visit in a book by Bernard Taper. She had invited Balanchine to the White House to ask his advice on how best to promote the development of Arts in the U.S. Balanchine was no exception to the rule; he came away charmed, like so many others lucky enough to spend time with her.

A little bit later, speaking along with other celebrities in a media discussion on the topic of ‘If I were president…’, he stated that he would agree to become the president on the condition that Jacqueline Kennedy remained the first lady, and that with her help he would do everything in his power to bring beauty into the lives of others.

She was pale, and looked a little tired during their meeting, but her pearl necklace, fixed on the left with two narrow diamond pins, rendered this pallor gentle and mysterious, so that Balanchine remarked ‘I don’t know who designed that marvelous bijou, but it really is made for you’. He felt as if he were D’Artagnan in front of the Queen. He felt as if he could swim across the English Channel or do something impossible for her. He didn’t remember much of the plot of The Three Musketeers, but the wonderful readiness for the selfless folly remained.

– It’s VanCleef & Arpels, – Jacqueline smiled at him.

Later on he sent her a letter, which was unusual for him. In it he wrote (also according to Taper) that her husband was busy with serious international problems, and that nobody could reasonably expect him to pay the same kind of attention to arts and culture. But the woman, he wrote, always remains the source of inspiration. The male half of humanity mostly takes care of material issues, while the female half takes care of the soul. The woman is the world, in which the man lives, and she makes a home of this world for him. Inspiration in art is born thanks to the woman. God creates, the woman inspires, and the man unites these two factors. He also wrote that the woman is the prime source of beauty in life, and that the man should be subservient to this… or something like that.

She responded in a polite and official way.

He responded to her reply with his new works, which might, to some extent, have been inspired by her image….

– Have you been busy with jewelry for a long time? – asked Sergey. The performance was going to begin in five minutes. Our seats were good ones, in the box number 11, near the imperial box. It was the perfect place to watch the ballet from. The Hall gradually filled up with people.

– Almost eight years have passed. So long and yet so short a time. – I was looking at people in the orchestra stalls. You could tell that they had dressed up to come to the theatre.

– Nothing’s ever enough for you. – He semi-reproached me in his own meaningful way.

– Is that pleasant remark actually referring to anything in particular? – I asked.

– No. It is not.

He kept absolutely quiet, as though he and I often went to the theatre together, or at least saw each other occasionally. Nevertheless, he did look at me surreptitiously every now and then. I pretended not to notice. I had the intuition that he wanted something from me. Somehow I could not take his sentimental feelings for real. Well, I suppose I probably flattered my feminine vanity with his attentions a little bit.

– Who are you married to now? – I asked all of a sudden, wanting to know.

– Let Balanchine be the third in our company today. He patted my right knee lightly. – Don’t get distracted. I will always have plenty of time to answer all your questions.

– Are you trying to reassure me? Beware of getting no answers yourself, – I tried to tease him.

The imperial box was occupied by two ladies in Channel suits and some pompous men, with the former Minister of Culture in the front line. All of them were quite conceited, and one of them was looking around attentively, reminding me of the way the frontiersmen stood on patrol in accordance with military regulations during the Soviet period, protecting the sacred territory and studying each branch and blade of grass. He was not even speaking. All of a sudden he met my eyes and I decided to greet him, just for a joke. He nodded back to me, showing off even in the theatre. I turned back.

In Tunis they nicknamed me Sardine. Sergey reminded me of this now: ‘Get ready for the Art, Sardine, tune in for the music and the ballet’. I did so.

The lights went out. The orchestra began playing. The curtains swept back.… With every minute the performance became more and more intriguing. It was quite another kind of ballet. The dance was depicting the music; it was not quite clear what was accompanying what. Plot was rendered totally unnecessary. It was kind of symbiosis of light and ballet and music. First it seemed a bit weird, as though I was waiting for a prince who was never going to come. The most important thing was that it was not showcasing some kind of artful technique or elegant sequence of movements: it was another vision entirely, the same kind of beauty presented in a different way – the beauty of the human body and of musicality. It soon became clear to me that even costumes and decorations were superfluous. Each ballerina was her own self: young, airy, light, like a morning dream of a better world to come. ‘Ballet is the most innocent, the most ethical of all the arts. If it were not so, why should people always take their children to the theatre?’ This was what Tchaikovsky told his friend Herman Laroche on reading in some newspaper that the ballet exists just to excite the faded desires of old men. I read about it in Passion for Tchaikovsky by Solomon Volkov. A lot was also written about plot in that book, about how Peter Ilyich actually had no serious interest in plot – and indeed, how can anybody take the plot of Lebedinoye Ozero (Swan Lake) seriously? It’s not like Richard III, for example, in which there’s absolutely no need for dance. Dance cannot represent people’s intrigues and fratricide on stage nearly as well as words can. Mood and sense, however, can be depicted by the ballet. Is it really more powerful? When the brilliant union of a composer and a choreographer takes place, then yes, it can be much more powerful. And everybody is free to their own artistic preferences, their own modes of self-expression, according to their soul’s needs at different moments in their lives. The only thing that strikes me as undeniable is that it is very difficult for a person without art – it is almost impossible to develop, to acquire a full knowledge of life, to be kind and loving. Well, the actor just recites phrases learnt by heart, the musician reads the music, the ballet-dancer knows exactly how to move on the stage. And would it have been better if she had not learnt her part? If she hadn’t rehearsed till exhaustion? Plot is not the main thing. When Balanchine toured the USSR at the beginning of sixties, he had been accused of formalism, of dances without a plot. And here I was, watching his chorographical creations in the Bolshoi, performed by the Theatre’s own troop of dancers. I liked it.

During the interval we went out to walk around a bit.

– I have to say, you don’t seem overjoyed to see me, – remarked my elegant companion.

– Sergey Filimonovich, you are too harsh. – Once, we had been in the habit of inventing different patronymics for one another. Quite often ‘Filimonovich’ was the only second name I used for him – it sounded so African in style, as though it were derived from the word lemon… lemon like the one growing near the kitchen window in Tunis, from which we picked gigantic yellow fruit all the year round for salads and, of course, for tea…. – I am very happy to see you after all these years. You look great. I am just waiting for an explanation as to why you’ve decided to rake up all these old ashes and do a thing like this. I’m guessing that our chance meeting in that shop was simply a useful pretext. Yes, somehow I think that’s right. – I looked him straight in the eye.

– You’re talking rubbish, Sofia Pavlovna! You want me to find you a mirror? How very modest you are! – he joked – Or do you think evolution has entirely passed me by? I’ve long since had my fill of long legs and Ukrainian accents.

– Oh, you’ve had enough already? How interesting! It must mean that you have tasted a lot of that sort of thing. You lived in the States for quite long a time, didn’t you? For about ten years? I heard a little but paid no attention to it. It all seemed so far away.

– You would have been better to have paid attention to it.

– Look what beautiful women are here tonight! – I looked in the direction of a beauty standing nearby, wearing long above the knee boots in blue suede.

– She is a real tamer. Sometimes you should listen to what you’re being told, Sofia Pavlovna, and not lash out with some inferiority complex.

– You’re wrong. – I got offended. We went back to our seats. My anonymous acquaintance from the imperial box had not left his seat and was still on the alert. All of a sudden he cried out:

– Hallo, Mihal Mihalich!

Sergey and I, surprised, looked at each other.

– He has done it at last! – grinned Sergey.

– Where there’s a will there’s a way. He’s not wasting his time sitting there! He must be imagining that he is a grand prince, or a marshal or maybe even the Tsar. Perhaps he thought the woman next to him was the tsarina. Should we write him a note – asking not to yell like that and make a fool of himself? – I enquired.

– I would send him flowers. He introduced himself quite spectacularly, – suggested Sergey.

– Some exotic flowers, decorated with a bow, – I agreed. – And a teddy bear as well.

I hadn’t noticed that the lights had gone out. Agon resumed.

– It’s a very powerful performance, Sonia, – Sergey whispered in my ear. – Feel the rhythm. – And he gently kissed me on my cheek. – In America I dreamed of watching it with you. – And he kissed me one more time.

Suzanne Farrell staged Agon in Moscow in 1999. I had seen her film – about her and her relationship with the master. She had been his last love and his Muse. That means that she had been the last Muse, whom he had loved and for whom he had created, and to whom he had devoted his ballets. She had been a very beautiful woman and a ballet-dancer. I remembered that my grandmother had always said: “Women become beauties, they are not born like that”. The film had been produced after his death, but real passion could be felt in it, as well as attachment to him, pride for his selectness. Although she had tried to escape from him by marrying another man and working with Béjart, she had come back. Here in Moscow she described Agon as “a jump from the rock into the water”, intended for those wanting to make that leap and acquire self-confidence. She wanted to do everything in the proper way, and to remain marvelous.

* * *

– Do you know that Balanchine also wrote the ballet called Jewels? And I think he actually staged it with Arpels in New York? – We were leaving the theatre. Sergey was holding me by the arm. Then he put my arm into his, which was more convenient. Slight wooden twinges from his perfume reached my senses.

– Yes… It’s rather far away… Are you by any chance suggesting a trip to Saint Petersburg? – I recalled that this ballet was also being performed in the Mariinsky Theatre.

– There are so many propositions I would love to make to you, Sofia Pavlovna, the divine. What a wonderful evening we have spent together! I am overwhelmed with both my own delight and other people’s, – with applause, with your deep eyes, with our reminiscences. Let’s go to ‘Pushkin’ for supper!

– And here is our transport! – I exclaimed. Karandash[2], Sergey’s driver, drove up to us in his silver limousine.

– Doesn’t he have a name? – I had asked before the performance. – Should I call him as Karandash? It sounds like some kind of nickname…

– Well, you can call him ‘Pencil’, if you want to use the translation of that nickname.

– And what is written in his passport? – I insisted.

– How on earth should I know… – Sergey shrugged his shoulders.

– He might be called Briefcase rather than Pencil. You should check – I pressed on.

– I trust people, Sofia, my dear, I trust them. There are plenty of decent, disciplined people around.

– You are right. Good, kind people do surround us. – I insisted no more.

The restaurant was full of people, but they found a table on the second floor in the Library for us.

– I am so hungry. And it’s your fault, – Sergey reproached me.

A tall, handsome waiter in a long white apron brought the menu.

– You are welcome, Madam, – he addressed me in an old-fashioned way.

– A while ago you served venison meat with baked pear. That’s what I want, – said Sergey to the waiter, not looking at the menu. – Do you want to try it too? – he addressed me.

– Thank you, but I don’t eat meat. I want a double portion of strawberries with a touch of cream. And a cup of green tea to go with it. – Recently, I have developed a taste for strawberries. Before that, I ate only apples.

– Do you remember Pekarsky? – inquired Sergey.

I grew suspicious. Ilya had been with us in Africa. To be more precise, he had been there at the same time, working as an assistant to the consul. He was a few years older than us, and in his spare time he had often escaped from the ‘old folks’ to join us. I had liked him. Quiet jokes that he would murmur as though to himself, tinned food and other edible goods from the consulate shop, the French and sometimes even American magazines which he brought us, a privately owned automobile, a well-groomed appearance and a readiness to help the lazy students… these were the merits that made Ilya so welcome. Living abroad at that time it was easy to see a potential informant in nearly everyone, but Ilya had managed to gain our confidence. In fact, we – the four girls and the three guys from different universities – had never even trusted each other much. This was the usual state of affairs. I knew who sneaked, and I suspected everyone else. And what of it – should we have stopped living? It was Ilya who reminded us of Papanov’s words from the Russian movie Byelorussian Terminal: “The commander of our regiment once said, ‘each wrinkle on your blanket is a loophole for the agents of Imperialism’”. As far as I remembered, Ilya had become friends with Sergey. But I didn’t know what had happened afterwards. I lost touch with both of them.

– Does Ilya Petrovich want to meet up with me as well? Let’s ask him to join us in Petersburg.

– I always suspected the pair of you. I remember that during the May Day meeting he accompanied you and Makarova from the glade to the cottage of the Attaché of Culture, whose wife had gone to Moscow to give birth. There was some composer hanging around as his guest.

– Oh yes… You cannot hide a grand piano in the bushes… – I drawled.

– Well, he was always hanging around you dressed in white Lacoste trousers that I could only dream of, chirping: “Sardine, you won’t regret it! Think, piano music for four hands! We’ll drink cold champagne! Leave this miserable shashlik alone! Off we go! Follow me!”

– These memories really haven’t faded for you, have they? It’s great!

– On your way there you smashed the ambassadorial BMW, knocked down some fellah on his old banger and damaged the fence on your way into the residence. Krishkin had a narrow escape that time. The rumors reached his wife.

– Well, wasn’t a problem for us…. Krishkin always envied Pekarsky. As far as I remember, when they sat down with that composer to play Beatles music for four hands, Makarova asked them to play “Hey Jude”, – Krishkin blushed, he was standing there, obviously hating it in spite of the cognac he had already drunk.

– And what else happened? – Sergey seemed nervous.

They brought us the strawberries and the venison with baked pear.

– Bon appetit, Filimonich, – I said.

– And what comes next? – asked Sergey again.

– You and I quarreled with you then, as you probably remember, because of the lecture notes. You spilled tomato juice on my workbook and claimed that the half of the notes were missing. And you yourself had no notes on syntax at all – not a single line. Makarova told you to pay her 20 dinars just for the last three lectures. Have you forgotten it? And later on she also complained that you stayed the night with us, and that you spoke to Americans at the Institute. It was prohibited to talk to anyone, as you remember.

– You’ll make fun of me for this, but I met up Pete from our Grammar group later on.

– Where did you see him? In the States?

– We met in Kyoto. And later on, in New York. By the way, he’s in jewelry business, just like you.

– You don’t say?! Fat old Pete! In the jewelry business! Jesus Christ, that’s incredible! – I almost choked on my berries.

– He even asked about you a couple of times, – Sergey continued calmly.

– And what did he ask about?

– Well, about practically everything…

– Are you joking?! – This was the last thing I expected to hear – And what did you tell him about me?

– I told him that I didn’t know anything. They sent me abroad “to establish friendly relations” after I had graduated from the University. You married some guy again…

– Yes, that’s the only news worth telling about a woman, – I retorted.

And then I remembered. Once, in the winter after the New Year, Filimonich and I, Peter and Alicia (another American from our group), had opted to go to the city market (the locals called it “suk”). Sergey invited Ilya to go with him, for safety’s sake. We met at one of the entrances to these endless labyrinths of Arabian folk craftwork mixed Indian, Turkish and Italian styles, as well as some other odds and ends. As far as I remember we had been assigned to write a composition entitled ‘My perception of the City of Tunis’ or something like that, and we decided to use this chance to stroll to the market. We agreed with the Americans that we would pretend to have met by chance – and in that case, why should we flee from each other as if we were hounds of ideology? The story also went that we had likewise met Pekarsky all of a sudden, while he was choosing a little handicraft carpet for himself, depicting a white house against a blue background, and a clay plate with a similar design. All of us, young, turbulent and eager as we were, craved normal communication, chat about the USA and the USSR – we liked to ask one another tricky questions and to argue over which country was worse to live in. Alicia was no fool – she was an active career woman, dreaming of becoming a diplomat and setting the flag of victory on another peak of American feminism. She didn’t like to have any courtesies addressed to her that might emphasize her femininity. Thus nobody would give their hand to her, nobody would let her walk through a door first, and nobody ever carried her heavy bags. And she liked it this way… Even Pekarsky played her game; when we sat down at a coffee table with one stool too few, he told her: “There’s a vacant stool over there, so go and get it”. Alicia went and fetched it quite obediently. She used to wear unisex clothes, and she didn’t wear make up or nail varnish – but she did pluck her eyebrows. I was definitely not mistaken about that!

– What does she usually do for personal hygiene during her period? – Pekarsky inquired.

– You can find out. Make some allusion to your primitive Soviet morals, apologize. And come and tell us what you know. – Filimonich advised him.

But all the same it was fun to be with Alicia, and Pete was certainly no fool for having befriended her.

– I’m not sleeping with her, – he was always finding excuses for himself.

– Well, nobody thinks you are – replied Sergey. – She will have everything her way.

And Alicia was casting glances at Ilya. She was even helping him to look for his plate with a house on it.

– Il, – she asked him, – What if there’s a camel near the house, like on this one?

– Impossible, – replied Pekarsky. – It should be just a white house and a blue sea.

Without realising it, we had drifted towards the jewellers’ stalls. Everything was bright and shining there, smelling of fragrances. The sellers touted in every language. They had no idea that we could understand Arabic, all five of us. I was looking at the gold necklaces in surprise, as they were so enormous that their weight looked as though it could damage the wearer’s neck vertebrae. And at that point, Pete and I became the focus of attention. It was clear that the others were not on the same wavelength as us.

First he asked me to try on ring earrings with pendants, and then he chose some coral beads. Oh my God! What wonderful beads they were! It can happen like that at the market, when everything has become just a general mess of sparkles and multicolor, when your legs feel tired, when you do not want anything because you’ve almost stopped seeing the things around you – you are overwhelmed by something magnificently beautiful!

– Pete, how did you know to choose these beads? – I exclaimed.

– I’ve been aware of things like that since my childhood, Sophie. You know, my mother would take me to boutiques all over the world with her, starting from when I was six. I have seen a lot of things. You can find wonderful red corals here in Tunis, and at a very reasonable price. Look at the mirror! – He turned the mirror to me. – Now pull up your hair, in this way. Alicia won’t listen to me. Your neck… You have got an ideal neck for the necklace. And little ears, too.

For a split second my imagination transported me, an ordinary Soviet girl, who had never seen any decent shop in her life and never been to a Western country, to some mythical shop decorated with pink velour, mahogany and crystal. Then I thought of Adriano Celentano and Anthony Quinn in the “Bluff: storia di truffe e di imbroglioni” movie. Yes, that was it. In that movie they were swindling someone at the jewelry shop. What was it called? ‘Van Cleef and…’ something…

– Do you watch European movies, Pete? – Overwhelmed, I just wanted to get on with the conversation.

– Sometimes I do. My mother’s of Italian origin, you know.

– Oh really? – I was surprised. It was impossible to think of him as half Italian. Or so I’d thought till then. At that moment, I looked at him with new eyes. He was a little bit plump on the plump side. But his face was pleasant, and he was well dressed. He was wearing some medallion on a black string. I had seen it earlier but not really given it much thought.

– What are you doing here? I’ve been looking for you everywhere, – Sergey, coming into the shop, was happy to see us.

– Have you found the damned still life for Pekarsky? – I changed the topic.

– You should ask Alicia about that. I lost you all. I’ve had enough shopping. It’s high time we went to write that composition.

We did not go into any of the other shops in the market after that. Everybody was tired, so we said good-bye to one another and went home.

If you understand the status quo of the eighties, you will know that ours were no harmless pranks. The things we did on that day could have resulted in highly undesirable consequences. All of us could receive reprimands from the representatives of the Komsomol organization, and Pekarsky could receive a reprimand from the representatives of the Soviet Communist Party. They could even prevent us from traveling abroad. It was really dangerous to enter into direct contact with Americans. But nobody informed any officials about our movements. The three of us began to trust one another more, and naturally we didn’t stick to the rules. Especially because my compatriots were mostly reluctant to go to the Institute, and obviously everything feels rather different when there are no witnesses about.

There was a shabby little café at the Institute. You could buy snacks there during breaks – a can of coke or a cup of coffee, buns, pizzas with tomato paste and olives. I remember that there always were sunflower seed husks on the floor. Lots of the students would munch on them because they were so cheap, and because the fact you had to crack them made them last a long time. They were sold in little paper-bags; it was very nice. Well, to tell the truth, I’ve never eaten better sunflower seeds or potatoes than the ones I ate in Tunis. But we would only eat sunflower seeds at home in the kitchen, and after the scholarship we also bought almonds and hazel-nuts.

Pete was always hanging about, drinking coffee and chatting with Tunisians. Sometimes he even spoke Italian.

– Privet, Sophie, – he addressed me in Russian. – How are you doing?

Filimonich had taught him that. He also could say “I love you” (‘Ya tebya lyublyu”), “don’t love” (“ne lyublyu”), “A girl” (“devushka”) and “A booty” (“popa”). He couldn’t remember the word for ‘a kiss’ (“potseluy”). “What the hell?! How can such an important word be so long and complicated?” – he protested. He also hated the words for “Hello” (“zdravstvuyte”) and “nothing” (“nichego”).

– Hi, Pete! What a wonderful sweater that is!

After our trip to the market I began to pay attention to his clothes and to intuitively understand that he was dressed expensively and well. At that time we didn’t know much about style and fashion, but we were beginning to get a feeling for such things.

– Mum sent me a parcel. This one’s supposed to be for Alicia. But you know what she’s like: how could she possibly go to the Institute wearing cashmere? In fact, it’s actually a little bit tight on her. Let me give it to you, take it. – He handed over a black paper packet with a silk bow on it. – The package is Tunisian – couldn’t find anything better.

It was a silly situation. I didn’t know what to do. He was an American, and it was all very awkward. Just nonsense.

He saw that I was hesitating.

– And what present should I give you, Pete?

– How should I know? Just think of something. It’s not like I’m giving you panties or a saucepan.

At that moment it dawned on me: It was Saint Valentine’s Day today! Goodness gracious, I thought. What shall I say to Sergey? And how shall I explain it to the girls? Shall I tell them I bought it for myself, with, I don’t know, six scholarships or something? And what on earth is in this parcel? I’m snookered!

– Do you think before you do things? – I asked. But I didn’t want to offend him.

– You’re the reason I’m still studying at this sodding Institute. I want you to know that… that you have more strength and willpower than these uncombed feminists. Just be a real woman, the only one. Everyone has their own mission. The main thing is to realize that in time.

I blushed. The parcel was hot in my hands.

– Would you like a cup of coffee? It’s kind of awkward standing here like this.

There was a sweater in it, better than any garment I’d ever touched, and the coral beads from the market.

Later I learnt, that Pete came from a family of very prosperous bankers. He had studied political science at Yale University, and he had come to Tunis to visit an acquaintance of his father, who was the US ambassador. He had stayed by mere chance – for the sake of improving his health and in order to overcome some traumatic experience of his own. He was living for his soul and was paying for it: life is never a fairytale, whether you’re living in Manhattan or in Sokolniky. He had studied Arabic at some time in his childhood, in Jordan, where his family had lived for about three years. There he was, the oldest son of a billionaire, and he was interested in me. He was the kind of man you dreamt about! But I didn’t think of him in this way. Anyway, we were afraid of our supervisors. And he certainly was one of their chief targets, making me a target by association. You couldn’t get off without show downs, which was exactly what happened next.

– Do you really think, my dear, that we will let you flirt with Americans? – Comrade Alabyan asked me, having called me to his office on the first floor of our Embassy.

I felt dizzy, as though I were on the carousel in Gorky park.

– He will try to hire you, and as soon as you come to your senses, you will jump off the cliff near the walls of Carthage. You are not only a fool, but you are also ready to endanger all of your relatives.

I saw black dots. His dumb-witted speech registered in waves in my mind, like Ayvazovsky’s pictures.

– Well, tell me, then. I’m not joking. – He made a strict and haughty face which made my tongue feel numb.

– What should I tell you, Alexander Eduardovich? Are your asking me about Peter Kent? – I whispered.

– Is there also some John? – asked the secretary of the Party Organization.

– He studies in our group in Grammar. Alicia is also in the group. She is an American too. Nobody is hiring me, nobody has asked me any suspicious questions, – I said in a horrible, hoarse voice.

– You should not be making contact! – retorted comrade Alabyan. – This is your final warning! Next time, you will be arrested and flown back to Moscow. You should not even borrow a pen from them! Is that clear? You’d be better to write with your fingers! The less you hang about at the university, the more soundly you can sleep. We’ve spoilt you anyway – you have made a bordello out of your apartment. I should also deal with that other guy of yours, Pekarsky. You have got totally out of hand! Come here!

– Where? – I stammered, almost fainting.

– Come here!

I came up to the table, at which he was sitting.

– Come nearer!

My legs were numb, made from foam, plastic, wood – or whatever material they turn to on such occasions. I remember that he unzipped his fly, and then I finally fainted for real.

I choked with water and coughed.

– What’s the matter, Sonia? – asked Sergey, frightened.

– I just choked, sorry. Nothing serious… everything’s ok.

There were even more people in the restaurant by then. All the tables were occupied. It was noisy, the dishes were clinking. This place, ‘Pushkin’, is really interesting. It’s a crazy restaurant! Probably one of the best in Moscow. And it’s as busy as a beehive, even at 1 am.

A waiter wearing an apron came in with a tray, on which was a bottle of French champagne and a bouquet of white roses.

– Our guests have sent these to you. Welcome! I will put the flowers in a vase and bring them back to the table, if you like.

I stared at Sergey in astonishment. He was smiling.

– Did you do this?

– No, not me, – answered Sergey, still smiling.

– Which guests? – I asked the waiter.

– At that table over there. – He indicated a table at the far end of the hall.

I turned round. What a day it was! An older, slimmer Pete was approaching me. He was followed by Pekarsky, who had hardly changed at all (he wasn’t even bald), dressed in a yellow American-style tie.

“There are so many of them, and I am alone”, – The thought crossed my overwhelmed mind.