Petrov and Markov

COVER FEATURE At heard: turned the Kazan and Russia saw Station, is the for rain, Markov Russians. andbeyond overHe heard: Russia is forRussians.He turned andsawtherain, andbeyond it - a littleman witha narrowface,like an empty briefcase. The manstoodon a bench. Therewas a smellofwetsmoke.Peoplewere running. Markov, blinded bythetrain, greeted thelittle manwitha gesture. Thatis,hesimply wavedhishand,remembering something from Tennyson: we Englishmen are,in fact, Celts, Saxons,and Danes.Or from Borges, whoconsideredhimself first and foremost a Basque, then a Spaniard, a Portuguese, anEnglishman, and a Jew - becausehisfamily treecontained Acevedosand Pineiros, age-oldJewish-Portuguesefamilies ofBuenosAires. Perhaps Russia is neither forEnglishmen norforBorges. And notfor him, for Markov: itso happened that in thedaysofpostwar sepia,hismother - nearly alwaysata separation's distance - loveda pardonedhorsethief from theranksoftheguitarists . Or maybeshedidn'tlovehim,maybe they calleditsomething else,then. Maybeshe couldn't livewithout him. The trainwas set to arriveat 1:16,with a coupleofminutes thatone likesto holdin reserve. Strolling alongtheplatform andwhistling , a policeofficer namedPetrov approached Markovwithgreetings from thedove on his left - and thebrand-new holster on his right. Markovdug a minutely checkered handkerchief from hispocket, wentintoa stall,stood theretugging at his nose,makingeyes,and, 521 World Literature Today fordecency's sake,puffing outone ofhisold faces.He thenquicklysteppedintothetrain car departing forUdelnaya,wherehe had a meeting withFeodasi,andwhereFeodasihad a meeting with a certain Martemian. Theangels on Martemian's shoulders - theblackoneand thewhiteone - gotmixedup, and so, in his fifty-second year, hewentdeafinbothears.Or maybenotdeaf.Maybehe justcouldn'thear anything, suchwashislife. There,overlunch,Ivan Markovlearned thatMartemian's people don't like America at all.Thiswas statedbluntly and innocently, as one professes likingor disliking riceporridge ,beingable or unableto standwomen. Of course,Martemian's people didn'tknow America, hadn'tlived there, and thisdislike could notconstitute a strong feeling. It was rather a sortofpermissible right, andthat was cleartoMarkov; heinwardly agreedwiththeir childishrightto dislike,whichhad in it no righteousness ofseparation, buta kindofcelebration ofpeaceful cash.Atthevery least, they knewRussiawellenough todespiseit.Andthis troubled him.Ordidn'texactly trouble him, so muchas seemedunpleasant - thisis justtoo hardtofigure out.Itevenappearedtohimthat they didn'tlikeanyone atall. The trainwas justapproaching theplatform , butone couldalreadysee thewetrailwayhaul 'ssugaryanthracite swishing outof theslitsand slots.Returning in a stuffed car, Markov keptthinking aboutseparation: thatit POST-SOVIET LITERATURE Illustration by Sergei Samsonov (b.1954) hasitsowninternal righteousness, which partinglacks .Separation is whenyouchangethe composition ofyourblood - and ifyou don't changeit,then youbecomea displacedperson livingapart,sayingthings like,"I'm notwell without you."In separation, yousaynothing. Separation iswhenI'mwithout you.That'swhy separation is almostunthinkable. Possible, but notfor everyone. Barelyrecalling thehaggardfaceof the missionary orator, he saw in itIvan Markov, forwhomeverythought is onlya preface to thenext thought - whospeakswiththekindof speed,confidence, and fervor fit, in hisview, onlyfor casting pearls.ForMarkov isanunfetteredGypsyscribe , who has pennedtwo or three grandiose, abandonedvolumeson love. Thesetomesare or aren'tread,without love, by a social-activist type - a sincerepawn in someone else'splan,which hasfar exceeded the pawn'sexpectations. Whatwill happen to thispawn, when conscientious people translate its ideals into their authority? Maybenothing atallwillhappen ,and stepping outat Kazan Station, Markov marchedon, notglancing back at these thoughts ofhis,and notsearching foryesterday 'sorator - as onesearches for anoldfriend, whomit is customary to checkagainstone's thoughts. He had justwalkedpastthebench, whena titmouse perched onitsbackaskedhim: why, why? NovemberDecember 201 1153 The day was fullof thekindof clouds one rarelysees in Moscow - sour-cream-like, madeofhumansouls.Shaggy Markov walked acrosstheBolshoy Kammeny Bridge, andeach ofthepierswasmoregovernmental thanthree Dr. Dier himself, rubbing his ears together. Hereheisinthedining room - small, nervous, with a hugesword, andhe'swearing hishereditary ears.Enough babbling. Goandwashyour ears.It'llsoonbe dawn.I havetogo towork, railroad stations. Manyof thosehe passed on the bridge mayhavereadhis books,but without love, grief, pleasure, separation, or regret, as one reads beforebed: so as to fall sleep.So as to,justthink, nine hundred pagesyour eyes fall on any of themand the author says: you just read my thoughts. And me,what are his thoughts to me they 've justputme aside fora rainyday.You'rea genius, too - goandbrush yourteeth. Whendidyou everseea genius brushing his teeth?They'venever had teethto beginwith. They hadgoldonesputin There, over lunch, Ivan Markov learned that Martemian's people don't like America at all. This was stated bluntly and innocently, as one professes liking or disliking rice porridge, being able or unable to stand women. raise my children,you hear?Honormyparents and cleave to my wife. We've slept on it, and

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