The Dream Life of Sukhanov Read Online Free PDF Page A

haven’t changed at all,” he said.
    In a strange way, he meant it, and not as a compliment. Of course, Lev Belkin displayed plenty of wear and tear for his fifty-three, or was it fifty-two, years—he seemed unkempt and unsettled, with all the telling signs of age and hard luck about him, and was dressed like an old circus clown; the dreadful velveteen blazer had brown leather patches at the elbows, and an absurd maroon bow tie sat askew at his throat. But Sukhanov knew wretchedness and disorder to be essentially the qualities of youth, which was why most worthwhile people eventually outlived them. Belkin had clearly chosen not to do so. To Sukhanov’s eyes he looked just like the young man he had once known, only used, downtrodden, gone to seed....
    “I haven’t changed, and yet you didn’t recognize me,” Belkin said.
    “Well, you know what they say—if someone who knows you well doesn’t recognize you, you’ll end up rich,” Sukhanov joked humorlessly:
    “I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that,” the other man replied with a short laugh. “Not all of us are destined for riches.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake!” Sukhanov said sharply. But immediately it occurred to him that, perhaps, Belkin had meant no offense and there had been no need to react with such hostility, no need at all. Belkin did not answer, and for an uneasy minute they watched the rain slash through Manezhnaya Square; and all the while Sukhanov searched for some friendly, casual words—yet none came to mind. It had simply been too long, and anything that could be said should have been said many years ago.
    Presently a rectangle of brightness cut a patch out of the portico floor, and Sukhanov caught a glimpse of the real doorman in the vestibule, bending politely at the open door. The foyer yawned with an inviting warmth, and a well-known actor emerged, in the process of unfolding an enormous pink umbrella over his nineteen-year-old wife. The couple chirped “Good night” to Anatoly Pavlovich, stared at Belkin with unbridled curiosity, and ran to a Volga that had just pulled up. The girl was giggling, and Sukhanov distinctly heard her say babochka —“bow tie” or “butterfly”—but the night swallowed the rest of the sentence and he tried to convince himself she was discussing lepidoptery rather than Belkin’s unfortunate neck decoration. Still, that was unpleasant, very unpleasant—the tittering, the gaping, and God only knew what they had thought.... He considered Belkin darkly, and a sense of oppression descended on him.
    “So, Lev,” he said, “how did I miss seeing you in there?”
    “Oh,” said Belkin, “I wasn’t at the opening, I don’t have an invitation. I was just—”
    The door was being pushed open again, and in the widening gap Sukhanov saw the massive crimson bosom of the theater critic’s wife, followed by her grasshopper of a husband. Suddenly frantic, he began to maneuver Belkin away from the entrance, down the steps, muttering as he did so, “People starting to leave ... no reason to be in their way ... might as well move ...” Cold rain slapped his face as he rounded the corner; Belkin trotted after him obediently. Almost, almost, just a bit more—and finally, thank God, they were out of sight, pressed into the wall under the scanty protection of a narrow cornice. Mercifully, no one had seen—except for that long-haired what‘s-his-name with his pink umbrella and his adolescent bride, but no matter, he was not important enough. Trying to suppress a shudder of relief, Sukhanov wiped the water from his glasses.
    “I mean to go when it’s open to the public, of course,” Belkin was saying, noticing nothing. “By the way, how was it?”
    “Great. Very interesting works. A perfect space for displaying them too.”
    “Perfect, eh?” Belkin repeated, and squinted at him good naturedly. “You used to say the Manège was better as a riding academy, that its architecture was suited for horses, not