The Dream Life of Sukhanov Read Online Free PDF

paintings—”
    And then, without any warning, an incredible smile flashed across Belkin’s face. It was his unforgettable trick of old, that smile, the sort that very few people ever possessed; it transformed his ordinarily woebegone features instantly, brilliantly, imbuing them with rare humanity, with a kind of intense, radiant meaning. Smiling, he lightly touched a button on Sukhanov’s jacket.
    “You also said that in a way it was appropriate, because most of the artists who exhibited here were fit to be displayed only in a stable. Do you remember, Tolya?”
    It was astonishing, simply astonishing, that after all this time the man could still smile like that—and it was suddenly disconcerting to see how little his eyes had changed, how, in spite of the lines at the corners, the pouches underneath, the eyelids that had grown heavy, they could still dance in his face, they could still play with the same dark, fiery, infectious life.
    “I don’t remember,” Sukhanov replied stiffly. “I don’t know ... Perhaps I said something like that once. In any event, they’ve redone the place since—” He faltered and ended hurriedly, “It’s completely different now.”
    Belkin looked Sukhanov full in the face, then twisted his lips, nodded, and released the button. The fire in his eyes dwindled away, and the tired creases around his mouth became more pronounced.
    “Funny,” he said flatly, “it looks exactly the same to me. I visit almost every exhibition, you know. Staying abreast of the new developments and all that. Not that there are any, but one keeps hoping.”
    “Yes,” said Sukhanov, not knowing what else to say, and righted his glasses.
    The whole thing was awkward—awkward and unnecessary There was so little space under the cornice that with every motion their shoulders nudged each other softly, and the dripping, splashing, murky world kept creeping closer, invading their cramped refuge, lapping at the edges of dryness, already seeping into Sukhanov’s beautifully polished shoes. He ached to be away, to be home, where it was light, warm, and comfortable, to be drinking his nightly tea.... The encounter was stretching to nightmarish proportions, and he knew he needed to end it, end it now, this very instant—but strangely, he could do nothing, as if he were trapped in a tedious, helpless dream. A short-haired girl darted across their lengthening pause, and he thought he saw the edge of a yellow dress flash beneath the flapping fold of a flimsy coat, but she ran by so quickly he could not be sure. Belkin too watched her melt in the rain.
    “So, is Nina here?” he asked when the water had erased the girl’s steps.
    “She got tired and went home early,” Sukhanov said, and added, pointing across the street, “She took our car.”
    “Ah ... A pity. I was hoping to see her. I bet she hasn’t changed one bit.”
    “We all change,” said Sukhanov. “None of us is getting any younger.”
    God, haven’t I said that already, he thought miserably.
    “And how is ... er ... Alia?” he asked, to prevent another silence.
    “Oh, didn’t you know? She left me a long time ago. She’s married to a math teacher now. Has three kids. But she is doing quite well, thanks for asking.”
    “Sorry, I didn’t know.... But apart from that ... That is, how are you getting along in general?”
    “Not too bad, thanks. Painting and all. And you?”
    “Can’t complain, can’t complain ...” He coughed, shifted his weight to the other foot. Their shoulders grazed again. “Well, it seems that the rain’s almost over.”
    It was raining every bit as hard as before.
    “Yes, certainly looks that way,” agreed Belkin. “So, where are you off to now? I’m heading for the metro. Shall we walk together? I have an umbrella.”
    “I would, but ... I need to go the other way,” said Sukhanov with a vague gesture.
    “Of course, I understand,” Belkin said quietly. “Well, good-bye then, Anatoly. Good luck to you