Chapter 27 Chapter Eleven Walking (2)

He remembered the source of the phantasy: a postcard he had bought years ago in Paris and destroyed, along with other erotic art, when he married Anya.A girl with long black hair is lying on her back under a man with a mustache. The caption reads "Gypsy Love" in curly capitals.But the girl in the picture had chubby legs and loose muscles, and she was facing the man who propped up his upper body with his arms, without any expression.Anna Sergeyevna's thighs, the Anna Sergeyevna's thighs in his memory, were thinner and stronger; when they were clamped, they were meaningful, and he could not help thinking that she was not a child, but a child. An eager mature woman.Because of maturity, there is no cover in the face of death (the words "no cover" insist on popping out).That body is willing to experience life because it knows that it cannot live forever.The idea is both exciting and troubling.It didn't matter who was caught between those two thighs; from above or from the side, the man in the picture was both him and not himself.

There was a letter on his bed, standing against the pillow.For a moment he was confused, thinking that Pavel had sneaked into the house and released it.The letter was in the child's handwriting. "I would like to draw Pavel Alexandrovitch," said the letter (the "calendar" in the name was mistaken for "column"), "but the picture is not good. If you like, you can put it in the In the shrine. Matrona." On the back of the letter was a slightly smudged pencil drawing of a young man with a high forehead and thick lips.The drawing was crude, and the child knew nothing of chiaroscuro; but in the mouth, and especially in the bold eyes, she caught Pavel's expression.

"Yes," he whispered, "I'm going to put it in the altar." He kissed the portrait, put it in the candlestick, and lit a new candle. An hour later, while he was still looking at the candle, Anna Sergeyevna knocked softly at the door. "Your laundry is ready," she said. "Come in. Sit down." "No, I can't. Matryosha is restless—I think she's not feeling well." Having said that, she sat down on the bed. "They, our two kids, made us behave," he said. "Let's behave ourselves?" "Watch our conduct. Keep us separate."

It was a relief that there was no table separating them.The soft candlelight also makes people feel cozy. "I'm sorry you must go," she said, "but it might be better for you to leave this sad city. Better for your family. They must miss you. You must miss them too." "I'd be someone else. My wife wouldn't know me. She might think she knew me, but she didn't. I could see it would be different for everyone. I'd miss you. But in what What about identity?—that's the question. Anna is also my wife's name." "I used this name before her." Her answer was crisp and no joke.It dawned on him again: If he loved this woman, it was partly because she was old.She has crossed the line that his wife has not yet reached.Not to mention who is dearer and who is lower, she is closer to him.

The erotic pull is back, stronger than before.A week ago, they hugged each other and slept in this bed.At this moment, didn't she think about it? He leaned over and put his hand on her leg.The washed clothes were still in her arms, and she lowered her head.He gets a little closer.Holding her bare neck with thumb and forefinger, she turned her face towards him.She raised her eyes: for a moment, he thought he saw a pair of cat's eyes, vigilant, passionate, greedy. "I have to go," she murmured.She turned her head, broke away from his hand and left. He desperately wants her.Not in this narrow child's bed, but in the widow's bed in the next room.He pictured her lying next to his daughter now, her eyes open and watery.For the first time he realized that she was the kind of woman he had never written about in his books.The women he knew were not without their own passions, but those passions were limited to skin and nerves.The feelings they arouse are superficial, intense and direct like electric shocks.But with her, he entered a body that bled and felt visceral.

Can this trait be transferred to other women, or cultivated in them?Like, on his wife?Now that he has discovered the characteristics of this feeling in her, can he let go and look for it elsewhere? What a shameful breach of trust! Had he been more confident in his French, he might have poured this panic-inducing excitement into a book that couldn't be published in Russia—ten signed, three hundred pages thick, that could be published in two or three weeks. Books that are hastily rushed out of the city, don't even need a copyist.A book I read at night, written by hand, without any restrictions, and using everything to the extreme.A book that would never assume the author was him.Manuscripts could be mailed from Dresden to Payal in Paris, surreptitiously printed, and sold surreptitiously under the counters of Left Bank bookstores. Memoirs of a Russian Nobleman.The book owes its existence to Anna Sergeyevna, but she will never read it.There is a chapter in which the aristocratic author of memoirs reads to the young daughter of his mistress the story of a young girl who is seduced and makes it increasingly clear that he himself is the seducer.The story is full of dubious details and hints, and instead of seducing the daughter, it scares her up at night and makes her doubt her own innocence, so that three days later she surrenders to him in a most indecent way in desperation , which any child would never have imagined, was the story of her own seduction and commitment, and the whole process had been deeply impressed in her mind in advance.

Fantasy memories.Fantasy of memories. Was that the answer to the question he asked himself?Was that what she had let him do: write a book about "evil"?What is the purpose?Free him from "evil", or cut him off from "good"? The house was silent now, and he realized that he had not once thought of Pavel during his long meditation.Now Pavel is back here, pale and whimpering for a place to lie down!poor child!The festivities of feelings which should have been his inheritance were stolen from him!Lying on Pavel's bed, he couldn't help shaking with excitement at the secret victory.

Normally, he was alone in the apartment in the morning.But Matrona didn't go to school today, she was flushed, had a dry cough, and had trouble breathing.With her in the apartment, he couldn't concentrate on writing.Later, he found himself listening only to the sound of her bare feet in the next room, and sometimes he could have sworn he felt the child's eyes go into his back. At noon, the gatekeeper sent a notice.He recognized the gray paper and the red wax seal at once.Finally, the result came: the notice was to ask him to go to the Judicial Investigation Section to find the supervisor of PP Maximov and learn about PA Isaev.

He booked a ticket from Candle Street to the station, and from the station to the police station.The waiting room was full; he gave his name at the duty desk and waited.Just after the first stroke of four o'clock the officer on duty put down his pen, stretched himself, put out the lights, and began to usher the rest of the visitors out of the room. "What's the matter?" he protested. "Friday, get off work early," said the officer. "Come back tomorrow morning." At six o'clock he was waiting outside Yakovlev's shop.Anna Sergeyevna was a little alarmed at seeing him. "What about Matryosha—?" she asked.

"She was asleep when I left. I stopped at the pharmacy on the way and got her cough medicine." He pulled out a small brown glass vial. "Thank you." "The police station sent me to ask about Pavel's documents. I hope it will be completely resolved tomorrow." They walked for a while in silence.Anna Sergeyevna looked preoccupied.She finally spoke. "Is there any special reason why you insist on those documents?" "I'm amazed at what you're asking. What else has Pavel himself left behind? Nothing is more important to me than those documents. That's what he said to me." After a moment's pause, he Then he said, "Did you know he was writing a story?"

"He writes stories. Yeah, I know." "I was thinking of an article about fugitives." "I don't know about that one. Sometimes he reads to Matryosha and me what he's writing to see what we do. But none of it is about prisoners." "I don't know of any other stories." "Yes, there are stories. And poems—but he wouldn't show them to us. The police must have taken them. They took everything. They stayed in his room for a long time, everywhere. Searched it all. I didn't tell you. They even pried up the floor to see what was underneath. They took all the writing paper." "So Pavel's time is spent—writing?" She glanced at him curiously. "What do you think he's still doing?" He swallowed back the words on his lips. "With a father who is a writer, what do you expect him to do?" she went on. “Writing is not something that is passed down in family.” "Probably not. I can't say. But he doesn't intend to make a living writing. Maybe it's just his way of communicating with his father." He made an annoyed gesture.He thought to himself: I will love him even if I don't write stories!But he said in his mouth: "Father's love does not need to be fought for." She hesitated for a moment before speaking. "There is one thing I should remind you, Fyodor Mikhailovich. Pavel kind of adores his biological father - Alexander Isaev. I didn't want to mention it, but I figured you would Saw some traces in his files. You have to learn tolerance. Kids like to idealize their parents. Even Matrona—” "Idealize Isaev? Isaev is a drunkard, a bum, a bad husband. His wife, Pavel's biological mother, can hardly live with him. She would have broken up with him if he hadn't died first. How can you idealize such a person?" "Through a fog to see him, of course. It's hard for Pavel to see you through a fog. Because—how should I put it?—you're so close to him." "That's because I was the one who brought him up day by day. When everyone left him behind, I recognized him as my son." "Don't be so exaggerated. His biological parents didn't abandon him, they passed away. Besides, if you have the right to choose him as a son, why doesn't he have the right to choose a father for himself?" "Because he can surpass Isaev! It is a disease of our time that young people despise their parents, their families, their upbringing, because they are not happy with any of it unless they are asked to be Stenka Ra Children of Zin or Bakunin!" "You have no reason. Pavel didn't leave home. You left him." There was a sullen silence.When they reached Douqing Street, he said sorry and left her.