Pushkin Hills / Заповедник. Книга для чтения на английском языке

A man in a Tyrolean hat[25 - Tyrolean hat – тирольская шляпа, головной убор, имеющий трапециевидную тулью и поля средней ширины, опущенные спереди и подвернутые вверх сзади] approached me timidly.

“My apologies, may I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Is that the expanse?”

“What do you mean?”

“I am asking you, is that the expanse?” The Tyrolean dragged me to an open window.

“In what sense?”

“In the most obvious. I would like to know whether that is the expanse or not? If it isn’t the expanse, just say so.”

“I don’t understand.”

The man turned slightly red and began to explain, hurriedly:

“I had a postcard… I am a cartophilist…”

“Who?”

“A cartophilist. I collect postcards. Philos – love, cartos…”

“OK, got it.”

“I own a colour postcard titled The Pskov Expanse. And now that I’m here I want to know – is that the expanse?”

“I don’t see why not,” I said.

“Typical Pskovian?”

“You bet[26 - You bet – Еще бы, еще как, конечно и т. д.].”

The man walked away, beaming.

The rush hour was over and the centre emptied.

“Each summer there’s a larger influx of tourists,” explained Galina.

And then, raising her voice slightly: “The prophecy came true: ‘The sacred path will not be overgrown…’[27 - The sacred path will not be overgrown: A deliberate distortion of Pushkin’s famous poem ‘Exegi monumentum’: “the people’s path will not be overgrown”. Dovlatov famously attempted never to have two words in one sentence begin with the same letter – Pushkin’s text “не зарастет народная тропа” has two Ns.]!”

No, I think not. How could it get overgrown, the poor thing, being trampled by squadrons of tourists?.

“Mornings here are a total clusterfuck,” said Galina.

And once again I was surprised by the unexpected turn of her language.

Galina introduced me to the office instructor, Lyudmila. I would secretly admire her smooth legs till the end of the season. Luda had an even and friendly temperament. This was explained by the existence of a fiancé. She hadn’t been marred by a constant readiness to make an angry rebuff. For now her fiancé was in jail…

Shortly after, an unattractive woman of about thirty appeared: the methodologist. Her name was Marianna Petrovna. Marianna had a neglected face without defects and an imperceptibly bad figure.

I explained my reason for being there. With a sceptical smile, she invited me to follow her to the office.

“Do you love Pushkin?”

I felt a muffled irritation.

“I do.”

At this rate[28 - at this rate – так; если так будет продолжаться], I thought, it won’t be long before I don’t.

“And may I ask you why?”

I caught her ironic glance. Evidently the love of Pushkin was the most widely circulated currency in these parts. What if I were a counterfeiter, God forbid?

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Why do you love Pushkin?”

“Let’s stop this idiotic test,” I burst out. “I graduated from school. And from university.” (Here I exaggerated a bit; I was expelled in my third year.) “I’ve read a few books. In short, I have a basic understanding… Besides, I’m only seeking a job as a tour guide…”

Luckily, my snap response went unnoticed. As I later learnt, basic rudeness was easier to get away with[29 - to get away with – сходить с рук] here than feigned aplomb.

“And nevertheless?” Marianna waited for an answer. What’s more, she waited for a specific answer she had been expecting.

“OK,” I said, “I’ll give it a try. Here we go. Pushkin is our belated Renaissance[30 - Renaissance – Ренессанс, или Возрождение, эпоха в истории культуры Европы (XV–XVI вв.)]. Like Goethe was for Weimar[31 - Goethe. Weimar – Иоганн Вольфганг фон Гёте (17491832), немецкий писатель, философ и государственный деятель. Веймар, город в Германии, где с 1775 по 1832 год жил Гёте]. They took upon themselves what the West had mastered in the fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Pushkin found a way to express social themes in the form of tragedy, a characteristic of the Renaissance. He and Goethe lived, if you will, in several eras. Werther is a tribute to sentimentalism. Prisoner of the Caucasus is a typically Byronesque work. But Faust, for instance – that’s already Elizabethan and the Little Tragedies naturally continue one of the Renaissance genres. The same with Pushkin’s lyricism. And if it’s dark, then it isn’t dark in the spirit of

Byron[32 - Werther… Prisoner of the Caucasus… Faust… Little Tragedies… Byron – «Страдания юного Вертера» (1774), сентиментальный роман Гёте. «Кавказский пленник» (1821), поэма Пушкина (1799–1837). «Фауст» (1774–1831), трагедия Гёте. «Маленькие трагедии» (1830), цикл коротких пьес Пушкина. Джордж Гордон Байрон (1788–1824), английский поэт-романтик] but more in the spirit of Shakespeare’s sonnets, I feel. Am I explaining myself clearly?”

“What has Goethe got to do with anything?” asked Marianna. “And the same goes for the Renaissance!”

“Nothing!” I finally exploded. “Goethe has absolutely nothing to do with this! And ‘Renaissance’ was the name of Don Quixote’s horse[33 - Don Quixote’s horse – Дон Кихот, герой романа испанского писателя Мигеля де Сервантеса (1547–1616), но имя коня Дон Кихота не Ренессанс, а Росинант.]. And it too has nothing to do with this! And evidently I have nothing to do with this either!”

“Please calm down,” whispered Marianna. “You’re a bundle of nerves… I only asked, ‘Why do you love Pushkin?’”

“To love publicly is obscene!” I yelled. “There is a special term for it in sexual pathology!”

With a shaking hand she extended me a glass of water. I pushed it away.

“Have you loved anyone? Ever?!”

I shouldn’t have said it. Now she’ll break down and start screaming: “I am thirty-four years old and I am single!”

“Pushkin is our pride and joy!” managed Marianna. “He is not only a great poet, he is also Russia’s great citizen…”

Apparently this was the prepared answer to her idiotic question.