city, not far from the abattoirs. Nowhere had I seen more abject poverty. Below, a man with tattoos and the currish face of a criminal told me as he idly rinsed out cloudy glasses behind the bar that Michel lived at No. 34. Up and down the steep, narrowstairwell passed some rather suspect-looking people, and each floor bore the peculiar trace of some foul stench that seemed to permeate the entire building. Mishka was lying on the bed, unshaven, haggard and emaciated. By the head of the bed sat a woman of around sixty, clumsily trowelled in make-up and wearing a black dress and slippers. When I came in Mishka said to her in Russian:
“You may go now.”
She stood up and, with hardly any expression in her voice, said, “Goodbye,” her mouth agape, revealing a number of missing teeth, and left. I silently watched her go. Mishka asked:
“Don’t you recognize her?”
“No.”
“It’s Zina.”
“Which Zina?”
“You know, the famous one.”
I had never heard of any famous Zina.
“What is she famous for?”
“An artist’s sitter, a beauty. She was the lover of all the great artists. She was my lover, too, but now, you understand, all that’s a thing of the past. Women no longer exist for me; I’d be too out of breath. It was just before I was in Versailles that I had some business with this Albanian architect who had an imbroglio with my little Swiss—”
“Wait, wait,” I said. “Tell me a bit more about Zina.”
“She’s living with a marksman these days,” said Mishka. He was entirely sober—probably for the first time in a long while. “The little swine, we had a run-in around five years ago; he almost stole the money I’d just received from this English girl, she’d just got married and—”
“Did he steal it or not?”
“Steal it he did, but he gave it back. I twisted his arm. Such a mousey little swine, you know. Well, of course she gave him syphilis. From what I gather he’s always been a marksman, goes about telling some story involving a motorcycle, something about being arrested in Lyons. I say to him, ‘What good is Lyons when I remember you in the prison at Versailles?’ And prisons don’t come any worse, upon my word of honour, the Santé’s a thousand times better. God forbid you ever end up at Versailles, take this as a piece of friendly advice. It was Alexei Alexeyevich Chernov who wrote this chap’s entire life story for him—that, my friend, is talent. I even have something of his, typed out.”
And indeed he extracted from the shelf a dirty-grey notebook with very dog-eared corners and handed it to me. It was Chernov’s novel
Before the Storm.
I read the opening lines:
“A winter dusk was falling over Petersburg, majestic as always. Pyotr Ivanovich Belokonnikov, a wealthy man of forty, belonging both by birth and by the education he received in the Page Corps to the high society of thePalmyra of the North, was walking along the pavement, his fur coat undone. He had just taken leave of Betty, his mistress, and could not stop thinking about the marble white of her bosom and the burning caress of her sumptuous body.”
I questioned Mishka about these people whom he knew so well. Despite the disjointedness of the narrative, I nevertheless managed to ascertain that Alexei Alexeyevich Chernov was that ill-looking, shabbily dressed old man whom I had seen many times and who would ask me for alms at the entrance to the Russian church. I also learnt that Zina had a daughter, Lida, who was around twenty-six years old and had at one time been married to some Frenchman; he had died suddenly, poisoning was suspected, and Lida encountered some unpleasantness. I had already had occasion to note that in Mishka’s language the word “unpleasantness” more often than not denoted “prison”. These days she sold flowers in the streets somewhere.
I returned to Mishka’s hotel a few days later, but he was no longer there and no one could tell me what had happened to him.
“You may go now.”
She stood up and, with hardly any expression in her voice, said, “Goodbye,” her mouth agape, revealing a number of missing teeth, and left. I silently watched her go. Mishka asked:
“Don’t you recognize her?”
“No.”
“It’s Zina.”
“Which Zina?”
“You know, the famous one.”
I had never heard of any famous Zina.
“What is she famous for?”
“An artist’s sitter, a beauty. She was the lover of all the great artists. She was my lover, too, but now, you understand, all that’s a thing of the past. Women no longer exist for me; I’d be too out of breath. It was just before I was in Versailles that I had some business with this Albanian architect who had an imbroglio with my little Swiss—”
“Wait, wait,” I said. “Tell me a bit more about Zina.”
“She’s living with a marksman these days,” said Mishka. He was entirely sober—probably for the first time in a long while. “The little swine, we had a run-in around five years ago; he almost stole the money I’d just received from this English girl, she’d just got married and—”
“Did he steal it or not?”
“Steal it he did, but he gave it back. I twisted his arm. Such a mousey little swine, you know. Well, of course she gave him syphilis. From what I gather he’s always been a marksman, goes about telling some story involving a motorcycle, something about being arrested in Lyons. I say to him, ‘What good is Lyons when I remember you in the prison at Versailles?’ And prisons don’t come any worse, upon my word of honour, the Santé’s a thousand times better. God forbid you ever end up at Versailles, take this as a piece of friendly advice. It was Alexei Alexeyevich Chernov who wrote this chap’s entire life story for him—that, my friend, is talent. I even have something of his, typed out.”
And indeed he extracted from the shelf a dirty-grey notebook with very dog-eared corners and handed it to me. It was Chernov’s novel
Before the Storm.
I read the opening lines:
“A winter dusk was falling over Petersburg, majestic as always. Pyotr Ivanovich Belokonnikov, a wealthy man of forty, belonging both by birth and by the education he received in the Page Corps to the high society of thePalmyra of the North, was walking along the pavement, his fur coat undone. He had just taken leave of Betty, his mistress, and could not stop thinking about the marble white of her bosom and the burning caress of her sumptuous body.”
I questioned Mishka about these people whom he knew so well. Despite the disjointedness of the narrative, I nevertheless managed to ascertain that Alexei Alexeyevich Chernov was that ill-looking, shabbily dressed old man whom I had seen many times and who would ask me for alms at the entrance to the Russian church. I also learnt that Zina had a daughter, Lida, who was around twenty-six years old and had at one time been married to some Frenchman; he had died suddenly, poisoning was suspected, and Lida encountered some unpleasantness. I had already had occasion to note that in Mishka’s language the word “unpleasantness” more often than not denoted “prison”. These days she sold flowers in the streets somewhere.
I returned to Mishka’s hotel a few days later, but he was no longer there and no one could tell me what had happened to him.
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