The Life of an Unknown Man by Andreï Makine Page A

in the old days…
    “Yes, this is pure Ionesco!” Yana exclaims, anticipating his question. “No, I must tell you. We managed to clear four communal apartments and that was on two floors. Eleven rooms to be joined up, twenty-six people to be relocated! A real estate management maneuver crazier than a game of chess. We’ve rehoused them all. For some of them we had to make a triple swap. Piles of paper, lots of red tape, palm greasing. I’ll spare you the details. In the end both floors were ours. There was just this room. With a housewarming gift in it! Yes, this old man (he’s paraplegic, poor thing), who was due to be admitted to an old people’s home ten days ago. And then, what happens? We have this wretched tercentenary, the city’s all closed off. And lo and behold, we have to live with a grandfather who doesn’t even belong to us! Well, actually, the day after tomorrow he’s going to be moved. But, as I say, it’s like the play by Ionesco, you remember, that apartment where there’s a corpse and no one knows how to get rid of it…”
    The comparison is rather dubious and to retrieve the situation, Yana knocks on the door. “Georgy Lvovich, may we come in to say hello?” To Shutov she murmurs: “I think he’s a bit deaf. And what’s more, he’s lost… the power of speech.”
    It is a slip of the tongue this “power of speech”; she should have said “he has aphasia” or “he’s mute.” But they are already entering the room.
    An old man lies on a bed constructed from nickel-plated tubes, of a type Shutov believed had long since disappeared. On his night table is a cup in which a tea bag is macerating, and the glint of thick bifocal glasses. His eyes return Shutov’s look, with perfect lucidity. “It’s all been arranged, Georgy Lvovich. You’ll be in good hands very soon.” Yana speaks in loud and artificially cheerful tones. “The doctors are going to take you right out into the country. You’ll be able to hear the birds singing…” The old man’s face remains unchanged, maintaining its air of grave detachment, with no hint of bitter tension, showing no inclination to make contact through facial expression in default of language. Does he understand everything? Almost certainly, even though his only response is to close his eyes. “Fine. Have a good rest, Georgy Lvovich. Vlad’s here all the time if you need anything…” With a little tilt of her head, Yana indicates to Shutov that the visit is at an end. As he backs out he notices a book lying on the bed: the old man’s hand is touching the volume as if it were a living being.
    Yana closes the door and raises her eyebrows with a sigh. “For someone of his generation it would have been better to depart this world before the latest upheavals. Do you know what monthly pension he gets? One thousand two hundred. Rubles. Forty dollars. That’s enough to strike you dumb. After fighting in the war all the way to Berlin. But, you know, these days, nobody could give a damn! And it’s a crying shame we can’t hear his voice anymore. He was a professional singer. His neighbors told me that in the war, well, during the siege of Leningrad, he went out with a whole choir to sing to the troops…”
    She starts walking again, stops in front of an open window. A bright fresh May evening, strangely autumnal in feel. “You see, when we were young we didn’t have time to talk to people like him. But now he’s the one who can’t speak…”
    Shutov is preparing to tell her why he came, to remind her of their youth… “Guess what this is!” Yana insists, resuming her tour guide’s voice. A huge marble hand placed on an occasional table in the entrance hall to the apartment. “It’s Slava’s hand!” Perceiving Shutov’s puzzled expression, she pulls a surprised face, as if failing to recognize “Slava’s hand” were a flagrant breach of taste. “Yes, Rostropovich’s hand. He’s a friend. It was my idea. Everyone has visiting