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light/02
The tenements of Chapaevsky Passage had been built in 1934, the year of Esenin's conception, and as such still hearkened to a time before peepholes, when everyone was always surprised. Volunteering to answer the buzzer in 1957, their contemporary quickly became their latest victim. After a moment of staggering blankness he found himself clutching a sturdy doorknob. Then the leather cracked over his wits, to drive them boldly across a chasm between shutting the door and going for the horns.
"Nu, zdraste."
"Good evening." Panteleev had brought plums. He must have a going deal with the entire Farm Cooperative. The damning thing was, you really had to admire that caliber of workmanship. It was even the same suit.
"We are not conducting any interviews."
"Ogo?" Panteleev removed his ushanka. Catching Esenin eyeing the plums, he said, "These are not for you."
Pear was everywhere at once, as always suddenly, like a fart. Finding an arm stanchioned between her and Panteleev's person, she gave its elbow a close version of what was known throughout the West as the "Joint Crusher". The rest of her brother she dismissed completely. "Olezhka! Hi. Is that for us?"
"Where are my nine kopecks?" Panteleev put the plums out of reach.
She shrugged. "Coming along. You brought fruit? Pears?"
"Pfff, what else she's saying."
Both Esenin's elbow and his dignity felt pretty crushed. His anger was not at all the useful kind he had expected, which only made him more upset. "Pear," he said. "Go inside."
"Olezhka, Olezh, I do have a brand-new tramvaj booklet. Can you do parabolic equations?"
"I don't really know math," confessed Panteleev. "I am an artist. You've got a smart sister, Volodya."
Against a terrible urge to honor the joke Esenin said, "I forbid you to see her. To the death. The hell are you doing?"
"I am also smart," said his guest.
"For an artist," sneered Pear. "What, do you paint?" For some reason she reddened.
"Pear. Inside."
She ducked her brother's swoop for her scruff and ended up caught even more unbecomingly by one flaxen braid. The white tulle threaded through the plait immediately lost its last vestige of Pioneer virtue. Alerted by the commotion, Galina Andreyevna ran in, saw the fruit of her loins reenacting a classic tragedy, looked Panteleev up and down, and dried her hands. "Nu what," she told him in the tones of a horse-doctor breaking bad news. "Come in."
"Oleg Mikhailovich Panteleev. Very pleased."
Esenin did not fail to notice that it was perhaps the most appropriate handshake ever performed. "Now everybody's trotting over. Nu, that's it," he said, just as Pear overrode him with, "Mama, Oleg works with Vova. They are very good friends."
Galina Andreyevna considered this, the suit, and the hint of fur liner on the veteran ushanka. She said, "We've got the futbol match on in the kitchen."
"How nice! At home I don't have very good reception. Who's up?"
"CSK just scored a goal."
"Ogo!' Panteleev suddenly remembered to offer her the plums. They ran the simplest gamut of thanks, then stood politely apart. It was this that cast through the lens of Esenin's mind an unsparing replay of the earlier encounter with Liza's mother; the way he could tell instantly that she was gullible. It became impossible to distance himself.
"No. Inside, both of you. Agrafena, it's inside or upside the head. Now! Mama. Right now. This is finished."
"She's eighteen in two years, Vova," lied Galina Andreyevna. "Don't go falling out over two years."
"Nu, zdraste."
"Good evening." Panteleev had brought plums. He must have a going deal with the entire Farm Cooperative. The damning thing was, you really had to admire that caliber of workmanship. It was even the same suit.
"We are not conducting any interviews."
"Ogo?" Panteleev removed his ushanka. Catching Esenin eyeing the plums, he said, "These are not for you."
Pear was everywhere at once, as always suddenly, like a fart. Finding an arm stanchioned between her and Panteleev's person, she gave its elbow a close version of what was known throughout the West as the "Joint Crusher". The rest of her brother she dismissed completely. "Olezhka! Hi. Is that for us?"
"Where are my nine kopecks?" Panteleev put the plums out of reach.
She shrugged. "Coming along. You brought fruit? Pears?"
"Pfff, what else she's saying."
Both Esenin's elbow and his dignity felt pretty crushed. His anger was not at all the useful kind he had expected, which only made him more upset. "Pear," he said. "Go inside."
"Olezhka, Olezh, I do have a brand-new tramvaj booklet. Can you do parabolic equations?"
"I don't really know math," confessed Panteleev. "I am an artist. You've got a smart sister, Volodya."
Against a terrible urge to honor the joke Esenin said, "I forbid you to see her. To the death. The hell are you doing?"
"I am also smart," said his guest.
"For an artist," sneered Pear. "What, do you paint?" For some reason she reddened.
"Pear. Inside."
She ducked her brother's swoop for her scruff and ended up caught even more unbecomingly by one flaxen braid. The white tulle threaded through the plait immediately lost its last vestige of Pioneer virtue. Alerted by the commotion, Galina Andreyevna ran in, saw the fruit of her loins reenacting a classic tragedy, looked Panteleev up and down, and dried her hands. "Nu what," she told him in the tones of a horse-doctor breaking bad news. "Come in."
"Oleg Mikhailovich Panteleev. Very pleased."
Esenin did not fail to notice that it was perhaps the most appropriate handshake ever performed. "Now everybody's trotting over. Nu, that's it," he said, just as Pear overrode him with, "Mama, Oleg works with Vova. They are very good friends."
Galina Andreyevna considered this, the suit, and the hint of fur liner on the veteran ushanka. She said, "We've got the futbol match on in the kitchen."
"How nice! At home I don't have very good reception. Who's up?"
"CSK just scored a goal."
"Ogo!' Panteleev suddenly remembered to offer her the plums. They ran the simplest gamut of thanks, then stood politely apart. It was this that cast through the lens of Esenin's mind an unsparing replay of the earlier encounter with Liza's mother; the way he could tell instantly that she was gullible. It became impossible to distance himself.
"No. Inside, both of you. Agrafena, it's inside or upside the head. Now! Mama. Right now. This is finished."
"She's eighteen in two years, Vova," lied Galina Andreyevna. "Don't go falling out over two years."