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light/04
The black frames were repaired at both hinges. Esenin wiped the lenses, then worried if he shouldn't have. Thudding along the tunnel under Leninsky Prospect, he put the glasses in his breast pocket. As he arranged his coat again he could feel the jut of them against his chest, with nothing to cushion it but a reworn alcogolichka and a cotton shirt. It was too public a sensation for the Metro, as intrusive as open tears. Esenin's heart pumped like he was running. He pretended the glasses weren't there. When that didn't work, he pretended they were just a piece of clothing, only strange against his skin until his nerves dismissed them. Perhaps he had gotten away with it. He couldn't have gotten away with it. Perhaps, having noticed their absence, Panteleev was going to spring full-formed from the crowd pushing into the train. Esenin chuffed at the thought, but considering a moment longer moved the horn-rims back to their original location. That all this occupied him so much more than Pear's safety would strike home only later.
On the walk along the riverbank, drops caught by wind began to find his skin. More dotted the marble flags, the malachite of the water, but the rain never came. By the time Esenin stood with hands braced on the low wall of the ice rink, the air was feathered with white. Snow was everywhere: in Esenin's lashes, in the curls of hatless girls, dying under skates and settling fatly to vanish on the tepid earth of the park. The girls wheeled about the rental line, laughing and checking their hair. Across the rink, brushing flakes from his eyes, Esenin searched their kaleidoscope for of Liza's coat.
It didn't take long. She was beside the line, waiting with a small clutch of friends. Esenin made to go over. He was going to go over any minute. It shouldn't take him more than a few to smarten up.
Presently he saw the friends moving off. They were getting in line, and Liza was moving too, straight for the facing wall of the ice rink.
Esenin didn't even think. He ducked. Following a shameful moment spent inspecting his shoes, someone's knee gave him a nudge.
"Watch it," he told the knee, and cast a look of grievance up into the face of a horrible apparition.
"Excuse me," said Panteleev, and nudged him again. "What are you doing? Hiding?"
"Aah," said Esenin, and reflexively hit the offending kneecap.
"Ukhh! Son of a bitch!"
"Did you follow me? What is wrong with you?"
"What is wrong with you, always hitting people for no reason? Give back my glasses."
"What glasses," said Esenin, in a breath as conspicuous as the plume of a steam train. "Is my sister with you?"
"Who knows. Give, give. Give."
"Ah." Esenin checked his breast pocket first, and felt his face heating. There was a brush as he gave them up. Panteleev's hands were cold. "Here. Now you can see again."
"Praise the people."
"Where's Pear?"
"Good question. But we had a nice talk."
"A nice talk."
"Yes."
The thought of Pear's safety struck home right about then. Esenin tamped it down as much as he could. "Crawl off," he said evenly.
"Don't cheapen it," said Panteleev. "Nu? Who're you hiding from?"
Esenin tried to be angry, but he was trying harder not to watch as the glasses vanished again. Panteleev was shivering quite a bit; he had on only his daytime jacket, so he must have really wanted them back. Panteleev had a screw loose. "Do you even need those?"
"Do you? You're the one who stole them. Is it your fiancee?"
"Ah? No."
"Is it... her husband?"
Esenin raised his eyebrows. "Crawl off, da?"
"You sure have a lot of girls. Who is it?"
"Nobody. Stop gaping around, she'll see."
"She won't be looking for me. Who is it? Are you going over?"
"Yes," said Esenin, but did not get up.
"Nu?" The knee nudged him again. "Go stick it in before someone else does. Rent her a little pair of skates, have a good time. You know what that is, right?"
Crouched on the ground, socks cold and wet, face cold and wet, Esenin wished Panteleev would just go away. Liza could just go away, too, and his mother, and his aunts, and his uncle who knew astronomy and had looked just like Esenin until something in the war set his face wrong. The Aviation Institute could vanish from the face of the planet, and all of its staff, especially the directors who could let a man like Panteleev in the door. Lyonka could never phone him again, or be sorry. Had Esenin not earned the right to solitude? To do what he wanted? He did not want this. "A good time? No! What is this thing, a good time?" He gave a wide shrug. "I do not understand. Perhaps I should go spend money on some girl, and listen to her flap her lip, and let her trap me by getting knocked up! Genius! Worthy of a People's Prize in Sociology! How did I not think of it myself?"
Which really wrenched things, except Esenin didn't care. He actually laughed a little. Not like anyone was around to lose respect.
"You're kind of a piece of work, eh." Panteleev had stopped shivering, and now just looked at him. He did not stare, he looked. His eyes kept moving.
"Da. You would know."
Panteleev didn't laugh, but he didn't seem wounded, either. He crouched down beside Esenin and asked, "Want me to go tell her? I'll say you couldn't make it."
"No."
"Which girl?"
"No."
"Could sh—"
"No."
"My god. Have you ever squeezed out an actual shit?"
"Yes."
"She'll spot you trying to run off, you know."
The way back out the gate was forty-five radial degrees from either side of the rink. Panteleev was probably right. Not that he cared about being right; being right was an arbitrary side-effect of speaking so even-handedly, with such eye-to-eye emphasis that his marks wouldn't notice he hadn't bothered to check. Esenin noticed. He set Panteleev loose anyway.
Panteleev stumbled off hunched over, possibly with cold. Whether he owned actual outerwear remained a mystery. He might hang around coat-checks all winter long, having his pick. To work he had only ever worn a jacket. The jacket was a color between clean and dirty, like an ostrich egg. The ground was patchy brown, patchy gray. Sneaking up on people was very likely something Panteleev dressed for, and practiced every day. When he spotted Liza, his shoulders drew right back into posture. It was amazing. He must have got ten centimeters taller.
"Excuse me," he would say, or, "Young woman," or, "You'll never believe who I just saw." He would say it in an undertone, anything but manfully, as if the intrusion embarrassed him. Then, when Liza was sufficiently confused, the smile would slip helplessly from his eyes to his mouth. "Sorry," or, "Liza?" or, "Good evening," or, "You don't know me, but..." or, "He's over there. Ah, no, you wouldn't know me. Hello."
Liza had on orange gloves. Against the rest of her they showed up like a couple of puppets in a light-curtain stage play. First they idled at her sides, then they flew up to her mouth. Esenin spent a few mad seconds imagining Panteleev saying, "Be glad he will live." His own hands made to mimic Liza's before he could stop them. But no, Liza was nodding. Her gloves touched her hair, then Panteleev's bare hands. They pointed to her friends in line, and made Panteleev laugh, and flew up again to lightly cover Liza's disappointment. Full marks, thought Esenin. Five with a plus. He left. Which is to say, he made a dash out the gate and all the way down the park slope, slowing only along the riverbank, once sure that he had safely outpaced his sense of decency. It was not a triumph.
The snow wasn't really touching the ground yet. Esenin had made tracks only figuratively, so Panteleev was probably psychic. And quicker than decency of any sort.
"Don't just rabbit off," he panted, catching up. "Now you owe me."
Esenin said "Shit," but he said it promptly, like a line. He should have stuck to his initial strategy of hiding. "Is that your dying breath, or what?"
"I'm just not used to running from responsibility. Wait up, wait up." Panteleev stopped briefly to put his hands low on his hips, hack and spit.
Esenin slowed only for the space to ask, "What did you tell Liza?"
"First things first," said Panteleev, straightening with a sharp eye. "I want a little drink."
"On whose little kopeck?"
"Hand over ten rubles." No doubt Panteleev was serious. You could see the glint of opportunity filling his whole face.
"What did you tell Liza?"
"You're invited to present at MGU tomorrow morning. Congratulations. Ten rubles."
"Go with your ten rubles. What kind of ten rubles do I even have?"
"Check your wallet," said Panteleev with a jerk of his chin. "You're saving for sunglasses." To Esenin's reaction he added, "See, I know such a lot about you."
"Do you," said Esenin. "Keep barking. I don't care."
He was surprised to find he very nearly didn't. Threats might even encourage him to murder Panteleev outright, which would be nice. But he went for his wallet anyway. Not as much because he wanted to be left alone as because he thought they might touch hands again. Esenin wanted to take that sensation into the empty week with him, to nurture on his sofa beneath the nymphs. It couldn't count as throwing good money after bad if he was ready to pay so much. He had after all been made to return the glasses.
But Panteleev did not take the bills, causing in Esenin a brief swell of distress. "Dasss," he said to the small fortune under his nose. Then he made a dome with his fingers and put it over Esenin's hand. "Volodya, you depress me. Go home."
"What'd you climb all over me for, then? Calisthenics?"
"Who stole my stuff?" Esenin didn't respond, so Panteleev said, "Gm. A likely story. Well, good night," and walked off.
The wind from the river had gotten to confusing the snowflakes, saving them from the embankment, sending them right back to where they came from. Esenin was tired, and cold, and happy to have got his share for free. He put away the money. He didn't consider Liza then, only whether or not Panteleev was welcome in leading the way back to the Metro. Panteleev had that kind of psychic gravity, like a sun.
"I'm in a hurry," he told Esenin at length. Panteleev's stride was comparatively long, and combined with his customary hunch and current ill humor made him appear to pace. He seemed annoyed to find Esenin keeping up. "Why're you bothering me all of a sudden? Trying to make friends?"
Esenin stepped away, crossed the street.
But following the interchange at Belorusskaya, Panteleev's actual destination began to seem rather suspicious. Having ended up on the other end of the wagon, Esenin shoved across like a contrary sardine and silently gripped the same handrail.
Panteleev ignored him for half a stop, then turned with a wide eye. "Oi, if it isn't Volodya Esenin, goggling like a ram at new gates! What do you want?"
But Esenin, impatient to dry his socks by the kitchen radiator, was not about let any more of Panteleev's bullshit deter him. He blew out through his nose and said, "Da. Where do you live, exactly?"
"Err," said Panteleev. "Definitely this way."
"Which station?"
"Excuse me. Do you own the Metro?"
Esenin let that go. At Dinamo, he didn't even need to count the seconds between the opening and closing of the doors; the interval was printed on his psyche by years of peak hours and busy weekends. At the very last moment, he nimbly pushed past the latecomers and exited onto the platform. He checked for pursuit along the full of its rosy marble, all the way up to the stiles, whereupon a bit of triumph came to him at last.
On the walk along the riverbank, drops caught by wind began to find his skin. More dotted the marble flags, the malachite of the water, but the rain never came. By the time Esenin stood with hands braced on the low wall of the ice rink, the air was feathered with white. Snow was everywhere: in Esenin's lashes, in the curls of hatless girls, dying under skates and settling fatly to vanish on the tepid earth of the park. The girls wheeled about the rental line, laughing and checking their hair. Across the rink, brushing flakes from his eyes, Esenin searched their kaleidoscope for of Liza's coat.
It didn't take long. She was beside the line, waiting with a small clutch of friends. Esenin made to go over. He was going to go over any minute. It shouldn't take him more than a few to smarten up.
Presently he saw the friends moving off. They were getting in line, and Liza was moving too, straight for the facing wall of the ice rink.
Esenin didn't even think. He ducked. Following a shameful moment spent inspecting his shoes, someone's knee gave him a nudge.
"Watch it," he told the knee, and cast a look of grievance up into the face of a horrible apparition.
"Excuse me," said Panteleev, and nudged him again. "What are you doing? Hiding?"
"Aah," said Esenin, and reflexively hit the offending kneecap.
"Ukhh! Son of a bitch!"
"Did you follow me? What is wrong with you?"
"What is wrong with you, always hitting people for no reason? Give back my glasses."
"What glasses," said Esenin, in a breath as conspicuous as the plume of a steam train. "Is my sister with you?"
"Who knows. Give, give. Give."
"Ah." Esenin checked his breast pocket first, and felt his face heating. There was a brush as he gave them up. Panteleev's hands were cold. "Here. Now you can see again."
"Praise the people."
"Where's Pear?"
"Good question. But we had a nice talk."
"A nice talk."
"Yes."
The thought of Pear's safety struck home right about then. Esenin tamped it down as much as he could. "Crawl off," he said evenly.
"Don't cheapen it," said Panteleev. "Nu? Who're you hiding from?"
Esenin tried to be angry, but he was trying harder not to watch as the glasses vanished again. Panteleev was shivering quite a bit; he had on only his daytime jacket, so he must have really wanted them back. Panteleev had a screw loose. "Do you even need those?"
"Do you? You're the one who stole them. Is it your fiancee?"
"Ah? No."
"Is it... her husband?"
Esenin raised his eyebrows. "Crawl off, da?"
"You sure have a lot of girls. Who is it?"
"Nobody. Stop gaping around, she'll see."
"She won't be looking for me. Who is it? Are you going over?"
"Yes," said Esenin, but did not get up.
"Nu?" The knee nudged him again. "Go stick it in before someone else does. Rent her a little pair of skates, have a good time. You know what that is, right?"
Crouched on the ground, socks cold and wet, face cold and wet, Esenin wished Panteleev would just go away. Liza could just go away, too, and his mother, and his aunts, and his uncle who knew astronomy and had looked just like Esenin until something in the war set his face wrong. The Aviation Institute could vanish from the face of the planet, and all of its staff, especially the directors who could let a man like Panteleev in the door. Lyonka could never phone him again, or be sorry. Had Esenin not earned the right to solitude? To do what he wanted? He did not want this. "A good time? No! What is this thing, a good time?" He gave a wide shrug. "I do not understand. Perhaps I should go spend money on some girl, and listen to her flap her lip, and let her trap me by getting knocked up! Genius! Worthy of a People's Prize in Sociology! How did I not think of it myself?"
Which really wrenched things, except Esenin didn't care. He actually laughed a little. Not like anyone was around to lose respect.
"You're kind of a piece of work, eh." Panteleev had stopped shivering, and now just looked at him. He did not stare, he looked. His eyes kept moving.
"Da. You would know."
Panteleev didn't laugh, but he didn't seem wounded, either. He crouched down beside Esenin and asked, "Want me to go tell her? I'll say you couldn't make it."
"No."
"Which girl?"
"No."
"Could sh—"
"No."
"My god. Have you ever squeezed out an actual shit?"
"Yes."
"She'll spot you trying to run off, you know."
The way back out the gate was forty-five radial degrees from either side of the rink. Panteleev was probably right. Not that he cared about being right; being right was an arbitrary side-effect of speaking so even-handedly, with such eye-to-eye emphasis that his marks wouldn't notice he hadn't bothered to check. Esenin noticed. He set Panteleev loose anyway.
Panteleev stumbled off hunched over, possibly with cold. Whether he owned actual outerwear remained a mystery. He might hang around coat-checks all winter long, having his pick. To work he had only ever worn a jacket. The jacket was a color between clean and dirty, like an ostrich egg. The ground was patchy brown, patchy gray. Sneaking up on people was very likely something Panteleev dressed for, and practiced every day. When he spotted Liza, his shoulders drew right back into posture. It was amazing. He must have got ten centimeters taller.
"Excuse me," he would say, or, "Young woman," or, "You'll never believe who I just saw." He would say it in an undertone, anything but manfully, as if the intrusion embarrassed him. Then, when Liza was sufficiently confused, the smile would slip helplessly from his eyes to his mouth. "Sorry," or, "Liza?" or, "Good evening," or, "You don't know me, but..." or, "He's over there. Ah, no, you wouldn't know me. Hello."
Liza had on orange gloves. Against the rest of her they showed up like a couple of puppets in a light-curtain stage play. First they idled at her sides, then they flew up to her mouth. Esenin spent a few mad seconds imagining Panteleev saying, "Be glad he will live." His own hands made to mimic Liza's before he could stop them. But no, Liza was nodding. Her gloves touched her hair, then Panteleev's bare hands. They pointed to her friends in line, and made Panteleev laugh, and flew up again to lightly cover Liza's disappointment. Full marks, thought Esenin. Five with a plus. He left. Which is to say, he made a dash out the gate and all the way down the park slope, slowing only along the riverbank, once sure that he had safely outpaced his sense of decency. It was not a triumph.
The snow wasn't really touching the ground yet. Esenin had made tracks only figuratively, so Panteleev was probably psychic. And quicker than decency of any sort.
"Don't just rabbit off," he panted, catching up. "Now you owe me."
Esenin said "Shit," but he said it promptly, like a line. He should have stuck to his initial strategy of hiding. "Is that your dying breath, or what?"
"I'm just not used to running from responsibility. Wait up, wait up." Panteleev stopped briefly to put his hands low on his hips, hack and spit.
Esenin slowed only for the space to ask, "What did you tell Liza?"
"First things first," said Panteleev, straightening with a sharp eye. "I want a little drink."
"On whose little kopeck?"
"Hand over ten rubles." No doubt Panteleev was serious. You could see the glint of opportunity filling his whole face.
"What did you tell Liza?"
"You're invited to present at MGU tomorrow morning. Congratulations. Ten rubles."
"Go with your ten rubles. What kind of ten rubles do I even have?"
"Check your wallet," said Panteleev with a jerk of his chin. "You're saving for sunglasses." To Esenin's reaction he added, "See, I know such a lot about you."
"Do you," said Esenin. "Keep barking. I don't care."
He was surprised to find he very nearly didn't. Threats might even encourage him to murder Panteleev outright, which would be nice. But he went for his wallet anyway. Not as much because he wanted to be left alone as because he thought they might touch hands again. Esenin wanted to take that sensation into the empty week with him, to nurture on his sofa beneath the nymphs. It couldn't count as throwing good money after bad if he was ready to pay so much. He had after all been made to return the glasses.
But Panteleev did not take the bills, causing in Esenin a brief swell of distress. "Dasss," he said to the small fortune under his nose. Then he made a dome with his fingers and put it over Esenin's hand. "Volodya, you depress me. Go home."
"What'd you climb all over me for, then? Calisthenics?"
"Who stole my stuff?" Esenin didn't respond, so Panteleev said, "Gm. A likely story. Well, good night," and walked off.
The wind from the river had gotten to confusing the snowflakes, saving them from the embankment, sending them right back to where they came from. Esenin was tired, and cold, and happy to have got his share for free. He put away the money. He didn't consider Liza then, only whether or not Panteleev was welcome in leading the way back to the Metro. Panteleev had that kind of psychic gravity, like a sun.
"I'm in a hurry," he told Esenin at length. Panteleev's stride was comparatively long, and combined with his customary hunch and current ill humor made him appear to pace. He seemed annoyed to find Esenin keeping up. "Why're you bothering me all of a sudden? Trying to make friends?"
Esenin stepped away, crossed the street.
But following the interchange at Belorusskaya, Panteleev's actual destination began to seem rather suspicious. Having ended up on the other end of the wagon, Esenin shoved across like a contrary sardine and silently gripped the same handrail.
Panteleev ignored him for half a stop, then turned with a wide eye. "Oi, if it isn't Volodya Esenin, goggling like a ram at new gates! What do you want?"
But Esenin, impatient to dry his socks by the kitchen radiator, was not about let any more of Panteleev's bullshit deter him. He blew out through his nose and said, "Da. Where do you live, exactly?"
"Err," said Panteleev. "Definitely this way."
"Which station?"
"Excuse me. Do you own the Metro?"
Esenin let that go. At Dinamo, he didn't even need to count the seconds between the opening and closing of the doors; the interval was printed on his psyche by years of peak hours and busy weekends. At the very last moment, he nimbly pushed past the latecomers and exited onto the platform. He checked for pursuit along the full of its rosy marble, all the way up to the stiles, whereupon a bit of triumph came to him at last.