Russian Gothic E-Book

Aleksandr Skorobogatov

• Herausgeber: Old Street Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 155

Beschreibung

'A great Russian novel… in the grand Russian tradition' LE FIGAROYears after the death of their beloved son, there is a knock at the door of Nikolai and Vera's apartment. Introducing himself simply as 'Sergeant Bertrand', the unknown visitor triggers a precipitous journey into the depths of the human soul.Hailed as an early masterpiece of post-Soviet literature, Russian Gothic is now available in English for the first time. Three decades after it was written, its complex portrait of grief, misogyny, violence – and love – is as fresh, shocking and relevant as ever.

Leseprobe

SELECTED PRAISE FOR RUSSIAN GOTHIC

‘Sublime and breathtaking’ Lektuurgids

‘Heart-rending realism’ Nouvel Observateur

‘A thrilling novel about guilt and atonement’De Volkskrant

‘What writers like Dostoyevsky, Chekhov, and Gogol did over a century ago, Skorobogatov now does in a modern guise, giving shape to the Russian soul in a story about love and revenge.’ Noord Hollands Dagblad

RUSSIAN GOTHIC

ALEKSANDR SKOROBOGATOV

TRANSLATED BY ILONA YAZHBIN CHAVASSE

For my beloved daughters, Katrien and Liza

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGEDEDICATIONSERGEANT BERTRANDBUTTERFLYTHE ZOOVERANIGHTSTHE TREES OUTSIDE THE WINDOWLONG DREAMSTHEATRETHE OLD MAN WITH BINOCULARSEVENINGCHURCHHOPESPRINGTHE VISITHOSPITALLEONIDTHE SCARTHE TALKMORNINGTHE CEMETERYSERGEANT BERTRANDABOUT THE AUTHORCOPYRIGHT

They say he murdered women, using a short-bladed knife with a crooked bone handle to rip open their bellies, and then burrowed his feet inside. He liked to wiggle his toes in there, but he didn’t like it at all when the women screamed. They say that happened sometimes, when he didn’t kill them straight away. Then he would grow angry and his pleasure was quite ruined. Yet this was rare, very rare. After all, he was good at killing people, a master of his craft.

They say he called himself for some reason Sergeant Bertrand; a peculiar name. They say he was arrested and executed by firing squad, but I’ve also heard that as he walked down the gloomy tunnel towards his death, towards the firing squad with their pre-war rifles, he vanished. They heard his heavy footsteps reverberating in the dark, and then nothing – they suddenly stopped, as though the Sergeant had stopped walking. There was nowhere to hide in that tunnel, and yet he was never found. He had vanished – the man who called himself Sergeant Bertrand.

But it’s also possible, and this is much more likely, that he never existed at all, this person whom others for some reason had named Sergeant Bertrand even though he already had a name of his own…

Surely he must have had a name? What was it?

SERGEANT BERTRAND

When did it begin? Nikolai could no longer say for sure. Perhaps one evening the front door had swung open and the man simply strolled in. Smiling calmly, he took off his hat and kissed the hand of Nikolai’s wife, before making his way over to Nikolai himself. He greeted Nikolai like an old friend, sat on the chair beside his bed and peered at him with a solemn sort of sympathy. For some reason it occurred to Nikolai that this would be precisely how the Sergeant would appear at his, Nikolai’s, funeral – solemn and concerned. Yes, that was what Nikolai thought the very first time Bertrand came into his room.

Or perhaps it hadn’t happened that way at all. On the contrary, maybe they had been having breakfast, and Vera had just brought in the teapot, a little cloud of steam escaping the spout with each step she took. In front of Nikolai was a plateful of fried eggs (along with pinkish tomato wedges, pinkish slices of fried sausage, needle-like sprigs of dill) and a shot of vodka, just poured and still trembling in a pretty, gold-rimmed shot glass. Vera bent down to kiss Nikolai’s head. He nodded, knocked back the vodka with a violent tilt of the head, exhaled noisily, and then, hunching low over his plate as always, forked the first bit of egg.

At that moment the doorbell rang. It went on for some time.

‘Doorbell,’ he said. It seemed Vera hadn’t heard.

‘What did you say?’

‘Someone’s ringing the doorbell,’ repeated Nikolai, irritated.

‘Oh, sorry,’ said his wife. ‘I was miles away. I’ll go and open the door – you eat.’

Vera sprang lightly to her feet and ran out into the corridor. He heard the click of the lock and then whispers. If she’d spoken normally, chances are Nikolai wouldn’t have pricked up his ears, would never have wondered who was at the door, and why. But Vera was whispering, and that told him right away that she wished to conceal the conversation from him.

On tiptoes, still grasping his fork, Nikolai crept to the entrance hall. With each step the whispering grew louder. As he neared the door, he began to make out some words. He heard Vera say, ‘No, he’s still at home,’ and then, ‘I’ll phone once he’s gone.’ Who was she talking about? Who was ‘at home’ besides himself? And who was she planning to phone ‘once he’d gone’? The door slammed shut and Nikolai hurried back to the table. He was out of breath. He poured himself another shot, spilling some vodka onto the tablecloth.

Vera came into the room and sat down again. She seemed more cheerful, as if the encounter at the door had pleasantly excited her.

‘Who was it?’ Nikolai asked casually, spearing an elusive bit of tomato, not looking at her.

‘I don’t know,’ said Vera.

‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ Nikolai dropped his fork and turned towards her. ‘You don’t know who you were just speaking to?’

His wife looked at him in confusion. ‘There was no one there… Maybe you just imagined it? Or it could have been kids? You know, they ring the doorbell then run away.’

‘But I heard…’

Nikolai cut himself short. It would be a mistake to admit he had actually heard her whispering with someone.

‘What did you hear?’

‘Nothing.’

He went to the front door and listened: the sound of unhurried footsteps descending. Quietly, trying not to let the lock click, he opened the door and peered over the railings down the stairwell. He couldn’t see the owner of the footsteps. There was a smell of burning. Nikolai glanced back towards the door – Vera was watching him with frightened eyes from the hallway – then raced down the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible. The heavy front door slammed. On the first-floor landing Nikolai paused; the staircase below him was empty. He ran down the last flight, shoved open the front door and raced outside. Bright daylight momentarily blinded him. Thick black smoke billowed from the large communal trash container: the trash was burning. The stench made Nikolai’s stomach heave. The yard was empty, but out of the corner of his eye Nikolai saw someone disappear behind the trash container. Chasing after the figure, he ran straight into the suffocating cloud of black smoke and was forced to shut his eyes and hold his breath. When he emerged and opened his eyes again there was no one there. He stood scanning the yard, then ran to investigate the stairwell of the next-door building, the one nearest the container with its smouldering heap of leather or rubber or whatever it was – but that was empty too. So was the next-door yard, except for some boys kicking about a flaccid rubber football. Their snot-nosed goalkeeper kept fiddling uselessly with his ragged, over-sized leather gloves. Beyond that was the road and the rush of passing cars. A bus was pulling away from the stop and an old lady with a bagful of sprouted potatoes stared at Nikolai with complete indifference, just standing there barefoot by the side of the road. He almost burst into tears on the way home.

‘What’s wrong?’ Vera asked sympathetically, meeting him in the hall. She tried to run a hand through his hair. ‘Are you feeling ill?’

‘I’m feeling fine,’ he said, flicking her hand away, and went straight to his room, slamming the door behind him.

‘I’m feeling just wonderful,’ he said in the bedroom, where he collapsed onto the bed and covered his face with his hands – just as their young son had done when he was overcome by childish tears and trying to hide them – and as he, Nikolai, always did when he felt upset and frightened and tired of living and only wanted one thing, one simple thing, to die there and then, that very second, at once. It was absurd, he knew. After all, how could he die, leaving her all alone in the world?

***

Perhaps that was how Sergeant Bertrand first visited, while they were having breakfast. But Nikolai had his doubts. More likely, it had been in the evening. Nikolai remembered it was dark outside. He had been lying in bed with another headache, feeling queasy and too hot, unable to get comfortable under the covers. Vera was by herself in the living room, sitting at the table… yes, that’s right… and then the doorbell rang.

Vera led Bertrand to the living room. They made sure that the door to Nikolai’s room was tightly shut. Then Vera held out her hands to him, and Bertrand pressed them ardently to his lips.

BUTTERFLY

After that first time, Sergeant Bertrand became a frequent visitor. If Vera happened to be home, he’d walk over to her smiling and kiss her hand – many times, each and every finger, as though Vera were his wife – or rather, as it seemed to Nikolai, his mistress. Vera would smile back at him languidly – a look so familiar and so agonisingly dear to Nikolai – then she would tip back her head so that her neck could be admired. Sometimes she would half-close her eyes with the sweet torment of it, sweet and sharp all at once.

Bertrand was tall and upright: he never slouched. His movements were vigorous and brisk, as if premeditated and measured out in advance. His hair was cut very short, military-style. His eyes were sky blue and bottomless.

***

Even that very first time, Nikolai had been unpleasantly struck by the easy familiarity of Bertrand’s kissing Vera’s hands, completely unfazed by his presence. When he recalled that night, Nikolai couldn’t fathom how it was that he hadn’t got out of bed – and hadn’t said a word about it to Bertrand since, never mind stopped them. Although to be fair, there was a simple explanation: it was Bertrand’s first visit, and Nikolai felt awkward and embarrassed. It would cause a scandal, he would have to shout, even fight. With a man visiting for the first time, a guest…

***

The next morning his first thought was of the smile he had seen on his wife’s face. Vera had not been able to restrain herself after giving both her hands to Bertrand, even though she knew perfectly well that Nikolai was in the next room and could easily be watching from behind the door. She hadn’t smiled like that at Nikolai for ages, though there was a time – before, oh God, before their son died – when it had been her usual smile. He almost never saw it these days, and then, only in the most intimate, secret moments of their life together. What was it about the faint, vague movement of her lips that stirred him so?

He was stunned by how brazenly Vera lied to him, to his face, feigning incomprehension at first, then pretending to be offended. With her face turned to the wall she would weep, her frail, naked shoulder trembling above the collar of her slipping nightgown. He had expected her to make excuses, to beg forgiveness, plead with him to forget her terrible mistake, never to be repeated, of course not, never, not for anything. God, what a lie it was, an endless stream of shameless lies… But he was fully prepared, once the necessary assurances had been made, to forgive, to forgive and even to believe again, because with all his heart he wanted to believe her, he so passionately wanted to believe her, so much that his heart broke in anticipation of the lies, and ridiculous as it sounds, he was, yes, heartsick… She only had to ask forgiveness and all would be forgiven, understood, forgotten – but no, none of that happened, instead of begging forgiveness she insisted that no one had visited during the previous evening, that she didn’t know anyone called Bertrand, that nobody had kissed her hands, she had spent all evening reading by the table, she’d only stepped out once to look in on the lady next door… That’s what it was called now, it seemed – ‘looking in on the lady next door.’ Well at least it was only once! That was something!

He apprehended her by the bathroom, her new favourite place to lock herself away and cry. Pulling her back to face him by her still bare shoulder – its inexpressible, provoking beauty pained him – he slapped her hard in the face, trying not to look her in the eyes. He knew they would be brimming with fear, tears, grief, and something else when she looked at him, but of course most of all fear – fear of another blow. The slap made a loud, ringing noise; she collapsed in the corner and perhaps burst into tears, hands shielding her face. She cowered on the floor very close to the bathroom door. What was she screaming? Really, though, did it make any difference? ‘Don’t, please, I’m begging you, don’t!’ Same old, same old. The standard repertoire.

Standing over her, he shouted that if this were to happen again, even once, if she ever again allowed Bertrand to kiss her hands – no, if she dared so much as to give him her hands, to hold them out to him – Nikolai would simply hurl them out of the house, the pair of them, and shame them in front of all the neighbours.

‘I don’t understand, I don’t understand anything! What are you talking about?’ cried Vera, and he could barely restrain himself from hitting her again. He only lifted her from the floor by her hair, gritting his teeth. She was so beautiful. He loved her so completely. If she could only see – for even a moment – his endless agony in loving her… He would die for her with the greatest joy. But she was not worthy of his love. It was beyond him to make her his alone.

His head hurt unbearably, terribly. In the time before, he remembered, headaches would come in fits, and sometimes the pain would depart as quickly as it arrived. After Vera had left for work, Nikolai couldn’t clearly recollect whether he had beaten her or not. At any rate, that was the day he finally became certain of what he had long suspected: his wife was a sneaky, pathological slut. She was an actress, what else could you expect?

But no – he didn’t think he had hit Vera that morning, after all. He remembered perfectly how he had wanted to hit her – yes, when he had caught her by the bathroom door – but he had held back, he told himself, so as not to frighten her away. So as not to frighten the butterfly away. But why had she been lying on the floor, and he, bending down, lifting her up, she in tears, her face wet, her eyes wet, ceaseless tears running down her face, one after another, as if each one was afraid of being left behind… and then her eyelashes, wet, black, stuck together… and in his palm, strands of her hair?

He hadn’t hit her, and here’s why: so as not to frighten her away. You need to approach a butterfly carefully, you mustn’t let your shadow fall over it, you have to move smoothly. Even a look can scare a butterfly.

THE ZOO

Before long Bertrand was visiting daily, and sometimes several times a day. Radiant, gleaming with health, redolent of subtle and no doubt expensive perfume, he’d show himself in and saunter up to Vera, kissing – all but licking – her fingertips, before wandering over to Nikolai’s room.

He never knocked. Instead he’d fling open the door and collapse onto the armchair, then take out a cigarette and light up. First he’d sit silently, silently inhaling, silently tapping ash into the ashtray, casting his eye over the room as if something might have changed in his absence.

‘Why are you always sitting in the dark?’ That was the kind of thing he might ask.

‘It’s how I like it,’ Nikolai would reply.

Then Bertrand would fall silent again, and Nikolai never felt like talking anyway.

It was a special kind of torture when Vera came in to empty the overflowing ashtray and wipe the coating of ash off the table – or to ask, feigning concern, how he was feeling, how was his head, did he need anything, could she make him some tea, or take the empty bottle? There was always some excuse to flaunt herself before Bertrand, whom she pretended not to notice lounging in the armchair opposite Nikolai. Meanwhile, not in the least embarrassed by Nikolai’s presence, Bertrand would follow her with his eyes, drinking her in, admiring her with no shame at all.

‘What a strange, remarkable beauty!’ Bertrand would pronounce when Vera finally left the room. ‘And what rare perfection of form! The way the bosom strains against the sweater, as though it hasn’t enough room under there! You are in possession of a treasure… but treasures have a habit of slipping through your fingers. Or thieves get their hands on them!’

At this he would laugh, delighted with his pointless joke, too stupid to deserve the name and worn to death with repetition.