The Flight

Events in Seryozha’s life began on that memor-able evening when, for the first time in many months, he saw in his room, above the bed where he slept, his mother—wearing a fur coat, gloves and an unfamiliar black velvet hat. There was a look of alarm on her face, so unlike the one that he had always known. He was unable to account for her unexpected appearance at this late hour, for she had left almost a year ago and he had grown used to her continued absence. Yet now, here she was, standing at his bedside. She sat down quickly and whispered to him not to make a fuss, telling him to get dressed and to come home with her right away.

“But Papa didn’t say anything to me,” Seryozha said.

She offered no explanation, however, and just kept repeating, “Come now, Seryozhenka, quickly.”

She then carried him outside—it was a cold, misty night—where a tall woman in black was waiting for her; a few steps later, around the corner, they got into a motor car that immediately set off at a phenomenal speed, bearing them along unfamiliar streets. Later on, half dreaming, Seryozha glimpsed a train, and when he awoke it turned out that he was in fact on board this train, but something had imperceptibly altered; then, at last, his mother told him that he was going to live with her in France, not with his father in London, that she would buy him an electric train with all sorts of carriages and wagons, and that now they would never again be parted, although Papa would sometimes come to visit.

Seryozha would later recall that evening time and time again: his mother’s unfamiliar, tender face, her hurried whispers, the alarming quiet in his father’s cold house in London, and then the journey by car and by train. Only later did he learn that they had crossed the Channel by steamer, but he did not harbour even the faintest memory of it, for he had been sound asleep and had no idea how he had arrived at his destination. He was seven years old at the time, and this journey marked the beginning of myriad other events. After this, he travelled far and wide with his mother; one summer’s day, however, towards evening, on a terrace overlooking the sea, where he and his mother were taking dinner together, Seryozha’s father calmly strode in, took off his hat, bowed to Seryozha’s mother, kissed Seryozha and said:

“Well, well, Olga Alexandrovna. We’ll consider today the end of this little romantic episode, shall we?” As he stood behind Seryozha’s chair, his great hand tousled the boy’s hair. He glanced at his wife and broke into quick German. Seryozha did not understand a word of it until his father said in Russian: “Really, Olya, aren’t you tired of all this?” Recollecting himself, he immediately switched back into German. A few minutes later, Seryozha managed to catch another phrase that he could understand—this time it was his mother who uttered it: “Darling, you never did understand, and you’re incapable of understanding it. You’re in no position to judge.” Seryozha’s father nodded cynically in agreement. Waves lapped beneath the terrace while a brown-green palm drooped motionlessly over them and the dark-bluish water glittered in the little bay, not far from a narrow road. Amid the silence Seryozha’s mother swung her tanned leg, looking serenely and expectantly at the boy’s father, as though studying him, despite the fact that he was just the same as always—tall, immaculate, broad and clean-shaven.

“German’s such a wretched language,” he said at last. “Inherently so?”

He laughed and said, “Yes, even independent of the circumstances that…”

Seryozha’s mother sent him to his room.

“Won’t Papa be leaving?” he asked, immediately finding himself high up in the air in front of his father’s smooth face with its large deep-blue eyes.

“No, Seryozha, I’m not leaving. Not again,” he said. His parents had a long conversation on the terrace.

Seryozha managed to read half a book, but still they went on talking. His mother then made a telephone call; Seryozha listened, lying on the floor, as she said:

“Impossible ce soir, mon chéri.” And then, “Si je le regrette?
Je le crois bien, chéri.” *


* Impossible tonight, darling… If I regret it? I believe so, darling.


Thus Seryozha understood that chéri would not be coming today, and so he was left feeling very pleased, since he did not like this man, whom, after his mother, he had also called chéri, thinking it to be his name, eliciting laughter from that dark face with its fixed grin, above which hung tight, thick curls of hair, as black as the Devil himself. Chéri never showed up again after that. There was, however, another man, somewhat similar to him, who also spoke with an accent, both in French and in Russian.

Seryozha’s father did not leave that day, but stayed on for a fortnight, only to disappear early one morning without saying goodbye. After that, in Paris, at a railway station, he met his wife and child with flowers, sweets and toys; he carried the flowers in his hand, but the rest of it lay waiting in that same long dark-blue motor car that Seryozha remembered from London. They installed them-selves in an enormous new mansion block, where Seryozha was able to ride a bicycle from one room of the apartment to the next; everything was going well until Seryozha’s mother left once again, taking with her only a small néces-saire and showering Seryozha in kisses. She returned, in any case, exactly ten days later, but discovered her husband gone, finding only a laconic note: “I consider a period of absence to be necessary and in our mutual interest. I wish you…” Two days later, in the evening, the telephone rang—Seryozha’s mother was not at home, although she was expected at any moment; Seryozha was called to the telephone and heard from afar his father’s very funny (or at least so it seemed to him) voice, asking him whether he had been bored. Seryozha said no, the day before he and his mother had pretended to be robbers and it had been a lot of fun.

“With your mother?” enquired his father’s odd-sound-ing voice.

“Yes, with Mama,” said Seryozha and, turning around, he saw her. She had come in without Seryozha’s noticing her light footsteps on the rug. She took the receiver from him and launched into rapid conversation.

“Yes, again,” she said. “No, I don’t think so… Of course… Well, to each his own… Yes… When?… No, just repaying kindness with kindness; remember, you met me with flowers… What, the flowers are for him?… The toys will do just fine… All right.”

“Why are you always going away?” Seryozha asked his mother. “Are you bored here with us?”

“My silly Seryozhenka,” his mother said. “My silly boy, my silly little fair-haired one. When you grow up, you’ll understand.”

Just as Seryozha, from his very first days of conscious-ness, could remember his mother and father, so too, clearly and abidingly, could he remember his Aunt Liza, her black hair, her red lips and an aroma that mixed the tobacco from the English cigarettes she smoked with her perfume, warm, silky fabrics, and that light acidity of her own. It was a very faint smell, but it was so characteristic of her that it was impossible to forget, just like her peculiar voice, which always sounded distant and strangely pleasant. Yet however much the lives of Seryozha’s mother and father were full of apologies, conversations in that incomprehen-sible German, departures, journeys, returns and surprises, Liza’s existence was by the same measure devoid of any irregularity. Truly, she was a living reproach to Seryozha’s parents—everything in her life was so clear, perfect and crystalline that Seryozha, lying in his favourite position on the floor in the hallway, once caught his father saying to his mother:

“To look at Liza, one could never think that she might suddenly give birth to a child one day, but then again…”

Seryozha’s mother would always regard Liza with slightly guilty eyes; even his father seemed to shrink in her presence, and everyone would almost apologize to Aunt Liza for their personal imperfections, which were particu-larly ugly in light of her incontestable moral grandeur.

However, an elusive memory dimly surfaced in Seryozha’s mind: when he had been very little, Aunt Liza had taken him out for a walk, and with them had come a man who talked animatedly with his aunt. But this had happened so very long ago, and the memory of it was so indistinct that Seryozha was no longer sure that it had not all been a dream. Aunt Liza’s natural state was one of quiet surprise. She was amazed by everything: the behaviour of Seryo-zha’s parents, the very possibility of such behaviour, the books and newspapers she read, the crimes they contained; the only things that failed to amaze her were improbable and heroic deeds—for example, when a person laid down his life for someone, rescued a group of people or chose death over ignominy. She was slim, her skin was almost as smooth as Seryozha’s father’s, she was immaculate, and her hands were always cold and rather hard. One day, when all four of them—Seryozha, his parents and Aunt Liza—happened to be driving past a shooting stall in the street, Seryozha’s father suddenly stopped the car and said:

“Well, ladies, shall we relive the good old days and have a shot?”