The Aviator by Eugene Vodolazkin

Author:Eugene Vodolazkin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oneworld Publications

SATURDAY

The day began with an early call from Nastya. Very early: six in the morning. They had just reported to her from the hospital (my heart fell for an instant) that Anastasia had come to. Nastya intended to stop by for me in a taxi and asked me to be waiting for her at the front door in twenty minutes. I went down ten minutes later. There were almost no pedestrians on Bolshoy Prospect yet. Cars seldom drove by, either. The sun rising behind Peter and Paul Fortress reflected yellow off the upper stories. Of course I had already seen that.

Early one summer morning, in around 1911, we are waiting for a carriage to the train station. There are upper stories and sun and a cool morning breeze. I am wearing short pants (straps crossed); there are goose bumps on my knees. I’m jumping to warm up, though, to tell the truth, I’m not really very cold. More likely: anxious. I am worried the carriage won’t show up ... and we won’t go to Alushta. My sandals slap resonantly on the paving stones. That sound is gradually drowned out by the clip-clopping of hoofs. I whisper: Happiness, happiness! The carriage has arrived.

The taxi has arrived. I sit with Nastya in the back seat. Birzhevoy and Dvortsovy Bridges, then Senatskaya Square, Moskovsky Prospect. Our travel may not be to Alushta but it seems southerly overall: it is becoming warmer in the car. I roll down the glass and place my elbow on the window. My arm lacks will and my fingers move like underwater plants – listlessly and melancholically – from the wind’s power. What will I tell Anastasia? What will she tell me?

A nurse stopped us right by the room. When she regained consciousness, Anastasia requested that a priest be called, and he was now taking her confession. The priest came out around ten minutes later, carrying the Holy Gifts on extended hands. Then the nurse was in the room for a short while. When she came out, she said we had only five minutes: Anastasia lacked the strength for more. I looked at Nastya and she nodded. She felt my fear. Lightly, she pushed me forward right by the door. I opened it.

Anastasia’s gaze greeted me. I took small steps toward it, as if to a streetlight in the dark. I felt Nastya’s hand on my shoulder, but that didn’t help me. I would even say it hindered me. I probably should have gone in to her alone. My voice froze in my throat and I did not utter a word as I approached the bed. I sank to my knees and pressed my forehead to Anastasia’s hand. I sensed her other hand – almost weightless – on the back of my head. The hand moved. It was stroking my hair, as it had stroked it in another time. There we were in our apartment on Bolshoy Prospect and everyone was still alive: my mother, Professor Voronin, and even Zaretsky.

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