Doctor Levitin by Shrayer Maxim D.; Shrayer-Petrov David; Bronstein Arna B

Author:Shrayer, Maxim D.; Shrayer-Petrov, David; Bronstein, Arna B.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wayne State University Press

THE MORNING SUN filled Anatoly’s room in yellow light. He looked at the clock; it was around nine. Natasha was sleeping, curled up. In her sleep her face looked just like a little girl’s. A little girl, smiling in her dream. Yesterday, on their way back from Angele and Mikolas’s, they strolled for a long time through the park overlooking the Vilnia, freeing themselves from vaguely alarming premonitions. Evgeny Lvovich had made sure to book them two single rooms. They put Anatoly’s suitcase in one and Natasha’s valise in the other and decided to draw straws for which room they would actually use. It fell to Anatoly’s room. After the evening stroll in the park, they got a table in the hotel restaurant. With metal etchings decorating the walls, the restaurant’s decor looked a lot like that of a Georgian restaurant, although there were no dishes from the Caucasus on the menu. A jazz band was playing nice music. They ate juicy, nicely spiced meat and drank fruit soda. “Like two plebeians,” said Natasha, but it was in fact all very delicious. Then they returned to their room and ordered a call to Moscow. Natasha talked with Ekaterina Nikolaevna and asked her to tell the Levitins, if they should call from Pärnu, that everything was fine.

There wasn’t a sound coming from the hallway, even though they knew that in the adjoining rooms and in those across the hall, there were people—talking, drinking, discussing business, loving. The floor lady on duty didn’t get on their nerves; she was simply invisible. After the noisy afternoon at Angele and Mikolas’s, with its notes of dangerous permissiveness, this quietude immediately enveloped Anatoly and Natasha with a warm cloak of serenity. Previously, when Natasha would begin to undress in front of Anatoly, unzipping her pants or pulling off her sweater, he would rush her impatiently, trying to help but actually getting in the way with his awkward, still boyish movements. Today was different. Now sitting in a deep fluffy chair that engulfed his body, he meticulously zoomed in on Natasha’s every movement, like a cameraman during filming. A decisive and deeply rooted change had taken place in him. He located a lever inside himself, one that allowed him to shift his desires, to hold them back, or to enhance them, even in the most intense moments. It was only when Natasha came out of the bathroom in her sheer French nightgown that Anatoly embraced her and carried her to bed. His frantic passion used to burst into flame and explode, leaving a sweet and tormenting memory, more like a fleeting recollection of a moment of happiness. How he used to long for that moment of passing through the gates of happiness—not even the sweet release itself, but the aching joy of longing for its arrival. These intoxicatingly tormenting seconds would flit by so quickly that he only managed to catch a glimpse of Natasha’s face, which also expressed this aching sensation of longed-for happiness, and then reflected spent joy and exhaustion.

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