The Aviator

Eugene Vodolazkin, Lisa C. Hayden

• Publisher: Oneworld Publications
• Year: 2018
• ISBN:
  9781786072726
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

'THE MOST IMPORTANT LIVING RUSSIAN WRITER' New Yorker MY HEAD SPINS. I'M LYING IN A BED. WHERE AM I? WHO AM I? A man wakes up in hospital. He has no idea who he is or how he came to be there. The doctor tells him his name, but he doesn't remember it. He remembers nothing.As memories slowly resurface, he begins to build a picture of his former life. Russia in the early twentieth century, the turbulence of the revolution, the aftermath. But how can this be possible when the pills beside his bed are dated 1999?In the deft hands of Eugene Vodolazkin, author of the multi award-winning Laurus, The Aviator paints a vivid, panoramic picture of life in Russia at the beginning of the twentieth century, richly evoking the sights, sounds and political turmoil of those days. Reminiscent of the great works of Russian literature, and shortlisted for the Russian Booker Prize, it cements Vodolazkin's position as the rising star of Russia's literary scene.

Part One

I used to tell her: wear a hat when it’s cold, otherwise you’ll get frostbite on your ears. Have a look, I would say, at how many pedestrians these days don’t have ears. She would agree – yes, yes, she’d say, I should – but she didn’t wear one. She would laugh at the joke and go around without a hat anyway. That little picture surfaced in my memory just now, though I haven’t the faintest idea whom it concerns.

Or perhaps a scandalous scene had come to mind, an outrageous and grueling one. It is unclear where it played out. The shame is that the interaction began well (one might even say good-naturedly) and then one word led to another and everyone quarreled. The main thing is that we were the ones who were surprised later: what was that for, why?

Someone noticed that funeral banquets are often like that: people talk for an hour and a half or so about what a good person the deceased was. And then someone in attendance remembers that, actually, the deceased was not perfect. And here, as if on command, lots of people begin speaking out and adding on, so, little by little, they come to the conclusion that the deceased was basically a first-rate heel.

Or there could be a real phantasmagoria: someone’s hit on the head with a piece of sausage and then that person rolls along an inclined plane, rolls and can’t stop, and his head spins from the rolling.

My head. Spins. I’m lying on a bed.

Where am I?

Footsteps.

An unfamiliar person in a white lab coat entered. He stood, placing a hand to his lips, and looked at me (someone else’s head is in the crack in the door). For my part, I looked at him, but as if I were not showing it. Out from behind eyelids not tightly closed. He noticed their trembling.

‘You’re awake?’

I opened my eyes. The unfamiliar person approached my bed and extended a hand:

‘Geiger. Your doctor.’

I pulled my right hand out from under the blanket and felt Geiger’s cautious handshake. This is how people touch when they’re afraid of breaking something. He glanced back for an instant and the door slammed shut. Geiger bent toward me without letting go of my hand:

‘And you’re Innokenty Petrovich Platonov, isn’t that so?’

I could not confirm that. If he was saying that, it meant he had grounds to do so. Innokenty Petrovich ... I silently concealed my hand under the blanket.

‘You don’t remember anything?’ Geiger asked.

I shook my head. Innokenty Petrovich Platonov. Sounds respectable. Perhaps a bit literary.

‘Do you remember my coming over to your bed just now? How I introduced myself?’

Why was he like this with me? Or was I truly in sorry shape? I paused and rasped:

‘I remember.’

And before that?’

I felt tears choking me. They had broken out into the open and I began sobbing. Geiger took a napkin from the bedside table and wiped my face.

‘Come now, Innokenty Petrovich. There are so few events on this earth that are worth remembering and you’re upset.’

‘Will my memory be restored?’

‘I very much hope so. Your case is one where it’s impossible to assert anything for certain.’ He placed a thermometer under my arm. ‘You know, try recalling as much as you can, your effort is important here. We need you to remember everything yourself.’

I saw hairs in Geiger’s nose. There were scratches on his chin from shaving.

He was looking at me calmly. High forehead, straight nose, pince-nez – it was as if someone had drawn him. There are faces so very typical they seem invented.

‘Was I in an accident?’

‘One might say that.’

In an open vent window, air from the hospital room was mixing with winter air from outside. The air was growing murky, trembling and fusing; a vertical slat on the frame was merging with a tree trunk; and this early dusk – I have already seen it somewhere. And I had seen snowflakes floating in, too. Melting before reaching the windowsill... Where?

‘I don’t remember anything. Only some little things: snowflakes in a hospital window, the coolness of glass if one touches it with a forehead. I don’t remember events.’

‘I could, of course, remind you about something that occurred, but one can’t retell a life in all its fullness. I know only the most surface aspects of your life: where you lived, who you interacted with. Beyond that, the history of your thoughts and feelings is unknown to me, do you see?’ He pulled the thermometer out from under my arm. ‘Thirty-eight point five. Rather high.’

MONDAY

Yesterday, there was still no such thing as time. But today is Monday. Here is what happened. Geiger brought a pencil and a thick note book. And left. He returned with a writing stand.

‘Write down everything that happened during the day. And write down everything you recall from the past, too. This journal is for me. I’ll see how quickly we’re making progress with what we do.’

‘All my events so far are connected with you. Does that mean I should write about you?’

Abgemacht.¹ Describe and assess me from all angles: my modest persona will begin pulling other threads of your consciousness behind it. And we will gradually broaden your social circle.’

Geiger adjusted the stand over my stomach. It rose slightly, dolefully, with each of my breaths, as if it were breathing, too. Geiger straightened the stand. He opened the notebook and placed the pencil in my fingers; this was, really, a bit much. I may be sick (with what, one might ask?) but I can move my arms and legs. What, in actuality, could I write? Nothing, after all, is happening or being recalled.

The notebook is huge; it would be enough for a novel. I twirl the pencil in my hand. What is my illness, anyway? Doctor, will I live?

‘What is today’s date, doctor?’

He is silent. I am silent, too. Did I really ask something indecorous?

‘Let’s do this,’ Geiger finally utters, ‘let’s have you just indicate the days of the week. We’ll come to an understanding about time easier that way.’

Geiger is mysteriousness itself. I answer:

‘Abgemacht.’

He laughs.

So I went ahead and wrote everything down – about yesterday and about today.

TUESDAY

Today I made the acquaintance of Valentina, the nurse. She’s shapely. Not talkative.

I feigned sleep when she entered; this is already becoming a habit. Then I opened one eye and asked:

‘What is your name?’

‘Valentina. The doctor said you need rest.’

She answered no further questions. She swabbed the floor with a mop, her back to me. A triumph of rhythm. When she bent to rinse the rag in the pail, her underclothes showed through her white coat. What kind of rest could I have ... ?

I’m joking. I have no strength whatsoever. Geiger took my temperature this morning: 38.7, which worries him.

What worries me is that I cannot seem to distinguish recollections from dreams.

Ambiguous impressions from last night. I am lying at home with a temperature – it’s influenza. My grandmother’s hand is cool; the thermometer is cool. Swirls of snow outside are covering the road to my school, where I did not go today. This means they will come to the letter ‘P’ in the roll call (a finger, all chalky, will slide through the record book) and call Platonov.

But Platonov is not here, reports the class monitor, he stayed home due to influenza. I dare say they are reading Robinson Crusoe to him. It’s possible a wall clock is audible at the house. His grand mother, continues the monitor, is pressing a pince-nez to her nose so her eyes look large and bugged from the lenses. That is an expressive little picture, agrees the teacher, let us call this the apotheosis of reading (animation in the classroom).

In short, the essence of what happened, says the monitor, boils down to the following. A frivolous young man sets off on an ocean journey and is shipwrecked. He is washed up on an uninhabited island where he remains, without means for existence and – the most important thing – without people. There are no people at all. If he had conducted himself sensibly from the very beginning ... I don’t know how to express this, so as not to slip into an instructional tone. It is a sort of parable about a prodigal son.

There is an equation (yesterday’s arithmetic) on the classroom chalkboard; the floorboards retain moisture from the morning cleaning. The teacher vividly imagines Robinson’s helpless floundering as he strives to reach the shore. Aivazovsky’s painting The Ninth Wave helps him see the true scope of the catastrophe. Not one interjection breaks the shaken teacher’s silence. Coach wheels are barely audible outside the double windows.

I myself read from Robinson Crusoe rather often, but you don’t read a whole lot during an illness. Your eyes smart, the lines float. I follow my grandmother’s mouth. She raises a finger to her lips before turning a page. Sometimes she gulps cooled tea and then a barely noticeable spray flies on Robinson Crusoe. Sometimes there are crumbs from rusks eaten between chapters. After returning to health, I carefully page through what was read and brush out dried, flattened particles of bread.

‘I remember many various places and people,’ I nervously announced to Geiger. ‘I remember some sort of statements. Even if my life depended on it, though, I do not remember exactly who said which words. And where.’

Geiger is calm. He hopes this will pass. He does not consider this consequential.

And maybe this truly is not consequential? Perhaps the only thing that matters is that words were uttered and preserved, so questions of ‘where’ and ‘by whom’ are further down the list? I will have to ask Geiger about this; he seems to know everything.

WEDNESDAY

This can happen, too: a picture is completely intact although the words have not been preserved. A person, for example, is sitting in the dusk. He is not switching on the light even though there is already half-darkness in the room: is he economizing or something? A sorrowful immobility. Elbow resting on a table, forehead in repose on palm of hand, little finger sticking out. It is visible even in the darkness that his clothes are in folds, all brownish, to the point of colorlessness, and his face and hand are the only white spot. The person appears to be musing, although in reality he is not thinking about anything, only resting. Maybe he is even saying something but the words are inaudible. In any case, his words are not important to me: who is there for him to talk with, himself? He does not know, after all, that I am observing him and if he happens to be saying any thing, it is not to me. His lips move; he looks out the window. Drops on the glass reflect the luminescence of the street and sparkle with glimmers from carriages. The vent window squeaks.

Up until now, I have seen only two people in my room: Geiger and Valentina. A doctor and a nurse; who else, in actuality, is necessary? I gathered my strength, stood, and walked over to the window: the yard was empty, the snow was knee-deep. One time I went outside my room into the corridor, holding on to the wall, but Valentina appeared immediately: you’re on a bed-rest regime, go back to your room. A regime ...

By the way: they both look like they’re from the old regime. When Geiger is not wearing a white coat, without fail he wears a three-piece suit. He reminds me of Chekhov... I kept thinking: who does he remind me of? Chekhov! And he wears a pince-nez, too. Of those alive today, I think I have only seen one on Stanislavsky, but he is a person of the theater ... Then again, I would say there is some sort of theatricality in the pair that is treating me. Valentina is every bit the war-time sister of mercy. 1914.I don’t know how they’ll regard this impression of mine: Geiger will read this, we agreed to that. After all, it was he who asked me to write everything down, openly: what I notice, recall, and think, so that’s how I’m writing.

My pencil lead broke today, so I told Valentina. She took something akin to a pencil out of her pocket and held it out to me.

‘That’s funny,’ I say, ‘metal lead, I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Valentina blushed and quickly took the thing back. She brought me another pencil later. Why did she blush? She doesn’t blush when she takes me to the toilet or pulls down my drawers for injections, but come now!, this is a just pencil! There are masses of minor riddles in my life right now that I am powerless to unravel... But she blushes charmingly, to the tips of her ears. Her ears are delicate, elegant. I admired them yesterday when her white kerchief fell off. More precisely, one of them. With her back to me, Valentina leaned over the lamp and the light shone pink through her ear; I wanted to touch it. But dared not. And had not the strength anyway.

I have the strange sensation that I have been lying in this bed for an entire eternity. There’s pain in my muscles when I move an arm or a leg, and my legs feel like jelly if I stand without someone’s aid. Then again, my temperature has lowered a bit: 38.3.

I ask Geiger:

‘So what happened to me, anyway?’

‘That,’ he answers, ‘is something you need to recall, otherwise my consciousness will replace yours. Do you really want that?’

I myself do not know if I want that. Maybe I will turn out to have a consciousness that could stand replacing.

FRIDAY

Regarding the question of consciousness: I lost mine yesterday. Geiger and Valentina had quite a fright. I saw their perturbed faces when I came to: it seems they would have been sorry to lose me. It’s nice when people need you for some reason, even if the reason is nothing personal but only, as they say, pure love of one’s fellow man. Geiger did not return my papers to me all day yesterday. He was apparently afraid I had strained myself with my writings the day before. I lay there, watching flakes of snow fall outside the window. I fell asleep watching. The flakes were still falling when I woke up. Valentina was sitting on a chair beside my bed. She wiped my forehead with a damp sponge. Kiss, I wanted to say, kiss me on the forehead. I did not say that. Because it would ha...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Dedication
• Contents
• Part 1
• Part 2
• Translator’s Note
• Copyright