Pushkin Hills by Sergei Dovlatov Read Free Book Online Page A

succumbed, butd’Anthès is still alive, comrades…”*
    Every now and again he would go on a binge, neglecting his job, bumming some change in front of a local watering hole, hunting for empty bottles in the bushes and sleeping on the cracked gravestone of Alexei Nikolayevich Vulf.
    Whenever Captain Shatko of the militia ran into him, he’dsay reproachfully:
    “Pototsky, your appearance disturbs the harmony of these parts.”
    Then Pototsky came up with a new gimmick. He would stroll through the monastery on the trail of the next group. Lie in wait by the grave until the end of the tour. Call the group leader to the side and whisper:
    “ Antra noo! Between us! Pull thirty copecks each and I’ll show you the true grave of Pushkin that the Bolsheviks are hiding from the people!”
    He then would lead the group into the woods, pointing to a nondescript mound. Occasionally some stickler would ask:
    “But why would they conceal the real grave?”
    “Why?” Pototsky would flash a sardonic smile. “You want to know why? Comrades, this compatriot is asking why?”
    “I see, I see,” the tourist would mutter.
    On the day I arrived, Stasik was worn out after a week-long binge. He wangled a rouble from me and a pair of brown sandals with perforations. Then he shared a dramatic story:
    “I nearly made a fortune, man. I came up with this exceptional financial trick. Listen: I meet some sucker. He’s got a car, some cash, some other fuckin’ shit. We take one, note, just one broad and drive out into the great outdoors. There we both check in—”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Take turns with her. The next morning I show up at his place, screaming ‘Man, my dick’s dripping.’ He panics, so I say: ‘I can be of fuckin’ service, for twenty-five bills.’ The fool jumps for joy. I fill a syringe with tap water and give us both a shot inthe derrière. The chump happily tosses me the bills and we part friends. The broad gets some stockings for seven roubles. That’s eighteen roubs of pure profit. It was brilliant. Operation – Clap Trap. And fuckin’ hell, it fell through…”
    “Why?”
    “At first everything went smoothly. The chump was wild about me. We picked up some cognac, sandwiches. I enlisted cross-eyed Milka who works at the Cavalier, and we took off for the great fuckin’ outdoors. We booze it up, get down to business and guess what? The next morning, the sap shows up at my place, screaming, ‘Fuck, my pecker’s dripping,’ gets in his fuckin’ car and takes off. I rush to the clinic to find Fima. This and that, I say. And Fima goes: ‘Twenty-five roubles!’… Dear God, who’s got that kind of cash?! I had to run around all over Pskov and the city limits and barely scraped it together… Eleven days I stayed sober and then I fuckin’ broke fast. What about you, how are you on the subject?”
    “You mean the great outdoors?”
    “I mean a drink.”
    I waved my arms in protest. A start is all I need. It’s stopping that I never learnt. A dump truck without brakes.
    Stas flipped a rouble coin in his palm and left…
    “Your evaluation is tomorrow,” said Galina.
    “So soon?”
    “I think you’re ready. Why put it off?”
    At first I was nervous, noticing Victoria Albertovna among the tourists. Vika was smiling, kindly or perhaps ironically.
    Gradually I became bolder. The group was demanding – voluntary-army activists from Torzhok – they kept asking questions.
    “This,” I say, “is the famous portrait byKiprensky… commissioned by Delvig… sublime treatment… hints of romantic embellishment… ‘I see myself as if in a looking glass…’* Bought by Pushkin for the Baron’s widow…”
    “When? What year?”
    “I think in 1830.”
    “For how much?”
    “What’s the difference?!” I exploded.
    Vika was trying to help me, silently moving her lips.
    We entered the study. I pointed out the portrait of Byron, the cane, the bookcase… I moved on to the work… “Intense