Pushkin Hills by Sergei Dovlatov Read Free Book Online Page B

period… Articles… Draft of the magazine…”,“ Godunov ”, “ Gypsies ”… The library… “I shall soon die completely, but if you love my shadow…”* And so on.
    Suddenly I hear:
    “Are the pistols real?”
    “An original duelling set from Le Page.”
    The same voice:
    “Le Page? I though they were Pushkin’s.”
    I explained:
    “The pistols are from the same period. Made by the famous gunsmith Le Page. Pushkin knew and appreciated good firearms. He owned the same pistols…”
    “What about the calibre?”
    “What about the calibre?”
    “I am interested in the calibre.”
    “The calibre,” I said, “is just right.”
    “Very good.” The tourist unexpectedly submitted.
    While my group looked at the nanny’s home, Victoria Albertovna whispered:
    “Your delivery is very good, very natural… You have your own personal point of view. But never… I am simply horrified… You called Pushkin a crazed ape…”
    “That’s not entirely true.”
    “I beg you – a little more restraint.”
    “I will try.”
    “But overall it’s not bad…”
    I began giving tours regularly. Sometimes two in one shift. Evidently they liked me. If we had cultural leaders, teachers or the intelligentsia in – they got me. Something in my tours stood out. For example, my “easy-going manner of presentation”, according to the curator at Trigorskoye. This was, of course, largely due to my acting ability. Even though I had memorized the entire text after approximately five days, I had no trouble simulating emotional improvisation. I artfully stammered as if searching for words, deliberately slipped up, waved my arms, embellishing my carefully rehearsed impromptu remarks with aphorisms fromGukovsky and Shchegolev.* The more I got to know Pushkin, the less I felt like talking about him. Especially at this embarrassing level. I performed my role mechanically and was well remunerated for it. (A full tour was about eight roubles.)
    I found a dozen rare books about Pushkin in the local library.I also reread everything he wrote. What intrigued me most about Pushkin was his Olympian detachment. His willingness to accept and express any point of view. His invariable striving for the highest, utmost objectivity. Like the moon, illuminating the way for prey and predator both.
    Not a monarchist, not a conspirator and not a Christian – he was only a poet, a genius, and he felt compassion for the cycle of life as a whole.
    His literature is above morality. It transcends morality and even takes its place. His literature is akin to prayer, to nature… But then I’m not a critic…
    My working day began at nine in the morning. We sat at the office, waiting for clients. The conversation was about Pushkin and about tourists. More often about tourists, about their inconceivable ignorance.
    “Can you imagine, he asked me, ‘Who is Boris Godunov?’” Personally, I did not feel annoyed in similar situations. Or rather, I did, but I suppressed it. The tourists came here to relax. Their union committee forced these cheap destinations on them. By and large, these people were indifferent towards poetry. To them, Pushkin was a symbol of culture. What was important to them was the sensation that they were there. To tick a mental box. To sign the book of spirituality…
    It was my responsibility to bring them this happiness without tiring them out. And to receive seven roubles sixty and a touching mention in the guestbook:
    “Pushkin came alive thanks to such-and-such tour guide and his humble insight.”
    My days were all the same. The tours were over at two. I ate lunch at The Seashore and went home. Several times Mitrofanov and Pototsky invited me to join them for a drink. I turned them down. This did not take any effort on my part. I can easily refuse the first drink. It’s the stopping that I haven’t learnt. The motor is good but the brakes fail me…
    I did not write to my wife and daughter. There was no point. I thought I’d