CAROLYN KRAUS
395
case of cholera in Odessa, a Black Sea town northwest of Sochi,
before there was a blackout of further information.
Three days later when I went to collect my visa and catch my
scheduled flight back to Moscow, an Intourist secretary explained
that a thunderstorm at the airport two miles away had grounded all
planes until further notice . As I walked back to my hotel under bril–
liant sunshine, I resolved to try again on the next day. The same
secretary snapped that August was not tourist season and no planes
were in operation. The following day there was something about
"irregularities" in my passport. Finally there was a lock on the door.
My ques tions about epidemics receive blank stares or smiles.
People shake their heads .
I spend all my time in the open, staring at boats which rock like
mirages and never move closer to the seawall where I am sitting as
the elephant moves across the intersection towards me. Finding an
open space near the elephant, some children join hands to form a
human whip, while those farther away climb on backs to watch as
the pole goes in and the blood oozes, then splats to the pavement.
Almost clear of the intersection, the elephant begins to drop
again. This time the keeper shoves the prod up into the open wound
and the elephant rises with it, continuing on until the scene has
dissolved into waves of heat, leaving only the dried blood mingled
with debris.
I lean back, relaxing my shoulders against the wall, and watch
the people drift back to their benches and beach towels . The beggar
has disappeared with the elephant , and I wonder if those really were
gypsies. According to official literature , gypsies have long since been
employed and assimilated into Soviet society. Among the bland
faces exposed on the beach are no signs of panic or even of recogni–
tion, although earlier as I entered a beach-side cafe I caught a
phrase , "What if an ep idemic?" and the quick response , "Not in the
twentieth century."
I agree. Cholera epidemics do not occur in the twentieth
century in prosperous resort towns. But here a blue sky looks down
on planes grounded due to bad weather, and an elephant has just
walked by.
I want to escape into one of the dog-eared books in my suitcase,
so I leave the beach and walk back to my hotel, passing by a lemon–
ade machine where people drink as casually as ever from one shared
plastic cup. Back in my room, I pick up the
Collected Short Stories oj
Thomas Mann
and shuffle pages to locate a passage in
Death in Venice
