VASSILY P. AKSYONOV
41
a typewriter, and the transistor. Oh, the times I'd become entan–
gled in the so-called romance of that seaside resort! The number
of totally scandalous escapades had been so huge that it was
almost by instinct, as if I were unaware of it, that I tossed
into the suitcase most of my classy threads (the distinctive
hallmark of our circle) for the "sundry occasions in Pompeiian
social life."
In our circle the thing to do in those years was to be taken for a
foreigner at first glance, but absolutely not at second glance. You
were supposed to be slightly scornful of both your own (those long
since recognized not to be foreigners) and of foreigners (those who
were obviously not your own).
So, as I was tossing various kinds of silk shirts and sweaters
from London into the suitcase, I was tacitly allowing the idea that
Pompeii nonetheless would "suck me in" to slip through the net of
all my strictures about serious intentions. However, since I was toss–
ing all the stuff in haphazardly without sorting it out, I was more or
less telling myself that if I should get sucked in it wouldn't be for
long and that it would just be for a momentary diversion from my
righteous labor.
I booked a room in the old Intourist hotel Oreanda, which faced
onto a row of palm trees. In among the palms, almost obscured from
the view along Shoreline Road, stood a plaster-of-Paris statue of
Historic Titan painted bronze. By some strange fluke he had been
dragged here to the inner courtyard of the hotel, where the masses
could take no pleasure in contemplating him. To tell the truth, even
if you could detach yourself from thoughts of what he represented,
the figure itself still looked rather strange: a fake-bronze patrician in
a thick coat who stood under the shade of palms, in the midst of
magnolia leaves and the purple flowers of a Judas tree; he held his
right hand outstretched, palm upwards, as if he were weighing a
small watermelon or bolstering up some dairymaid's tit.
It's funny that I was in no way annoyed by having it for a
neighbor! Quite to the contrary, this figure hidden from everyone
except me and several other patrons of the Oreanda suddenly struck
me as being a rather likable and, to a certain extent, even congenial
fellow. I made a distinction between this Historic Titan of mine and
all his other millions of replicas, and I pretended that he was a hypo–
thetical consultant, adversary, and evaluator for my righteous labor.
