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PARTISAN REVIEW
quainted with Galina Arkayevna. She appeared in essence out of
nowhere - perhaps in keeping with the laws of the conservation of mat–
ter. In fact, she was not legally a citizen. Galina was the widow of a fa–
mous Estonian revolutionary, practically in the same league as
Kingiseppa. She'd been given some sort of pension.
Busch made her acquaintance in romantic circumstances. To wit, on
the shore of a pond. In the very center of Kadriorg is a small shaded
pond. An alley of linden trees winds around it. Tame squirrels jump
about in the grass. Black swans swim near the shore. How they came to
be here no one knows. On the other hand, everyone knows that
Estonians love animals. Someone had built a little plywood box for the
swans. Visitors to Kadriorg threw them bread.
One May evening Busch was sitting on the grass by the pond. He
had run out of cigarettes. It was his third day without any money. He
had spent the previous night in a deserted newspaper kiosk. Thoughts
tumbled through his head in a jerky and restless staccato, like telegrams:
"Food.... Cigarettes.... Place to live.... No job.... Shameful to
turn to parents.... Unthinkable...." When and where had he eaten
last? He recalled two pieces of bread in a self-service snackbar. Then, a
sour apple stolen from someone's garden. A vanilla cookie found on the
road. A green tomato discovered in the kiosk. The swans slipped over
the water like two huge black bouquets. They got their food without
visible exertion. Once a minute they would abruptly drop their small fine
heads, on their curved necks, into the water. ... Busch thought about
food. His thoughts became more and more succinct: "Swan.... Bird..
. . Game...." Before long Busch had broken out in a kind of atavistic,
nervous trembling. His eyes glittered with the reflections of primordial
cave fires. He froze, like a setter in a swamp, released from his urban cap–
tivity. By ten o'clock it would be completely dark. Seizing one of the
tame birds would take only a minute. A plucked swan could easily pass
for a goose. And with a whole goose, Busch would survive. He would
be a welcome guest in any company. He became transfigured. In the
depths of his soul sounded the hunter's horn. He felt the firmness of his
unshaven chin. A prehistoric strength awakened in him.
And then a miracle occurred. On the shore of the pond appeared a
woman past middle age. That is, fair game, whose scent Busch detected
from a vast distance away. The black swans would never know who had
saved their lives. The woman was shapely and beautiful. Butterflies
danced about her head. Her diaphanous, powder-blue dress caressed the
grass. In her hands she held a book, which she pressed to her breast as
if
it were a missal. The farsighted Busch easily read the title:
Akhmatova.
Poetry.
In a strong though somewhat indistinct baritone Busch began to
