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PARTlSA REVIEW
The core of his art was Russian; for him the language was sacred. He
regarded with suspicion and jealousy those who could only desecrate it,
no matter what the intentions. Why are so many people who study Russ–
ian so homely, the writer mused, feeling almost offended. Anyone who
reconnoiters in a foreign language has to be a cutthroat. I can understand
the host, a former boxer, but what about that girl with the delicate hands
and sunken cheeks sprinkled with huge freckles. What's in it for her?
They began to gather quietly around a coffee table on which the host
had set out paper plates with food, soda, and a few bottles of California
chardonnay. To please his guest of honor, the professor took out a bottle
of Stolichnaya from the freezer. The guests stood around waiting for their
turn to get to the table. There was neither that animation, nor that spe–
cial, uplifting mood that accompanies Russian parties. There was no
clinking of glasses-here they were plastic, and the writer couldn't stand
the feel of the material on his lips. Back home, with good food and espe–
cially good vodka on the table, the Russians say their souls rejoice. Indeed
they do! When there's a party in Russia, it's a celebration of life. Here it's
a mere ritual of eating. What kind of party can it be without joy!
Having cooked the meal, the professor came over to keep him com–
pany. Carefully, trying not to make his esteemed guest uneasy, he asked
if he wouldn't mind meeting one of his former countrymen, a young
writer, Anatoly, who had been eased out of Russia a year ago, and now
was a graduate student in their department.
Oh, yes, of course, the guest didn't mind. He had heard that Anatoly
was somewhere in this part of the country. In fact, he spotted him in the
audience during the lecture. Now Anatoly stood behind the host's back,
waiting for his turn to be introduced. The writer immediately took stock
of him. He had hardly changed from the time of their gatherings at the
Writers' House on Alexey Tolstoy Street. Same leather jacket, worn at
the elbows, his hands in his pockets, thumbs sticking out.
So, how are you, young man? the writer asked.
Very well, thank you, Anatoly retorted, though the writer hadn't
meant to be sarcastic.
What are you doing at a graduate school? You're a writer, not a
scholar.
I'm studying. I'll get a position eventually. After my Ph.D. It's not going
to be easy. But then nobody will tell me what I should write about and
how. No need to sell my soul to the devil, he said with a forced chuckle.
Well, the writer remarked, don 't delude yourself, young man. A writer
anywhere is not quite free. They find you one way or another. What
about the dollar? Did it get hold of you already? Do you still write?
