The Hemingway Game

Chapter 2-2

And after all this, the two Ernest’s should not say “Yes!” Should not shake hands victoriously. Instead, they should slowly and ruefully go home, thinking: “Turns out there are indeed women like this…”

It doesn’t always work out this way. Playing like this isn’t easy. But when it does work out, believe me, it’s very pleasurable… Damn pleasurable! And never regrettable.

I switched to the right lane to turn from the Koltsevoye Parkway toward the airport. A sign with an arrow and a picture of a small white plane against a blue background flashed by; a sign pointing the way to the airport. My heart jumped spontaneously with joy and, just like that, dropped back down. “No, no, – I told it – we aren’t flying anywhere…” The heart was rejoiced by the little white plane and the road to the airport, but it was misled… I wasn’t flying away. Though perhaps I should be, doesn’t matter where. It’s a shame that She is here, in Moscow. Otherwise, I would at once fly to Her. I would fly to Her from Moscow. I’d call her and say: “I just flew in from Moscow. I flew to You…” Whenever someone flies somewhere from Moscow, for some reason it arouses respect and understanding, that the person came for some good reason. But when somebody flies into Moscow from someplace else – then… Well then, good for you, there will be more tomorrow, others just like you.

As expected, Max’s plane got delayed. Not for long, but still delayed. With Max, things obviously couldn’t go without delays. I went to look for some coffee.

How is it that there are so many people at the airport in the morning? Amazing. After all, flying isn’t cheap, and yet so many people fly. There is so much junk for sale at the airport kiosks and little shops. And it’s so much more expensive than in regular places. But if it’s for sale, that means people buy it. They buy everything!

I drank nasty instant coffee from a plastic cup, listening to the booming announcements about arrivals, departures and so on. And all the while I kept thinking a single thought: “I love Her so much! So much!”

It was still summer when I saw Her for the first time. A big group of all types of people gathered for a party. It wasn’t a picnic, but a housewarming in a suburban home. The owner’s various relatives came from everywhere, a bunch of his friends, children of those friends and their relatives. Everybody knew each other very well, but I knew no one except for the host and his wife. I built that house. I’m an architect. Well, perhaps it sounds a bit embellished – architect!!! But more about architecture later. In short, I built that house. It’s what I do.

The house ended up being large, with columns. I didn’t like it very much, but friends and relatives were thrilled. Everyone had spread out across still undeveloped territory, as well as the house itself. Shish kebabs were about to be served. I was getting ready to bow out and vanish, since I had already given out my business cards to all the owner’s friends who wanted me to build them the same house right away... same, but slightly different. She was with a man, who also took my business card. This man was about 50, tall and very tanned. Attractive, but with an overly groomed beard of complicated shape. He knew everyone in the crowd. She knew no one. Every minute, he would introduce her to this person or that. I saw her, introduced myself, said something. So did she. I didn’t even memorize her name, didn’t register her hairstyle or anything like that.

I left before the shish kebab. But the next morning I thought of Her, and later that afternoon thought: “I wonder, what is She doing right now?” And later in the evening: “Who is he to Her, the fellow with the stupid beard, what is it like for Her to be with him, I mean, he is boring, he must be.” I thought about Her all summer and the beginning of fall.

But then, a month later, we happened to meet again, and since then I would wake up in the morning – if I’d been able to fall asleep at all – and think that I was sick. And for the whole month now I have lived as if it has all been a single endless day. The day wouldn’t end. Because I kept thinking the same thought: “I can’t believe how much I love Her!”

Finally, Max landed. It was announced by a loud female voice. So I headed to the arrival area. There were already people standing there, some with flowers, others holding signs, the rest with nothing. One sign read, in English, “Max Ludvigson”. I thought if Max saw it, he would immediately walk up and say that it was him. But Mr. Ludvigson came before my Max. This mister turned out to be tall, with a prominent nose and wearing a green coat. He gave off a waft of tremendous foreign dullness. Then women and men in large fur hats came spilling from the doors. That’s the flight, I figured. Max was the last to appear.

He was completely unbuttoned, hat and scarf in hand. Coat, jacket and shirt open midway down, were all unbuttoned. His hair was sticking out every which way, his face wasn’t fresh, with a stupid little beard and mustache that I’ve never seen on him before. He laughed as soon as he saw me. Laughed from joy. My God, how could I live without Max!

We hugged tightly. He kept laughing. He gave off a strong alcoholic fume. Max obviously drank on the plane. He is afraid to fly.

We couldn’t find my car for a long time. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember where I parked it. Clearly, I left it somewhere at the airport. Otherwise, how would I end up at the airport in the first place? But I couldn’t remember. I was too much in love… We wandered along rows of cars, Max lagging the whole time, buttoning up as we walked and constantly saying something…

I had met her again a month ago. It was a party to celebrate the opening of a large beauty salon. It was built by some colleagues I knew. I went there to check out yet another typical salon with a set of typically fashionable fixtures. I went to make sure that nothing interesting came of it, congratulate my colleagues on their success and to badmouth them to my other colleagues. Also, these events are always full of beautiful women, everyone is bored and, therefore, possibilities abound.

I am an architect. Meaning that I am not a state-level architect who creates “frozen music” or captures an epoch. I have no influence on the changing face of the city. I have built a dozen suburban houses. I am not the least ashamed of four of them and quite proud of one. My vision had somehow coincided with the client’s desires, so it worked out. The house was featured in many architecture journals. Others were okay too, but compromised and therefore uninteresting.

Nevertheless, I ended up mastering and refurbishing a number of storefronts in different buildings. I have designed and built a whole range of shops, cafés (two cafés) and even a fitness center. I don’t like doing this. The most unpleasant thing about this work is understanding – or rather, the precise knowledge – that whatever it is I am working on, a shop or a café – will soon not be there. Meaning that after a short while, at the very place where I am now building a café, one of my colleagues will be planning some barber shop or an eyewear store. This is guaranteed! By now, I have seen how they demolish what I had built just a few years earlier. Not that I worry about it, it’s just unpleasant.

And yet when Max and I were looking for my car, architecture was the last thing on my mind. What does it matter, this stupid architecture, if I couldn’t even remember how and where I parked?

I don’t own a Ferrari or a Porsche. For some reason, everybody thinks that architects are a big deal. Sure, there are stars, though you wouldn’t know which cosmos they inhabit. I am not personally acquainted with them and have only seen them in journals. Except I don’t believe that these people are building anything anymore, they just point their fingers in various directions. They can get away with it, no one will say to them: “Don’t point fingers, its rude!” But that’s not me. I know well which new building materials enter the market, where to get them cheaper. I am excellent at using profanities, because construction workers love that and refuse to comprehend any other words. I believe I can communicate with anybody. And I believe that I am a good man.

I used to be married… back in my hometown. By the time I moved to Moscow, I was unmarried. I almost said that I married unsuccessfully. It’s just that whenever people divorce, they say that the marriage was not a success. Suppose they lived together for many happy years, but then something changed, so they parted ways. What does that have to do with success? So I won’t say anything bad about my own marriage. There was much good about it, we split up more or less okay, and not without civility… from both sides. I don’t want to… can’t talk about this, not any more.

How can I bear it! My God! Why did I fall so in love?!

“You’re looking kind of green, did you fall in love or something?” Max trotted obediently behind me, “Can you even hear me?”

“I don’t like your beard!”

“It’s an excellent beard, three weeks and done!”

“Shave it off right now… Damn it, where is it!?”

We finally found the car.

“Do you ever wash it?” Max opened the door with deliberate squeamishness.

“Do you ever brush your teeth?”

He covered his mouth childishly.

“I am afraid to fly! Super afraid! Sanya, I could really use some coffee, a roll and a shower.” Max folded his eyebrows into a triangle, the way only he can do.

My name is Sasha.

Maxim – he is not fat, more like… stout. He doesn’t get fatter, he gains weight. Meaning, he is becoming more and more the way he is supposed to be. If Max ever lost weight, no one would tell him that he was in excellent shape – they would ask if he was sick. It’s hard to imagine him skinny. Max is of the breed of people who don’t change. Max can be instantly recognized on school and even kindergarten photos. But this beard… this was too obscene!

We were already heading back to the city, when Max asked,

“So, the beard is no good?”

“It’s inhuman! I can’t imagine anything worse!”

“I thought a beard like this would be good on an Ernest.”

“What Ernest!? You look more like a… Siberian torero.” Again I looked straight at his beard. “It was abominable… what a night- mare!”

“Oh come on, it’s just that I didn’t shave for three weeks, then got up in front of the mirror thinking, figured I sort of look like one of those old-time merchants or a pirate.”

“A pirate, a merchant. A Siberian gold miner, a murderer – as long as he is cute and mysterious. But this… this is some ghastly operetta character, and a drunk one at that.”

“I only had a little bit.”

“I don’t even want to be seen with you at a gas station, not until you shave that off.”

“I wanted to make you laugh.”

Max turned the mirror toward his face and began examining the beard with his chin c****d.