The Unreal Life of Sergey Nabokov (6 page)

 

Squeamish readers may wish to skip the following brief passage; I would not include it at all were it not for the voice of Jean Cocteau, the great and wise friend of my Parisian years, whispering in my ear, “You must tell them everything,
mon cher!
You must leave nothing out!”

Dr. Bekhetev was late. Father stood at the study window watching for him in the street below as I anxiously paged through a folio of sumptuous Botticelli reproductions Uncle Ruka had brought back from Florence. After half an hour, Ustin ushered the doctor in.

A florid man with a no-longer-fashionable imperial sprouting from his chin, he began by apologizing. An urgent case had detained him; a young woman suffering the loss of her child had threatened to do herself harm. “Sad, sad,” he muttered.

“Begin, please,” Father told him without turning from his vigil at the window, as if ordinarily dull Morskaya Street were
this afternoon filled with fascinating pageantry it would be a shame to miss.

We sat in leather armchairs facing each other. Dr. Bekhetev asked me a few questions: Had I always hated my mother? When had the onset of my contrary sexual feelings occurred? When the onset of onanism? With what frequency did I practice that vice? Then he surprised me—as I suppose was his purpose—by commanding me to stand and lower my trousers. Flushing scarlet, I looked toward my father—or rather, toward his inexpressive back. What choice had I but to comply? With cold fingers the doctor prodded and assessed my parts. I shrank from his touch. He ordered me to kneel on the old Turkish carpet. “Raise your buttocks,” he commanded. “Keep your knees apart. There, like so. Relax. Do not clench.”

A probing finger elicited an involuntary moan, as well as shame, outrage—what a nightmare my young life had suddenly become!

“You haven't yet habituated yourself to the vicious practice, I see,” mused Dr. Bekhetev. “That bodes well. You may dress now.”

When I dared look his way, I saw he was carefully wiping his finger on a white cloth.

The doctor spoke not to me but to my father's back. “His would appear to be a classic case: morbid anxieties concerning the masculine principle combined with a neurotic propensity toward hysterical inversion. This is not unrelated to the spastic coordination neurosis he exhibits in speech. That said, there are a wealth of treatments. I myself have employed several. This particular case, at least as it stands now, warrants neither faradization nor trepanning nor cauterization. I shall prescribe bromide for onanism. A strict diet: no oysters, no berries of any kind, no chocolate. But for the main cure, I think we shall best proceed with hypnosis. Don't fear, Vladimir Dmitrievich. Your son is in very good hands.”

Of all my respectable family, it was my grandmother Nabokova who seemed unfazed by the news of my “attitude.” Perhaps her own amours had accustomed her to human foible. Born Maria Ferdinandovna, Baroness von Korff, she had been married off at fifteen to my grandfather, Dmitri Nikolaevich Nabokov, in order to provide cover for the affair he was having with her mother. Only a handful of her ten offspring could reliably be attributed to that “ape with cold feet,” as she called him, who attempted to bed both mother and daughter on alternating nights. Indeed, my father's paternity was in some doubt, and rumor persistently linked my grandmother to no less a figure than Alexander II—“dear Sasha”—whose photograph she kept by her bed and a lock of whose hair reputedly nestled in the gold locket she never removed from around her neck. People said she had never fully recovered from the shock of his assassination.

I had always feared my grandmother's imperious presence, in part because I sensed that she and my mother were on less than easy terms with each other. Summers, when she was ensconced at Batovo and my family across the Oredezh at Vyra, were usually peaceful enough, but her winter visits to our house in St. Petersburg were a source of prolonged domestic tension.

She would keep to her bedchamber for most of the day, lying on her chaise longue, eating sweets and drinking coffee, all the while gossiping fiercely with her maid Khristina, a muzhik who had been given to her as a playmate for her tenth birthday, and who, even after Alexander II freed the serfs, had remained faithfully in attendance.

Dressed in black, Khristina sat erect in a straight-backed chair and worked petit point. My grandmother sized me up with new appreciation. “So he's our little
tyotka
. Well, well. I've raised a couple myself, you know. They're no worse than any of the others—rather nicer, in fact—though when I noticed that one of my older sons had begun to take an unseemly interest in
one of his younger brothers, well, I'm afraid I had to draw the line.” She laughed mirthlessly. “I told him what I shall tell you, my Seryosha—not that you take any unseemly interest in that sleek cad of a brother you've been saddled with, who's so like his father but without any of the civic virtues. I've never seen a child so ill-mannered, so self-absorbed. And those filthy insects he insists on keeping in the house…”

I had begun to wonder what advice she intended for me when she paused and beckoned for me to lean close. “Remember,” she said in a stage whisper, as if her words were not meant for Khristina's chaste ears. “When the sweet itch strikes, as it will—there are always servants.”

Khristina neither deigned to glance up from her work nor indicated that she had heard. I longed to tell my grandmother that times had changed: such seignorial license was unthinkable these days, at least in our household.

“You're a Nabokov,” she went on. “Nabokovs have always taken what they want. That's why I worry about your father, dear man that he is. When he married for money, did I have qualms? Not at all. I wished for him fabulous wealth to go with fabulous blood. But these days he seldom seems to have his best interests at heart. I fear he's fallen in with a very low crowd of do-gooders, and it will all end badly. Mark my word! But you, young man: I must say I envy you. Never having to worry where your
pipiska
goes. Never having to regret inadvertently filling some girl! Yes, my dear, I envy you.”

 

How I desired Oleg! Never mind that awkward moment I had chanced upon in the courtyard. It could easily be explained away—exuberance, a naturally mocking manner, a desire to keep the true nature of his relations with me private. We had not spoken since I returned to school, but even that could be explained away as shyness, caution, a reluctance to repeat what had been so marvelous an experience. How I loved the straight
slope of nose, his pale lips, his auburn hair. How I longed to kiss that thick neck rising from the collar of his black school uniform. How I wished to massage so much more than that muscular thigh.

I made plans. I would accost my secret friend one afternoon after school, a scheme more difficult to devise than it might seem, as Volkov was there every afternoon to ferry me home. He would have to be bribed. And I would have to wait for a day when Volodya was ill and unable to attend school.

My brother's health that winter was particularly robust. But finally there came a mild day in April when he woke with a fever, and I heard our mother say the thrilling words, “I'm afraid you won't be going to school today. It's back to bed for you, Volodyushka.”

From our well-stocked cellars I helped myself to a dusty bottle of Tokay; I had already purchased a flask of vodka and a rasher of salted cucumbers with which to quiet Volkov. I surreptitiously stashed my hoard under the seat of the Benz for retrieval later that afternoon.

Usually I managed a glimpse of Oleg at midday as he and his friends kicked the football around the courtyard. My heart quailed when I saw he was not among them. Of course Fate would thwart my plan. In dejection, I turned to go back inside and at that moment, hands in his pockets, and whistling a merry tune, he came through the door. We very nearly collided. He looked at me indifferently. I hesitated. Had it all been delusion on my part?

“I have something very important to tell you,” I stuttered. “Can you meet me after school?”

“Must it wait?”

“It's very important.”

He looked skeptical. I could tell he was longing to join the noisy throng in the courtyard. Indeed, several voices called his name.

“Very well,” he said. “After school. It can't take long. I've things to do.” He had already started down the steps.

“Promise you'll wait for me.”

“I'll be there,” he said.

I could scarcely concentrate on my studies for the remainder of the interminable afternoon, and was twice reprimanded for my inattention.

At last we were released. I sprinted to the waiting Volkov. “I've got a bit of a favor to ask. If you don't mind, I'll get myself home on my own. Here's a little token of appreciation.”

When I handed over the vodka and cucumbers he laughed, and I suddenly feared my scheming had come to naught.

“How thoughtful. I do relish a thoughtful boy. Don't be gone too long. We don't want trouble, do we? Neither one of us.” Then he bestowed upon me a rather hideous wink.

Scarcely had he and the Benz vanished than I heard Oleg's voice exclaim, “I've always fancied that smart limousine of yours. Too bad you weren't planning to abduct me in it!”

Mutely I held out my offering.

“Ho-ho,” he said. “What's this?” He took the bottle, hefted it in his palm. “You're certainly a queer one, Nabokov. I can't make you out at all. What with your stutter, and the odd way you look at me at school. Everyone remarks on it. They find it quite comic. But I shouldn't have said that. I don't want to wound you. I feel quite protective of you, in a way. My God. Where did you get this? 1769.” He slid it into his school satchel. “I should sell it and purchase fifty new bottles with the proceeds. Or perhaps I'd better save it for my wedding night.”

“You're to do with it as you please,” I told him.

“That goes without saying. Whenever I do get around to opening it, I'll be certain to think of you kindly. Really, you're quite the lark, Nabokov. Shall we stroll a bit? Since we're wanderers, you and I. Then I must get myself back to Smolny and the somber aunt.”

At least he seemed to feel he owed me something.

The first signs of spring were out in the Summer Gardens, yellow and purple crocuses in the muddy lawns, birdsong in the air. Young couples and soldiers in pairs strolled about, chatting amiably. I was conscious, as we walked among them, of our lapse into silence; the encounter that had begun so promisingly now seemed a duty he felt obliged to fulfill. I longed to bare the wonders of my soul, and for him to do likewise, but had no idea how to bring that about. Instead I said, “Your classes have been going well?”

“Don't be a bore,” he told me.

“Then come visit me this summer at Vyra,” I stammered. Why had I not thought of that marvelous solution before? He could stay with us for several weeks, as Yuri Rausch sometimes did. We would nap together in the hammock. We would eat honey and butter on toast in the mornings. We would cover the stretches of Vyra and Rozhestveno on our bicycles. When the heat became intolerable we would strip off our clothes and bathe in the Oredezh.

“Can't,” he said. “I'll be off to the Ukraine. My father needs me there. After all, I must learn to manage the estates. I must impress all the girls with my citified luster so that my father will deem the expense worthwhile. Besides, you hardly know me.”

“But we would come to know each other,” I said. “That afternoon at the cinema—”

“Haven't you put that out of your head yet?”

“Why should I? That was without doubt the finest afternoon of my entire life.”

He smiled, and stared for several long moments into my eyes. “Take care that you don't become too philosophical, Nabokov,” he said at last. “You and I both know many a fine chap has gone wrong by becoming too philosophical. So you enjoy a fellow's touch now and again?”

“Perhaps you'd like to see a movie this very afternoon.”

He laughed. “Someone less kind would thrash you for such boldness, you know.”

“I should like to be friends,” I told him.

“Friends,” he said. “I have my own friends; they're a good lot, really. I can't let them down. I shan't see you anymore this term, Nabokov. I don't want you becoming a bad habit of mine. Still I wish, just for once—”

He stopped mid-sentence. Heading our way along the graveled path were two of those friends, Vassily and Ilya. Both had an arm around the other's shoulder and were singing the Marseillaise with exaggerated fervor, raising their knees comically high as they marched and swinging their free arms stiffly.

“I must be on my way. Nice seeing you, Nabokov. And thanks,” he added, tapping his satchel. “Thanks very much for the jolly gift.”