| About Vladimir Makanin’s story “The Scythe While the Dew” Vladimir Makanin has been publishing stories from the book “The High, High Moon” in Novy Mir for three years now. The beginning was “One Day's War” (2001, No. 10) - a gloomy political parable about the near-end of the world. Lethargic, lazy, with signature Makanin brackets and interruptions in rhythm. And with a signature tease: well, guess what I really mean? I was too lazy to guess. It has long been known that for some reason Makanin needs to issue meaningful platitudes from time to time. Thus, in the first half of the 90s, the essay “Quasi” appeared, and a few years ago the story “The Letter “A””, into which critics diligently pumped up more or less “big” meanings.
It is difficult for our brother to admit that “Akella missed the mark” - a natural feeling of gratitude for long-standing (and undimmed) joys interferes. (There are, of course, special fans of cutting the truth, but they, as a rule, realize their passion regardless of the quality of the new work of a famous master. That is, to put it simply, they disgrace the writer precisely because he has a name.) This is not Makanin's individual story. It is not at all difficult to list a good dozen once deservedly famous writers who now live on interest from capital acquired long ago. It's not about money (you can count the number of writers who receive decent fees on your fingers) - it's about reputation. And about new books, which are often weakened versions of old books. Or even just something utter nonsense.
The specificity of the “Makanin case” is that his writings are not just politely and embarrassedly taken into account, but are qualified (at least in a professional environment) as events. Of course - after all, along with “quasi-prose”, in the 90s he wrote “Prisoner of the Caucasus” and “Underground”. When faced with a decisive failure, you can’t help but wonder: what if I’m missing something here. You sit and think, cling to a phrase that suddenly seemed apt, a hint, an episode - and off we go. (That’s how I “invented” Makanin’s “Successful Story about Love” at one time.) We’ll finish what’s unfinished. And we'll have a heated argument. And we will certainly take into account the interpretative experience of Western Slavists (and they love Makanin). As a result of which, through collective efforts, “something” will turn into a masterpiece.
It seems to me that the project (this slippery word is needed here) “High, High Moon” was designed for such a metamorphosis. In it, the main character is Pyotr Petrovich Alabin, an old man who lives in a holiday village near Moscow and experiences an irresistible yearning on moonlit nights. Simply put, he wants a woman. Young and beautiful. And if he wants, he can. It doesn’t always work out, of course—it happens that they send the old man to hell. But sometimes everything goes like clockwork. As a reproach to the young snickering impotent husbands who set out to rule the country, but are not able to satisfy their own wife. It’s either the case Pyotr Petrovich - he not only bangs and fucks; he loves. As they say, feel the difference.
Through this lunar-senile-erotic prism, Makanin offers a look at the latest Russian existence with all its political, social, economic and cultural attributes. Look and see: life is so-so. It's a dirty story. It's time to roll it up. Not in a “one-day war”, but in some other manner. This is what Makanin does in the story “The Scythe - While the Dew” (“New World”, No. 11), which apparently closes the high-moon project. In any case, he sends to the next world the irrepressible Pyotr Petrovich, who, instead of the young summer resident Anechka, had a chance to copulate (first by mistake, then by force, and then willingly) with the old watchwoman Annetta Mikhailovna. He wanted life, but he got death: to make it clearer, we are poked several times with the scythe that the lustful (but cold) old woman is using to mow down the weeds. Symbol. Not too bold. But this will do for you.
What is politics with its elections, anthems and shelling of the White House! It's about life and death. And their interchangeability. Hugging the old but strong bony grandmother, Pyotr Petrovich feels his cherished - tender and fragile - Anechka. Timid and vulnerable - like the ex-wives of old man Alabin, who apparently drank his blood at one time. (Where have they gone, the plagues?) But similarity is never unidirectional. If death can be mistaken for life, then life can (should!) be considered death. And by falling to the air creature, you are actually copulating with the skeleton. Does it matter whether an almost painful spasm or complete non-existence ends the most vibrant of pleasures?
“The walls, the floor, the bed itself (under his body) breathed heat, summer heat on the old man - and all because on the other side a contrasting cold breathed on him (and even whistled!) from this eternal old woman, not saturated with other people’s lives. .. A bird with broken wings, his old heart tried to fly. I waited a minute! Pyotr Petrovich hurried and drove not only his icy girlfriend, but also himself towards a new and beautiful (perhaps!) flash of youth. But...” But the orgasm turned out to be death. And the old woman went to mow the grass in the morning.
Did you sense the abyss? Did you feel a powerful surge of semantic energy? Were you amazed at the writer's courage? Use it. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t feel anything other than an openly boorish (at once contemptuous and ingratiating) attitude towards a woman (and towards life). I am as sick and ashamed as I was a long time ago, in my early youth, when I first heard the mocking, dirty motto of the eternal slave-master-consumer “All women are bitches.”
There is little consolation. The “project” seems to be exhausted. God willing, the late Makanin’s escheated and living texts are interspersed. Andrey NEMZER |
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