God loves a trinity

Marta Petrova's second novel has been published

According to a bearded literary joke, writing the first book is a simple matter, go ahead and write the second. (“U” here is customary to stretch out as long as possible - “second-u-u-yu”!) As usual, there is a grain of humor in this joke (there have always been enough faded, dubious, and simply disgusting openings), but there is much more banal sad truth in it. Too often the author of a successful (and/or well-received) work with his new work upsets those who recently welcomed him. To some extent, this effect can be attributed to the fickleness of the public and the literary community, greedy for novelty in general and new names in particular, but also afraid of getting into trouble. Hence the unconscious gloating, mixed with an unconscious desire to justify ourselves for the previous euphoria: they say, yes, we rushed around with NN like a sack, but now we see how stupidly we missed, you can’t fool us anymore with this chaff... Alas, only The problem of the “second book” cannot be reduced to the frivolity or maliciousness of readers, critics and fellow workers. A writer, inspired by his first success, is guarded by two equally serious dangers. Or he, having changed the topic, the circle of heroes, the narrative style, falls into someone else's, unloved and undeveloped space - and thus “fails” the work, which seems to have a legitimate claim to novelty. Or he gets stuck in self-repetition.

“Iliadi.” The Book of Songs" (M., "Time") is the second novel by Marta Petrova. The first - "Shilkloper's Horn" - unexpectedly, victoriously, with some unusual cheerful ease, entered the 2004 Booker shortlist. Before, no one had heard of Marta Petrova, because she had not written prose before “French Horn...”. The main strategy of the text - an elegant imitation of the diary of an intelligent Muscovite - was the “game of authenticity.” On the one hand, the realities of general Moscow (in particular, cultural) life are impressively concrete and recognizable, and the intimate intonation makes one believe in the reality of the husband, daughter, relatives, friends and acquaintances of the heroine-narrator. On the other hand, the fabulous ease of life and being captured (nothing bad happens to the likeable characters), the abundance of quotes and literary jokes, a visible hint that the author is hiding under a pseudonym, gave the world of “French Horns...” a noticeable amount of fantasticality, if not illusory. By the way, I myself “fell a victim” of this “game of authenticity.” The novel repeatedly mentions the book reviews that the narrator’s husband writes for the cultural page of a serious newspaper. I was identified with him, and when I began to swear that my wife did not write “French horns...”, that I had fewer in-laws and more daughters, that I was indifferent to jazz, I never drank beer, and except for reviews I also write something else (reviews, for example), then, seeing the skeptical smile of my interlocutor, I felt all the insignificance of “life” arguments. Of course, there should be something “wrong” in a book - that’s why it’s a book.

The essence of the “fantastic” nature of the novel, in my opinion, was understood by few people. The “frivolous” Marta Petrova was reproached either for the fact that such prosperous, friendly, dignified people, combining a taste for life and a taste for culture, do not exist in nature (it’s a known fact, in our Palestines there are only lumpens, spiritless people, bandits and oligarchs), or because it is a shame to depict such people - even if they exist - because in this way a varnish is carried out on the vile reality, for which the careless author will certainly be pecked by a roasted rooster. In fact, it seems to me that this filthy bird pecked at the writer no less than other mourners of the people’s grief. But she wrote about the triumph of the norm (and not an anomaly posing as the norm), about the right to happiness of people who do not chase crazy money and do not lie in a ditch, but love and intelligently do their job during the day and relax with pleasure in the evening. The urban fairy tale did not deny the dubious reality, but affirmed the dignity, excuse the expression, of the intelligentsia, and at the same time gently explained how life differs from survival. This required taking a lot out of the equation.

Temporarily. In the second novel, the brackets are opened. Although formally the writer changed the genre (not a diary, but an internal monologue covering one day), endowed the heroine with Greek origin, made her a freelance correspondent for a glossy (but decent) magazine, promoted her husband from critic to artist, sharply increased the level of quotation, and oriented the “Moscow -Greek" story on "Ulysses" and introduced a simple-mindedly ironic reference to "The Master and Margarita" (the heroine, returning from guests at night, dreams of something like Woland's Ball, but without any demonic outrages), all this did not change the picture set by "Shilkloper's French Horn". Still the same Moscow creative intelligentsia. All the same modest joys of life. The same combination of everyday life, inner music and self-irony. New in the “little things”. The fact is that his only beloved son lives abroad, where he intends to stay. The fact that the parents died. The fact is that the husband (who is not and cannot be better) took a walk for some time. The fact is that youth was not a continuous holiday, but former friends were scattered around the world. The fact is that in order to maintain the family budget, you have to fly around Moscow all day - from one newsmaker (yes, nice) to another (yes, much more interesting than someone thinks). The fact is that I don’t have the strength to get used to the language of my young colleagues at the magazine. The fact is that... Cold winds are blowing from different corners, blowing. And they cannot chill out the song world of Elena Iliadi - Marta Petrova.

Two episodes explain why. The heroine, who has to keep up with a hundred places, is suddenly overtaken by a phone call: her classmate has died, who in those years wrote poetry and for that (and also for the name Arapov) received the nickname Pushkin. He died as a successful businessman, and the corresponding public saw him off on his last journey - from the sobbing brother to the unchanged faceless official. A friend asks the narrator: “Lel, what do you think, Dantes killed that Pushkin, and who killed ours? -- Benjamin Franklin." Effective, but wrong. Because unfortunate Sasha, a peer and friend of Petrova’s favorite heroes, followed the quasi-Franklin path himself. But they didn't go.

In a subway car, the heroine sees a scary drunk homeless woman and realizes that she is her age. “A girl from a prosperous family” thinks that she “could have been born in a godforsaken outback. Drunkenly. Among dirt, poverty, parental binges and swearing.” And therefore he has no right “to judge people whose lives turned out differently. It would be nice if they didn’t hate me for this unexpected blessing in life.” It doesn't work. And it’s unlikely to work. But just as Elena Iliadi’s day does not end at this meeting, Marta Petrova does not want to dwell on this idea. And rightly so. She still has a lot of work ahead of her.

Andrey NEMZER