Free The Unreal Life of Sergey Nabokov by Paul Russell Page B

justifiably—those two might have wrung my neck. But they did not. Years later, at the Cirque d’Hiver
in Paris, I would witness a gaudily dressed young lion tamer wedge open the maw of an ancient lion and slowly, insanely insert his head. With what indescribable forbearance did the long-suffering lion allow his tormentor to make a spectacle of his humiliation. So too my muzhiks shrugged, scowled, then the older one muttered to the younger, “So the little monkey wants an eyeful? We’ll give him an eyeful.”
    And they got on uncomplainingly with the task at hand, as they did with all the labor that dogged their long days. What choice did they have? After all, their grandparents had been slaves of the Nabokovs and Rukavishnikovs, their parents barely better off. Still, I could not get past the suspicion that the clever mice had once more outsmarted the stupid pussens.
    They could not fail to observe the excitement their mutual engagement induced in the kind master’s depraved son, the brimming cup he could not prevent from spilling.
    I have often thought that Russia was lost that very afternoon. Not for an instant do I claim that an incident of no import whatsoever was in any real sense the cause of Russia’s downfall. What I am attempting to say is simply this: In the moment I misused my opulent position in the world, I made clear how unworthy I was of it. In a million variations, my actions were being repeated by those of my standing and privilege all over the empire, collectively leading to that inevitable end that none of us wished at the time to foresee.
    â€œI hope you’re pleased with your filthy selves,” I heard myself say as the muzhiks wiped their milky sap from their fingers. Gamely I sought to rearrange myself inside my flannels and depart the scene with a few remaining shreds of seignorial dignity. Already a dull film of shame was beginning to coat my soul. I had scarcely taken a dozen steps, however, before an inspiration occurred to me; taking from my coin purse a generous assortment of kopeks, I turned and flung them in the direction of my smirking companions. In the dull sunlight
the coins did not glitter, nor did either of the recipients of my largesse make a move.
    â€œLadyboy,” the cheekier of the pair called out after me, though his companion, older and more prudent, he of the ugly scar, brusquely shushed him. As I mounted my Enfield Racer—had they ever, would they ever in their poor lives ride such a fine machine?—I could see them scouring among the stubble for every last coin.
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    In the weeks that followed, crudely etched graffiti linking me to infamous practices began to appear—on tree trunks, bench backs, bridge railings, even in the rainbow-glassed pavilion by the ravine. With my penknife I erased what instances I could, but like the sorcerer’s apprentice, I found that my actions that afternoon had generated a cascade impossible to contain. The more I gouged and scraped, the more widely the epithets seemed to proliferate, till a walk in the woods became an accusation at every turn. I had fancied my docile muzhiks illiterate, but thanks to the village school which Uncle Ruka had endowed a few years before, it seemed they could express themselves with brutal effectiveness.
    â€œYou appear to be the target of widespread calumny,” observed my father, home for a week from his regiment. From behind the gloomy headlines of his newspaper he spoke invisibly.
    I offered that I hadn’t a clue to what he was talking about.
    â€œDon’t pretend you haven’t noticed. Everyone else has.”
    His last remark took me off guard, and I sputtered helplessly.
    â€œWhat is one to make of it, I wonder?” he went on, lowering the paper to cast me a quizzical look. “Such accusations don’t generally materialize out of thin air.”
    â€œI have no idea,” I lied.
    â€œWill you swear to me that you’ve not