not make any changes in our life, I beg of you. I couldn’t live through it. Please, do not return to Moscow.”
“I won’t,” I said, squeezing his hand. “I’ll be right here.”
We parted after making plans to see each other at Little House that night. He never came.
* * *
—
It was his heart. Like Yuri Zhivago, it was his heart in the end. Throughout his life, when confronting illness, Borya was always melodramatic, convinced his end was near. But this time, he remained unconvinced his latest ailment would prove fatal. Bedridden, he wrote me that this setback would pass, that he’d be up and finishing his play any day.
He wrote again the next day, saying they’d moved his bed downstairs to more easily care for him and that it pained him to be so far from his writing desk. He said not to worry, that a nurse had come to live at Big House, and his dear friend Nina was visiting daily. He also asked that I not come, saying his wife had warned against it. Z, in her foolishness, would not have the wit to spare me. But if things worsen, I’ll send for you.
Days passed, and when I didn’t receive another letter, I sent Mitya and Ira to Big House to report back. They saw a young nurse coming and going, but the drapes had been drawn, so that was all they could tell me.
Another day passed. I still hadn’t received word from him, so I went to Big House myself, convinced Zinaida was keeping my letters from him. It was early evening and a light was on in his study. Who was upstairs? His wife? One of his sons? Were they going through his books and papers already? Would they find my letters hidden inside his books, or the flowers I’d picked, pressed between the pages? When he died, would there be anything left to mark our time together? When the study light shut off, I began to cry.
The young nurse exited the house. She was a pretty girl, and I felt a stab of jealousy knowing she was the one bending over his bedside, spooning broth into his mouth, holding his hand, telling him everything would be okay. She looked startled when she saw me standing on the other side of the gate. “Olga Vsevolodovna,” she said. “He said you would come.”
“Has she no decency to let me see him?” I asked. “Or is it he who does not want me to come?”
“No.” She looked toward the dacha. “It’s that he can’t bear for you to see him.”
I just stared back at the nurse.
“He’s sick, very sick. Skin stretched over bones, and without his false teeth now. He says he’s afraid you’ll no longer love him if you see him in that state.”
“Rubbish. Does he think me so superficial?” I turned my back on the nurse and the house.
“He’s told me how much he loves you. It’s embarrassing how he goes on about it.” She lowered her voice. “With his wife in the next room.”
The nurse said she had to catch the train into Moscow, but she promised to keep me updated if he took a turn. I remained at my post. Around midnight, when I hadn’t come home, Ira and Mitya brought me tea and a thick blanket.
My presence outside Big House did not go unnoticed. Zinaida would look out the window through a part in the curtains, then quickly close them.
I kept vigil outside the gate for days, getting updates from the nurse. He’d had a heart attack, and the only thing they could do was keep him comfortable. I pleaded with her to tell Borya I was outside, that I needed to say goodbye. She said she’d pass on my message.
When cars carrying journalists and photographers joined me at my post, I knew my vigil had turned into a death watch. I left and returned wearing my black dress and veil. Hours passed. I wore a path in the new spring grass with my pacing.
And still he never let me in.
* * *
—
Only after he was gone was I allowed inside Big House. Zinaida opened the door without a word and I rushed past her to his still-warm body. They’d just cleaned him and replaced the bedsheet, but the room still smelled like antiseptic and shit.
We were alone for the last time. I held his hand. His face looked like a sculpture, and I imagined the death mask they’d soon make