Maria. Masha. Mashenka. We start out somewhere. Where? I don’t know. I’m English and can’t read the signs. Moscow. Moskva. Москва. We drink some, and suddenly we are on the underground. The stations are beautiful. Like Maria. But we soon leave and we find another place and we drink some more. My beer is flat. The waitress laughs at me for drinking Russian beer. She asks Masha: Doesn’t he want anything better? He’s English, he doesn’t know. They laugh together. We’re on the move again. Where are we and where are going? Honestly, I don’t know. Cтоп. We drink warm Irish milk which tastes like pond water and whiskey. I taste it on Masha’s lips for the rest of the evening. The milk sobers me up, or maybe it’s the walk in the cold air; but, in any case, now, there, I see St Basil’s, in the distance, like a witch’s gingerbread house. And I think to myself: Moscow, I love you.
Later, there are bras on the ceiling in the bar. No, really. There is a point of drunkenness when you go to such a place, or where you see such a thing even if it isn’t really there. I don’t know what I’m drinking. Outside, Maria orders a taxi. I trace her breath in the air with my fingers and then pull it into my lungs. We are travelling for only a short time. A policeman stops the car and shines a light into my eyes. He wants your passport. He shines the light and says: Что он взял? Кокаин? Masha points at me. He’s English, he doesn’t know. The officer laughs and turns off his torch. He is satisfied, or so amused by my demeanour that he becomes benevolent. Back in the car we move along wide roads towards another car that the driver doesn’t see until we hit it. And in the back seat, as we wait for assistance, or for inspiration, Maria says: you will write about this. Yes, Masha, I will. Because there, back home, without you, writing is all I have.
You are going nowhere, she says. This car doesn’t move. She thumps the back of the driver’s seat to prove her point. But one day it will, I say. No, no. We will stay in here, on this road. But it’s cold, Masha. So where shall we go? Driver! Driver! she shouts suddenly. Take us…where? To Petushki, I joke sadly. The car doesn’t move. To Petushki! You know it? I know nothing, I say, I’m English. She laughs and shines her light in my eyes. What are you talking about? Books, of course. Always books. Erofeev, to be precise. I’ll write about him, when I write about this, for I need to hide myself, to hide us, inside a book. It’s too scary otherwise. Tell me about him, about Erofeev. He’s a writer. I’m Russian, I know. I read him. The conversation does go something like this. Although, of course, not everything that I write here is exactly as it happened. You must allow me – an artist – some license.
Tell me about the book where you will hide us, she says. Ok, I will tell it, but not for you, Masha, because this is not real. Besides, I do not have a copy with me. So let’s kiss while we wait for the police, and instead I will tell it for my audience, my readers, who I do not love. But if this isn’t real how is it that I can hear you and see you? Anything is possible in a dream; I can be in Moscow, in a crashed car at 2am, and in England both at the same time, and, yes, you can see me and hear me, even though these words – these profound, forthcoming words and thoughts and ideas about Erofeev and Moscow to the End of the Line – are not for you. This is very confusing. You sound confused. I am, Masha, because my heart is there – in Moscow, in a crashed car at 2am – but my head is in England. And I know that this will make sense to no one but me, and perhaps my readers have even stopped reading because they too are confused, and really I have said nothing about Erofeev and his book. I have simply become entangled in this wonderful fantasy of you.
The ending is sad. For us? No, the book. Everything will be wonderful for us. Maria, I cannot begin at the end, that is not how this is done. Now, kiss me, please, and be quiet. Venedikt Erofeev…I know a man called Venya…Please, your tongue, hold it or give it to me. Erofeev. What about Erofeev? No, I cannot begin this way either. I know nothing about the man, except that he died of throat cancer and spoke with help from an electric-larynx during the latter stages of his life. But this does not at all relate to Moscow to the End of the Line, which is about someone travelling, or intending to travel, for he never actually arrives, from Moscow to Petushki. This someone – this man – is called Venya Erofeev, which suggests a certain level of autobiography. Yet this someone doesn’t once smoke a cigarette, if my memory serves me correctly, which is often the cause of throat cancer. He, on the other hand, drinks a lot, could be called an alcoholic even, but I do not know – because I am not a doctor, unlike you Masha – whether excessive alcohol consumption is linked to throat cancer. And so…
This Venya, this Erofeev, spends much of the book in conversation with himself, because, you suspect, he feels as though he can’t relate to anyone else. There is an awkwardness to him, just as, he says, there is an awkwardness to Russians in general. When he does interact with other people he is often unsuccessful, thrown out, fired, rejected. And all this isn’t simply because he is an alcoholic, you mustn’t think that, although it plays a part, it is because he is ‘placid, timorous and never sure about anything.’ But also – how could I forget? – because people see in him a superiority, which he himself doesn’t feel, because he is reserved, chaste and an intellectual. This is going badly. I know, Masha. I am proceeding in a terrible fashion, but proceeding nonetheless, and that is what is most important. Do you remember when I told you that Russians do not smile? Yes, I remember. It is our way; we have endured a lot, and so we do not smile, but we feel the smile inside, gently, to ourselves. Yes, I remember. This Venya is, all told, an emotional man, someone with a beautiful heart, a sensitive heart which is often critical of itself, that calls itself a ‘lightweight among idiots.’
But the drinking; I cannot overlook the drinking altogether. Let me tell about the drinking. I have so much time – days, weeks, months, years of time – in which to consider this topic, alone. Don’t come too close, don’t touch me or kiss me, Masha, don’t let me taste the Irish milk, for I need to concentrate. Venya is, it seems, in a permanent state of drunkenness, whereby being only a little drunk is a kind of sobriety. I hope you understand me. Erofeev writes about the ‘antihuman effect’ of coriander vodka, which, for him, strengthens the soul but weakens the physical members. Alcohol is, he writes, a way of stifling alarm. He sees in his drinking, therefore, not necessarily something negative or harmful. Yet we, the readers, for I am a reader too of course, understand that there is sadness in this drinking, and there is something pathetic or desperate about it also, for Venya’s relationship with booze is one of dependency. Remember the sherry? Yes, I remember. When he is told that the restaurant doesn’t have any sherry and yet he keeps repeating his order. It is funny and yet sad too. Yes, Masha, I remember.
So, finally, I need to tell about the sadness, in detail. Yes, I need to say much more about the sadness, truly delve into the sadness, for I know it too myself. Yet this sadness, it is a Russian sadness. It is a sickness of soul, the Russian soul. Perhaps so. I am English, what do I know about that? I do, however, know a little, yes, more than a little about the ‘bared fangs of existence’, as he calls it. I know about feeling ‘sad and perplexed.’ Do you remember, Masha, readers, how Erofeev writes that ‘everything should take place slowly and incorrectly so that man doesn’t get a chance to start feeling proud?’ Yes, we remember. That’s the kind of sadness I’m talking about. A gentle sadness. A mournfulness…for something, for what? I don’t know. For hope, for encouragement. A ‘world sorrow’ that you carry within yourself. I’ve always carried it in the pit of my stomach, always felt it, at least to some degree, but over the last two years it has grown, ever bigger, like a tumour. Until now, until this, until you, Masha. In a crashed car, in Moscow, at 2am, I realise that I don’t feel it anymore.