The Hemingway Game Read online

  The Hemingway Game

  Evgeny Grishkovets

  Glagoslav Publications

  The Hemingway Game

  by Evgeny Grishkovets

  Translated from the Russian by Steven Volynets

  Published with the support of the Institute for Literary Translation, Russia

  Cover and interior layout by Max Mendor

  © 2019, Evgeny Grishkovets

  © 2019, Glagoslav Publications

  www.glagoslav.com

  ISBN: 9781911414537 (Ebook)

  * * *

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This book is in copyright. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Thank you for purchasing this book

  Glagoslav Publications Catalogue

  To L.

  1

  I woke up in the morning and immediately thought that I was sick. Not felt, but thought. The thought was exactly the same one you have when you wake up on the first day of the vacation, one you’ve been waiting for, for so long. So you wake up and think: “Why am I not having fun, why aren’t I glad, where is the long-awaited joy? I must be sick!”

  I woke up as if I’d been switched on. I didn’t shudder, didn’t stretch, didn’t make any sound, I just opened my eyes. Actually just one eye, the other was pressed against the pillow. Also, I began to hear. I saw and heard…

  I saw the edge of the pillow, the fabric of the pillow case, so close to the open eye. The pillow was barely lit by a bluish light. It was early, it was winter. In fact, it was still quite dark, but through the window fell an ordinary bluish morning light of the city – a mixture of white street lamps and already snowed-in yellow windows of the building across and… that of my own home. For some reason this mixture is always bluish; pleasant in the evening, but in the morning… unbearable.

  I heard many sounds. They were the sounds of the city. An immense city. Obviously, I didn’t hear the entire city, nor were these the sounds of some “urban pulse” or anything like that. They weren’t even the sounds of the rising city – the city had long been awake. I heard how people living in my building were exiting it. They were going to work or pulling their children somewhere: the sound of steps on the stairs, the drone of the elevator, the minute-by-minute repetitive groan and knock of the building’s front door. I heard how, as if with hesitation at first, and then in hopeless surrender, cars started outside, in the building courtyard. And serving as the background to all this, somewhere… a bit farther away… was the sound of the street.

  I woke up. I did not feel my body, no. My head woke up. I sensed only my head. And I was inside that head. One of my eyes opened, I began to hear, and that didn’t make me happy.

  I so much wanted to return to dreaming. Not in a sense that I had dreamed something wonderful, but to go back to sleep. I so wanted to lose heart and call all of them, everybody, to tell them that I was sick, to lie, and cancel everything… everything! But mostly to not get up, to not turn on the bright light, to not wash or shave, to not put on socks, or anything else, to not leave the apartment jingling the keys, to not turn off the light in my hallway before leaving, to not press “1” inside the elevator, to not walk outside, to not take that first cold morning breath, to not get into the rigid, cold car… to not drive to the airport to pick up Max. But Max, my friend Max, couldn’t possibly be canceled. And that meant I had to do it ALL!

  And now, of all times, Max had bad timing. The kind of bad timing only an old friend of mine can have, the one who lives far, far away, who you look forward to seeing so sincerely, but who arrives or flies in, as always, at the wrong time. And those couple of days, like it or not – you give up to him. Meaning: cancel all business, whatever it may be, and get ready to talk a lot, to laugh, drink and drink some more… and talk. Sleep, of course, won’t be happening for a couple of nights. This is all a good thing, just bad timing. Completely! Especially now. Because I’ve fallen in love. Very much! So much that it hasn’t happened to me quite like this before. Never! So yes, Max had bad timing!

  2

  The ride to the airport was long. There was a lot of snow. Not fresh snow, but a kind of slushy, dirty snow. There were lots of cars too. I moved slowly along the Koltsevoye Parkway. Up ahead, little red lights lit up and died down: I too kept squeezing on the brakes. The whole time, traffic in the left lane appeared to be moving faster. To the right, trucks crawled along, dirty from splashes of mud. I listened to the radio.

  On the radio, music was frantically replaced with the news. They reported about some plane crash, I made it louder. All the passengers and crew had been killed. It was too early to know what caused the tragedy. The possibility of a terrorist act was not ruled out. I instantly thought of Max. Except I missed the information about the crash site. Ah – Pakistan… Disappointment brushed against me lightly. I immediately cursed myself for that, but did it insincerely, without fire or acumen.

  Had this been Max’s plane… It would have been horrific. Damn it – it would have horrific. But… What “but” – Horrific!

  Except that I would have had an actual reason to be unhappy. And I would have been honestly unhappy had this been Max’s flight. I could have a week of terrific drinking, of disappearing somewhere or drinking in front of everybody. And everybody would sympathize. But above all, I could call Her, right now! And say that in that plane crash, which by now she would have obviously heard about, my oldest best friend had been killed, and yes, my only friend, to be completely honest. That he is dead and I don’t know what to do, and that’s why I must see her right away. But Max wasn’t dead. His flight was descending upon the city. He disappointed me again.

  Max almost always disappointed me. He didn’t move with me to Moscow when he should have moved. He stayed behind. And the bastard didn’t turn into a drunk. He didn’t fall. Instead, he prospered. He was involved in various businesses, and never without success. He upset me terribly when, new to the capital, I roamed and suffered, when all I needed was one thing – information from my hometown – to know that everything back there was going badly, that everyone was down and drunk, that after I left, life has stopped and everyone was awfully bored, but mainly that everyone was plagued by dreadful poverty. But no! Maxim would call me joyfully and report on his new accomplishments, how well all the friends and strangers were doing, how terrific the new restaurant was – the one recently opened not far from where I used to live – and that this Fall there has been an unearthly amount of mushrooms in the forest. He flew into Moscow pretty often; brought the usual goodies from back home. Wasted money, had fun, and on the third or fourth day would start up on how he wanted to go home. And then he would fly back home. And I hated him.

  Maxim got married five years ago. I didn’t come to his wedding. In general, I avoided going back home. But here was this wedding, Max’s wedding to boot, which meant a real wedding. I didn’t come. Max got offended. Really offended. I had never once seen his wife. Only photos. He spoke of her very little, called her often. He would just take himself off to some little corner and call his wife. After the wedding, Max did not give up on women and girlfriends… And it was definitely after the wedding that we came up with – actually Max came up with – the Hemingway game. I came up with the whole ideology and terminology. I developed the game’s style and strategy. But the principle, the point of the game… that was Max’s idea. I played a hundred times better than he – he often got distracted, fell apart, would not complete the game or try to quit. I would carry him, correct him in various ways. I played superbly. But he was the one who came up with it. After he got married.

  * * *

  Five minutes before I left the house, before driving to the airport, I spent about four seconds thinking what to wear: a sweater or a shirt. A sweater would be warmer and more practical. But what if later today I’d end up seeing Her. What if… some reason to call her would come up. There would be words, and something would work out. For that, one has to be dressed in a shirt. Most certainly! No suit and tie – absolutely not. That would look tacky and forced. Jeans, a tweed jacket and a nice shirt. Very nice. My favorite! White. Just a plain white shirt. Nevertheless, my favorite. I put it on… and went out to pick up Max.

  I came out to the courtyard, went to my car, opened it. It was still dark, but already there were a few cars outside, though most had a
lready left. I got into the car, started the engine and as soon as I did that, the lights of a car parked nearby came on at the same time. I turned: two bright headlamps were blinding me, so much that I couldn’t make out neither the model of the car nor the person or people in it. I warmed the engine for a minute and drove off. The headlights moved after me, I made a turn onto the street; the lights beamed into the back of my neck and in my rear-view mirror. Though there were many cars and lights out on the street, for some time I felt only the brightness of those two lamps. Once on the street, I forgot about them. But something inside me kept scratching against the part responsible for alarm…

  A shirt is a necessary item of clothing for the Hemingway game. To play the game right, one has to dress appropriately. The clothes cannot betray any forethought. It all has to appear careless and, at the same time, classy. The chosen clothes must be, in a sense, timeless. This kind of clothing is necessary to blur the signs of one’s age and, thus, one’s generation. Your clothes must serve to confound anyone regarding your education, line of work, income and social status. That is, your attire should communicate a kind of otherworldliness, a mystery and a hint at a certain serious, unbeknownst experience of life to anyone else who dares to play this weird game. A white shirt is the best thing to go with. And of course, no tie! Also, it wouldn’t be bad to wear a wrinkled, but good, authentic jacket. As for the pants, I can’t say much about that. There are many options. But the shoes… they have to be first-rate. Classic boots, sort of English, shabby, though well maintained, but without fanaticism. In other words, the shoes should be such that someone might say: “There is something to this, isn’t there?”

  Max has always had trouble with all this.

  And another thing: players of the Hemingway game can never be called by any name other than Ernest. And during the game one should never have on his person any means of mobile communication. It destroys the image.

  The first time our game just happened by itself, but gradually various rules took shape, skills developed or, to put it more precisely, a technique emerged.

  One can play the game alone, but it’s not very interesting. You need a partner – a spectator. Playing as a pair is ideal. By the way, if you are not old enough, don’t try to play the Hemingway game.

  And so, the two Ernest’s set out to play. First, you have to pick some fashionable café or a club that isn’t very loud. Whether it’s downtown or elsewhere doesn’t matter. Even if you have been to this establishment before, you must show up there as if for the first time. You should glance around, ask the bartender or waiter a couple of questions, as in, what’s happening in this place? You must appear slightly awkward, but nice and smiling. Under no circumstances are you to slide over faces and figures with that characteristically wandering, seeking gaze… It’s needless to say which gaze I am talking about. The eyes of Ernest must always be slightly unseeing, such eyes that every woman should want to fall into their field of vision.

  Meanwhile, it is equally necessary to avert the wandering and seeking looks of women. The ladies who came expressly to be picked up, or working girls, are of absolutely no use. Very young women are best avoided as well, because they won’t be able to appreciate… They will appreciate nothing. As for those visibly drunk? I wouldn’t recommend them either. But there is no need to worry, you can find the right ones anytime, anywhere.

  The number of women should never stop you, there can be one or five of them. That’s not important. The only thing is, they cannot be with men. A small group of women who decide to get together for drinks after work are very good for the two Ernest’s. Girlfriends may have torn themselves away for one night from their kids, from husbands who are well-to-do but quite busy people close to Ernest’s age – they are ideal. But the most desirable object is an elegant woman who sits at the table alone, perhaps after a fight with a man or some other trouble.

  The encounter happens by itself. But before it does, you must attract attention. For example, order some very complicated drink and be denied by the waiter who doesn’t know how to make it. Ask for someone from the management without being rude or capricious, be kind and helpful instead. Then go up to the bar and enlighten the bartender on how to mix that very concoction. It would also be nice to somehow make the bartender and manager laugh while you yourself preserve that look of sadness. Meanwhile, your partner should watch everything that’s happening with a smile. One Ernest must always look at the other Ernest with tenderness, although it’s important not to overdo it and give the wrong impression.

  So now you meet. Then you sit down next to the woman or women… After some time, you must take control. Though I should warn you, the Hemingway game isn’t cheap. You have to order drinks. You have to be witty, but cute. For example, the two Ernest’s could stage a kind of blazing, but friendly swordplay with each other.

  But most importantly, you must always admire the women you meet. This admiration has to be open and pure, without pressure or a bent toward seduction. Yet, it has to contain sweetness. Genuine sweetness!

  You must look a woman directly in the eyes without averting your gaze, you have to offer brave compliments, be sincerely interested in everything, everything… and at the same time, not be fussy, but slightly sad, as though wounded… wounded by life.

  You have to create an atmosphere of safety, dependability and unvarnished truth. If you suddenly experience desire or temptation… You have to fight it… without concealing that fight. It means that the whole evening or part of the night must move along a certain thin edge, so that it wouldn’t even occur to either party to propose exchanging phone numbers. (Max has always had the biggest problem with this.) Meaning that the better things are going, the clearer it must become that you would never meet again. Never! Yet at the same time, the faintest sound of hope must hang in the air. And at that very moment, when this thin edge is about to be breached… you must part ways! Under no circumstances are you to personally take the woman or women home. Because you will know where she or they live. And then the sound of hope will ring either fake or unduly strong. (Which is all to say that you can’t vouch for Max).

  You should call the taxi or hail one, help her or them inside, glance for the last time very closely into those eyes… And fall back. Best of all, if it’s a rainy night or if it’s snowing. Two unmoving silhouettes of two Ernest’s must be clearly visible from the back of the car. You must remain still, follow it with your eyes. For a long time!

  Parting right there in the establishment or walking out, or staying at the table looking sad as (she) they leave… Let’s just say we have tried this. It’s not a very good idea.

  Night, snow or rain. Or better yet, both rain and snow.

  And she who raced off in a taxi should continue to experience a sense of unrealized possibility and think: “Turns out things like this can happen! Turns out there are indeed men like this.” She has to ride home on the back seat of a taxi and… smile.

  And after all this, the two Ernest’s should not say “Yes!” Should not shake hands victoriously. Instead, they should slowly and ruefully go home, thinking: “Turns out there are indeed women like this…”

  It doesn’t always work out this way. Playing like this isn’t easy. But when it does work out, believe me, it’s very pleasurable… Damn pleasurable! And never regrettable.

  I switched to the right lane to turn from the Koltsevoye Parkway toward the airport. A sign with an arrow and a picture of a small white plane against a blue background flashed by; a sign pointing the way to the airport. My heart jumped spontaneously with joy and, just like that, dropped back down. “No, no, – I told it – we aren’t flying anywhere…” The heart was rejoiced by the little white plane and the road to the airport, but it was misled… I wasn’t flying away. Though perhaps I should be, doesn’t matter where. It’s a shame that She is here, in Moscow. Otherwise, I would at once fly to Her. I would fly to Her from Moscow. I’d call her and say: “I just flew in from Moscow. I flew to You…” Whenever someone flies somewhere from Moscow, for some reason it arouses respect and understanding, that the person came for some good reason. But when somebody flies into Moscow from someplace else – then… Well then, good for you, there will be more tomorrow, others just like you.