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1992-08-28
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BOOKS, Page 60Peering into the Russian Soul
By BRIGID O'HARA-FORSTER
SLEEPWALKER IN A FOG
By Tatyana Tolstaya
Translated by Jamey Gambrell; Knopf; 192 pages; $19
The people of what is still the largest country on earth
are playing Russian roulette with history, producing a dizzying
rush of events that defy comprehension. Tatyana Tolstaya, the
great-grandniece of Leo Tolstoy, helps us make human sense of
the game and the gamblers.
Tolstaya's eight stories, while never more than obliquely
political, illustrate the forces that have gnawed away the
structure of the world she describes. At a high school reunion,
a fat and happy apparatchik sweeps up in his limo to be greeted
with cold shoulders instead of warm hugs as his former
classmates berate him for the oppressive privileges of the
nomenklatura. Another character believes ideological purity will
win him a plum diplomatic appointment. He not only forbids his
wife to subscribe to a literary magazine and crosses out all
suspiciously surnamed acquaintances from his address book, but
also finally smashes all jars of imported food in the house,
even the Bulgarian apple jam. The life of a third character is
so drab that even a tiny gift from Paris, a red plastic spoon,
lends his days a sudden radiance.
Tolstaya so obviously loves her language, "the Russian
word, so powerful and poisonous and yet loving and lithe," that
even in translation she carves indelible people who roam the
imagination long after the book is put down. Like the quirky,
clinical images of photographer Diane Arbus, Tolstaya's
portraits embrace the strange, even the monstrous, who must not
be pushed away uncontemplated, because they are part of us.
Russian sentimentality can be honey sweet, but Tolstaya
spikes it with the vinegar of the circumstances that afflict her
hapless dreamers. The story of an 80-year-old mother who has
spent most of her life caring for her retarded son is told in
the voice of that man-child. His burbling narrative takes us
through his day as he waits for his mother to rise, dress her
thickened body and take up the constant guard she can never
relinquish. Like the immobile, anonymous soldier guarding a
tomb, she is always present but never animated as the pain of
her predicament seeps into us.
While Tolstaya is a caustic chronicler of perpetual
yearning and casual cruelty, she can also be wildly funny,
capturing the lunatic humor that leavens these hardscrabble
lives. Lyonechka, a rarely employed writer who has already
thrown away one newspaper job by introducing an unwelcome
sardonic note to the obituary column, lasts no longer at a
women's magazine after he starts a recipe with the words "Let's
be frank -- there ain't nothing to eat."
Tolstaya roams the nighttime city, taking us behind the
flickering blue lights of a thousand windows. We share the
unsought intimacy of overpeopled apartments where "another
person's wall darkens and swells with autumn anguish." Those who
suffer must not only endure their plight; they must also
surrender the peculiarly human right to be themselves: to lust,
to scheme, to betray, to generally behave badly. Tolstaya is
there to remind us that not even history at its most reckless
can rob individuals of the right to their own stories.