Grishkovets - The Hemingway Game

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.

To L.

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 youve been waiting for, for so long. So you wake up and think: Why am I not having fun, why arent I glad, where is the long-awaited joy? I must be sick!

I woke up as if Id been switched on. I didnt shudder, didnt stretch, didnt 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 didnt hear the entire city, nor were these the sounds of some urban pulse or anything like that. They werent 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 buildings 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 didnt 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, couldnt 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, wont be happening for a couple of nights. This is all a good thing, just bad timing. Completely! Especially now. Because Ive fallen in love. Very much! So much that it hasnt happened to me quite like this before. Never! So yes, Max had bad timing!

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 Maxs 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 Maxs 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 dont know what to do, and thats why I must see her right away. But Max wasnt dead. His flight was descending upon the city. He disappointed me again.

Max almost always disappointed me. He didnt move with me to Moscow when he should have moved. He stayed behind. And the bastard didnt turn into a drunk. He didnt 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 didnt come to his wedding. In general, I avoided going back home. But here was this wedding, Maxs wedding to boot, which meant a real wedding. I didnt 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 games style and strategy. But the principle, the point of the game that was Maxs 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.