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The same men are still attached to me and show no signs of abandoning their posts. The third one has virtually pinned himself to me. I consider him my most outstanding decoration, though I am well aware of his amorous nature. He writes me one or two letters every day, brings them to me himself, then dutifully sits down beside me and waits for me to read them.

The first one still sends flowers, but is growing melancholy. The second one, the one to whom you imprudently consigned me, continues to insist on his love. In exchange, he demands that I come to him with all my troubles. Very shrewd, that one.

Taxi fares now cost 5000 times more than before.

Despite the peacefulness of my existence here, I miss London: the solitude, the measured life, the work from morning till night, the baths and the dances with attractive young men. Here I have learned to do without these things. And there is so much misery here that you can’t put it out of your mind even for a minute.

Write soon about all your doings. I kiss you, my dear, most beautiful sister; thanks again for your love and affection.



Alya


7 February


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Letter Two


About love, jealousy, the telephone and the phases of love. The letter ends with a remark about the way Russians walk.


Dear Alya,

I haven’t seen you now for two days.

I call. The telephone squeals; I can tell that I’ve stepped on someone.

I finally reach you. You’re busy in the afternoon, in the evening.

So I write another letter. I love you very much.

You are the city I live in; you are the name of the month and the day.

I float, salty and heavy with tears, barely keeping my head above water.

I seem to be sinking, but even there, underwater—where the phone doesn’t ring and rumors don’t reach, where it’s impossible to meet you—I will go on loving you.

I love you, Alya, yet you force me to hang onto the running board of your life.

My hands are freezing.

I’m not jealous of people: I’m jealous of your time. It is impossible not to see you. So what can I do when there’s no substitute for love?

You know nothing about the weight of things. All men stand equal before you as before the Lord. So what can I possibly do? I love you very much.

At first, I was drawn to you as sleep draws the head of a train passenger toward his neighbor’s shoulder.

Then I was mesmerized by you.

I know your mouth, your lips.

I have wound my whole life around the thought of you. I cannot believe that we have nothing in common; well, then—look in my direction.

I frightened you with my love; at the beginning, when I was still cheerful, you liked me better. That comes from Russia, my dear. We walk with a heavy tread. But in Russia I was strong; here I have begun to weep.


4 February


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Letter Three


The second letter from Alya. In this one, Alya asks me not to write her about love. The letter is tired.


My dear, my own. Don’t write to me about love. Don’t. I’m very tired. As you yourself have said, I have come to the end of my tether. This daily grind pulls us apart. I do not love you and I will not love you. I fear your love; someday you will hurt me because of the way you love me now. Don’t carry on so. I still feel we have much in common. Don’t frighten me! As well as you know me, you still do all you can to frighten me, to repel me. Your love may be great, but it’s far from joyful.

I need you; you know how to bring me out of myself.

Don’t write me only about your love. Don’t make wild scenes on the telephone. Don’t rant and rave. You’re managing to poison my days. I need freedom—I refuse to account for my actions to anyone!

Yes, you demand of me all of my time. Be light-hearted or else you’ll fail at love. With each day, you grow more melancholy. You should go to a sanatorium, my dear.

I’m writing in bed, because yesterday I went dancing. Now I’m going to take a bath. Perhaps we’ll see each other today.



Alya


5 February