“That Old Life of Ease”: Light Reading with Alexander Voloshin

Cover of “Captain” Mayne Reid’s The Headless Horseman

With the arrival of spring break, I’ve managed to find time for a little light reading—purely for the sake of entertainment, no edifying strings attached. This is also my way to celebrate a week of good news, which included the longlisting of my latest translation, Andrey Kurkov’s The Silver Bone, for the International Booker Prize and my receiving a Literature Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

Reading aimlessly had me feeling like a kid again, and it reminded me of this enchanting passage from Alexander Voloshin’s On the Tracks, in which he compares his fantasies of the American Wild West, derived from adventure stories, with the reality of an immigrant’s life in  California. Swift, Verne, and improbable tales of adventure set in the New World made up the bulk of my childhood reading, too, and I suspect Samson Kolechko, the hero of The Silver Bone, was weaned on them as well. It’s a good thing they’ll always be there for us, and for generations of children to come.

You gaze into the past and see
vain seeking, sheer adversity…
And only rarely, in your sleep,
do little fragments of it seep
into your mind — sweet memories
of childhood, that old life of ease…
Distant Crimea… Warm July
in a lush garden… Floating by,
a row of half-remembered faces,
their chatting mingled with the traces
of piano music from the house…
Whispered confessions, solemn vows…

If I had heard of “grief,” “despair,”
they were mere words, as light as air
and utterly devoid of meaning…
Children are selfish, overweening…
Spoiled by my comforts, by routine,
constantly summoned to be seen
by this or that doting relation,
I was the Center of Creation…
I felt I’d never be held back,
proceeding boldly down life’s track!

It often happened, at midday,
when it was just too hot to play,
that I would slip into the study,
where it was quiet, cool. Nobody
every came in to read with me —
for grown-ups, summers are book-free.

Climbing onto the couch, I’d be
transported by the fantasy
of Swift or Verne to some strange land
with Gulliver or Captain Grant.
Texas, the broad plains, a fierce squall —
I dreamt of weathering it all,
and vowed that someday I’d wage war
against the natives… Hear me roar!
My eyes would blaze, my gaze would stun,
I’d settle matters with my gun…
I would win fame and untold riches!

Well, now I’m here… Alas, the hitch is
the truth behind our childhood dreams
is hardly ever what it seems.
Life bears no hint of heroism;
we fear another cataclysm,
remaining shaken and appalled
after the Bolsheviks’ “fierce squall”…

I’d found true poetry in novels —
but here it’s prose, hard work, drab hovels…
Now I approach the final track,
leaving all joy far back, far back…

---

Посмотришь в прошлое — там годы
Исканий тщетных… Там невзгоды,
Что Жизнь дарила щедро мне,
И только изредка, во сне, —
Отрывками увидишь снова
Моменты детства золотого,
Далёкий Крым… Уютный дом…
Июльский день в саду густом…
Ряд лиц — теперь полузабытых…
Из окон, широко-раскрытых, —
Услышишь музыку… Рояль
В тоске звенит — «кого-то жаль…
К кому-то сердце жадно рвётся…».
И гулким эхом отдаётся
Романс старинный — там, вдали, —
Где проплывают корабли,
Где солнца золото, где море…

В те дни я слышал: «Мука»… «Горе»…
«Тоска»… Но был я очень мал
И смысла слов — не понимал…
Слова легко скользили эти, —
Всегда эгоистичны дети.
Рабы обычаев, уюта, —
То люди к нам, то мы к кому-то…
Ряды визитов отдаём —
И мне казалось — создан мир
Лишь для меня!… И я — кумир!
Я — Центр Вселенной!… Бог Великий
Свет создал пёстрый, многоликий, —
На радость мне!… И жизни путь
Я свой — пройду не «как-нибудь»,
А «гордо», «смело», «в славе яркой»!…

Бывало часто — в полдень жаркий
Я шёл в прохладный кабинет, —
Там — книг ряды, там — взрослых нет, —
Большие летом не читают, —
Никто мне там не помешает…

Взобравшись на большой диван,
Читал я сказку, иль роман, —
О «Гулливере», «великанах»,
О солнечных далёких странах,
О «Детях Гранта»… И мечтал,
Что сам увижу «грозный шквал»,
«Техас», «льяносы», «Аризону»,
И — верный «прерии закону» —
Я буду цель иметь одну, —
«Вести с индейцами войну»!…
Мои «так грозны» будут «взоры»,
«Мой карабин решит все споры»!…
И буду славен я, богат, —
«Великий Бледнолицый Брат!»…

На деле ж — вышло всё иначе…
Из этого совсем не значит,
Что не сбылись мои мечты, —
Они — сбылись… Но красоты
И героизма — нет в помине…
Ну вот — в Америке я ныне,
В стране далёких, детских дум,
Но… стал холодным взрослый ум…
Прошли «расплавленные годы»
И гул Российской Непогоды,
Разбив мечты, как «грозный шквал», —
Изнанку Жизни показал!…

Нет радости и в этих странах…
Поэзия — была в романах,
На деле ж я увидел тут
Лишь прозу и тяжёлый труд…

«Лишь там прекрасно — где нас нету»!…
Невольно поговорку эту —
Частенько повторяю я, —
Мои читатели-друзья…

Короче, — грустные итоги:
Уже кончаются — дороги…
И перепутья… И пути…
А счастья — нет… и — не найти!…

Joys Direct and Vicarious

Photograph by Magdalena Edwards.

This past week has brought me great joy, to put it mildly. The joy has been both direct — Nina, Charlie, and I have spent half the week with my mother, who’s visiting Tulsa for the first time — and vicarious. That vicarious part comes courtesy of my sensationally gifted wife, Jenny, who’s new novel, The Extinction of Irena Rey, has racked up a staggering number of rave reviews. Just today, in The New York Times, Fiona Maazel writes:

The Extinction of Irena Rey is mad with plot and language and gorgeous prose, and the result is a bacchanal, really, which is the opposite of extinction. Such is the irony of art. To quote the novel’s epigraph, which could not be more apt: “And so, they forged their duality into a oneness, thereby making a forest.” This novel’s a forest. Go explore.

Jenny’s triumph comes on the heels of a more humble triumph of my own, a return to LA to read at the Hammer Museum, as part of a UCLA-sponsored poetry series I attended religiously as an undergrad and grad student years ago. As I told the audience, I learned a great deal from the poets who visited us then, but nearly as much as I learned from the man who introduced them, Stephen Yenser, my first teacher in the art of poetry. I would say that having Stephen introduce me was a dream come true, only I hadn’t ever dreamed such a thing would happen. The recording is up on the Hammer site, if you care to suffer through it.

As gratifying as it was to share the stage with Stephen, what made the evening especially sweet was the presence in the audience of a very special guest, Gedda Ilves, who, at the age of 100 (and of course you wouldn’t know it to look at her), is a living link to the Russophone Angeleno poets whose work I’ve been translating for some time now.

Gedda, who was born in 1923 among the Russian émigrés in Harbin, China, and came to Los Angeles, via Brazil, in the 1950s, is herself a poet, whose latest collection, As Butterfly to a River: New & Selected Poems, appeared in 2019. She has also just written a memoir, which she was gracious enough to share with me. It is a riveting tale, reflecting in every sentence the vivacious spirit that has sustained Gedda through all the turmoil she has witnessed. I spent a memorable afternoon at her home before the reading, pursuing her papers and admiring her collection of intricate snuff boxes and other artifacts associated with her international past. I will no doubt have more to say about Gedda and her work in the coming months, but I will end this entry with her own words:

I stand at the place
where my childhood
days passed.

Our garden then
full of flowers.
I chase a butterfly,
watch a caterpillar
my mother tells me
not to touch.

The house is gone.
I stand here for a while,
blinking at the high-rises.

“That Age-Old Spirit Filled the Air”: Alexander Voloshin Conjures Up a Ukrainian Christmas

“Koliada,” tapestry, by Olha Pilyuhina

Just a few weeks ago I began a new semester at the University of Tulsa and also, with much excitement, kicked off my stint as a Tulsa Artist Fellow.  I consider myself extraordinarily lucky to be part of this year’s multi-talented cohort, and I look forward to collaborating with each and every one of my colleagues in the program.

My first year with the Fellowship will be devoted to research into émigré and refugee writing from Oklahoma, the exploration of literary links between my adoptive state and my near-native California, and the completion of my translation of Alexander Voloshin’s On the Tracks and at Crossroads.  I wasted no time in getting back to the last of these projects, and, as usual, the Voloshin passages I happened to be translating resonated poignantly with the dreadful realities of our own time.  For too many people trapped in war zones or struggling to survive in foreign lands, there was no holiday season.  This was the case for Voloshin in 1939.  You can’t blame the man for dwelling on memories of happy holidays past, especially when he’s able to conjure up the sights, sounds, and smells of them with such elan.  In this particular passage, Voloshin writes the diverting Christmas tale he claims he isn’t able to write by drawing on his recollections of Ukrainian koliada celebrations — of the hopak dance, of the sound of a bandura, of Lenten feasts featuring kutia, uzvar, varenets, and palianystia, that Russian-tongue-twisting shibboleth of the current war.  Although Voloshin identifies himself throughout the poem as Russian, his heart was in Ukraine, where he was born and spent most of his life before emigrating.  He knew how to pronounce “palianystia” properly, and I expect he would have said the word proudly now.

Today — no sleep, no pleasant dream…
How can I celebrate the theme
of Christmas when my home is gone?
However much the heart may want
to sing about bouquets of roses,
it simply can’t if it feels frozen…
Where do we get that Christmas spirit?
A carol? We’re too glum to hear it.
Our well of fantasy runs dry.
We’re getting old: joy seems to fly
farther away from us each year,
leaving us steeped in doubt and fear…
A bloody world… Tyrants enthroned…
What lies ahead? Unknown… Unknown…
How could I now wax lyrical
about a “Christmas miracle”
when evil forces roam and pillage?
What Christmas Eve? What “sleepy village”?
The Star of Bethlehem? And snow?
“He made a friend and lost a foe”?

All that is done… Gone in a flash —
the “sleepy village” turned to ash,
both “friend” and “foe” deep underground,
the Star extinguished… What surrounds
us is brute force… Hardly a word
of love or joy is ever heard,
and a small pile of firewood
lies where the Christmas tree had stood…
We’re God-forsaken, left behind…
A happy ending’s hard to find…

Yet life had once been otherwise,
richer by far. We used to prize
loyalty, honor, and compassion;
brotherhood, freedom were in fashion…
On Christmas Eve, that Holy Night,
we helped our neighbors, set things right.
Of malice there was not a trace —
just one big brotherly embrace[…]

Once, in Ukraine, what carols sounded!
In every home, comfort abounded —
each was a warm and tidy realm…
The children sang of Bethlehem,
of Christ, the Magi, and the manger…
Lights burned till morning: welcome, stranger!
Two dozen pages wouldn’t do
if I wished to describe to you
those charming evenings: the bandura,
the tambourine, the wild bravura
of young lads at their hopak dance,
the lasses smiling as they prance,
braids swinging to the tap of heels —
and then, of course, the wondrous meals!
The uzvar punch, big bowls of kutia,
the fish in aspic, strong and fruity
brandies, and horilka too —
and for the youngest, milk, fresh stewed!
Embroidered cloths, pies without meats, and
warm, round loaves of palianytsia…
Roach with translucent caviar…
Voices of praise… The shining Star…
That age-old spirit filled the air,
so that you sensed it everywhere…

---

Сегодня — сон бежит от глаз,
Ну, как «Рождественский Рассказ»
Я напишу — живя в изгнаньи?!…
Нет — не могу!… При всём желаньи
Нельзя воспеть букеты роз,
Когда в душе — царит мороз!…
Где взять «рождественские темы»?!…
Ведь тут — истосковались все мы,
Иссяк фантазии полёт,
Стареем мы, и каждый год
Нам всё трудней развеселиться…
Не знаем — завтра что случится,
Повсюду в мире — «кровь», «вожди»
И — неизвестность впереди!…
Где-ж взять «лирические фразы»,
Как добрые писать рассказы,
Коль всюду торжествует зло?!
«Сочельник»… «Спящее село»…
«Звезда Рождественская»… «Вьюга»…
«Он ждал врага, а встретил — друга»…

Всё это — в прошлом!… Всё — ушло!…
Сгорело «спящее село»,
«Друзья», «враги»… — в одной могиле.
Угасли «звёзды»… Грубой силе
Всё покорилось… На дрова
Срубили «ёлку»… И слова
Любви и радости — не слышны…
Совсем забыл о нас Всевышний, —
Лишь «вьюги воют у крыльца», —
Увы — без «доброго конца»!…

А было некогда — иначе!…
И жили все мы побогаче,
И знали много чудных слов:
«Честь», «верность», «преданность», «любовь»,
«Свобода», «братство», «состраданье»…
Мы шли с любимой на свиданье…
В «Сочельника Святую Ночь» —
Стремились ближнему помочь…
И чужды были нам проклятья,
И были братскими объятья […]

А в Малороссии!… Колядки!…
И в каждом доме, в каждой хатке, —
Уют, теплынь и чистота…
Поют детишки про Христа,
Про Вифлеем, волхвов и ясли…
И — до утра огни не гасли…
Не хватит двадцати страниц,
Чтобы веселье «вечерниц»
Вам описать… Звучит бандура,
На бубне — лопается шкура,
Пошли в присядку «парубки»,
Стучат «дівчаток» каблуки,
Звенят «подковки», косы вьются,
«Дядькі шуткують і сміються»,
«Різдвяна Ніч» — глядит в окно…
А на столах — полным-полно:
«Кутья» в «макітре», «взвар», «горілка»,
«Сливьянкі староі бутилка»,
Из рыбы — постный холодец,
В баклагах толстых «варенец»,
Вишнёвка, запеканка, пиво…
Всё аппетитно… Всё — красиво…
Лежат повсюду «рушники»,
На них — «вишивані квіткі»…
На блюдах — пироги горою,
Тарань с прозрачною икрою,
Пшеничных груда «паляниц»…
У окон — ряд весёлых лиц:
Пришли пославить — со Звездою,
И дышит стариной сeдою
Напев народной «Коляды»…

“A Man Can Dream”: A Tulsan Cold Snap and Vernon Duke’s “Heat Wave”

Our new year got off to a bit of a rocky start, but it has also given us much to celebrate — first and foremost, our new home. The little Tulsan bungalow is a transplanted Angelono’s dream.  It looks to have been airlifted from the San Fernando Valley in the 1950s.  As I wrote to a friend just after we moved, I’m surprised it didn’t come with a poodle skirt and a hula hoop.  The move itself, alas, was a hard one.  Winter has set in here in Oklahoma, and there was snow and ice on the roads.

The sight of snow was a joyous one, of course, but Jenny and I would rather have watched it fall through a window…  It did remind us of the pleasure we took in translating Taras and Marjana Prokhasko’s heartwarming children’s book, Who Will Make the Snow?, from Ukrainian.  This was Jenny’s and my first official co-translation, and we were happy to see it make not one, but two New York Times best-of lists.  Kind reviewers have brought us another couple of presents this holiday season.  Jenny’s novel, The Extinction of Irena Rey, and my translation of Andrey Kurkov’s historical detective yarn, The Silver Bone, got twin stars in Publishers Weekly.  Both are due out in March.

But back to the snow…  When the temperature drops to the single digits, this shivering Californian needs a reminder of the other extreme.  Luckily, Vernon Duke is Johnny-on-the-spot.

Heat Wave

Today the sun is unrelenting,
its rays refusing to recede,
pouring their oil upon the wilted
salad of houses in the street.

The evening couldn’t get much warmer.
While sails hang limp and seamen mope,
a lazy cop sulks on the corner
and nurses an illicit hope:

a glass, a juicy, springy olive,
a whispering ambrosial stream
in a secluded bar — the call of
some tinkling voice… A man can dream…

August 1966

---

Жара

Сегодня солнце не желает гаснуть,
Его лучи уняться не хотят.
И обливают беспощадно маслом
Домов и улиц сохнущий салат.

Под вечер  — полдень. Вянет хлам житейский
И паруса безжизнены в порту,
А на углу ленивый полицейский
Лелеет нелегальную мечту:

Хрусталь, и хруст пружинистой оливы,
В укромном баре шепчущий ручей
Амброзии нездешнего разлива
И чей-то рай… а может быть ничей.

Август 1966

“Come on Down to Arizona”: Vernon Duke Hits Phoenix

The past few months have been difficult for our family. We lost one of our pillars, my father-in-law, Jerry Croft, who was as close to a superhero as real-life affords. You can learn more about Jerry, whose joyous fighting spirit will continue to inspire me for as long as I live, here and here. He was a cultural geographer with a deep knowledge of Oklahoma and a deep love for the American West. We bonded over our mutual addiction to old oaters, like Death Valley Days, and I suppose it was memories of our Western-themed conversations — and of Jerry’s goodnatured yet sly sense of humor — that sent me back to Vernon Duke’s cockeyed sendup of a tourism advertisement for the inhospitably hot state of Arizona. I’m sure it would have brought a smile to Jerry’s face.

Arizona

Are you gaga over ozone?
Does it simply make you swoon?
Come on down to Arizona,
as befits a proper loon.
Cowboys with their copper faces,
Gary Cooperish attire,
loaf around, twanging like oboes,
wet with sweat, smelling of mire.
With their legs encased in leather
boots of an enormous size,
they appear as Gullivers
to our Lilliputian eyes.
They make money in fake gunfights
staged for television screens,
but when those long shoots are ended,
Arizona’s where they spend it —
the calm desert is their scene.
Rich old ladies much admire
all these cowboys, tall and plain —
they expect erotic fire,
but they wait for it in vain.
The main city here is Phoenix —
rather sleepy, rather dull,
all the buildings single-storeyed,
nondescript… “Oh, what a cynic,”
I can hear my readers drawl.
In the evenings, out of bars,
comes the strumming of guitars.
In the mornings, after golf,
stingy gentlemen ride off
in Mercedes, Jaguars…
And at middays, with a groan,
everyone, in unison,
cools off with a bit of gin.
Come to Arizona, campers,
where the palm trees reek of camphor!

June 1963

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Аризона

Если верите озону
И покорны кислороду,
Поезжайте в Аризону,
Как пристало сумасброду.
Меднорожие ковбои
В Гэри-Куперовых шляпах
Там гнусавят, как гобои,
И от них медвежий запах.
Ноги в сапоги обуты
Исполинского размера.
Визитёры — лилипуты,
А ковбои — Гулливеры.
Зарабатывают бойней
На экранах телевизий,
Но в песчаном парадизе,
В Аризоне им покойней,
В Аризоне — take it easy.
Престарелые богачки,
Эротической подачки
Ожидая тщетно — что им? —
Не выплевывая жвачки,
Восхищаются ковбоем.
Главный город — это Финикс,
Монотонный, сонный; даже
Все дома одноэтажны,
На одно лицо. «Вы циник-с!» —
Мне читатель в скобках скажет.
До-ре-ми иль си-ля-соль-фа —
В кабаках трещат гитары.
По утрам, устав от гольфа,
Сядет люд скупой и старый
В Мерседесы, Ягуары.
В полдень в Финиксе пустынно
Все, как по команде, стонут,
От жары спасаясь джином.
Пальмы пахнут нафталином:
Поезжайте в Аризону.

Июнь 1963

“Give It All, Love Everybody”: Vernon Duke and a Mirage of Yuletide in LA

October was a brutal month, and November shows no signs of improvement. Ethnic and political conflicts continue to flare up around the world. This year many thousands of civilians in Sudan, Ukraine, Israel and Palestine, Nagorno-Karabakh, and elsewhere have been slaughtered and displaced. Having just finished translating the first part of Alexander Voloshin’s mock epic On the Tracks and at Crossroads, which covers the flight of hundreds of thousands of émigrés from the south of Ukraine at the end of the Civil War in the late 1910s and early 1920s, I felt I needed to remind myself that the journey these men, women, and children undertook did not always end in heartbreak. Some of them eventually found peace and even joy, if only temporarily, in their adoptive homes. It seems hardly possible that the people affected by today’s turmoil will one day find peace and joy, but poems like the one below, by Vernon Duke, offer a small shred of hope.

I should add that I write this from Tulsa, where for the past two days I’ve had to scrape ice off our car’s windshield in the morning, so Duke’s description of the incongruously warm holiday season in LA proves especially appealing at the moment.

Christmas in Santa Monica

Heat in December — not the frost
that pokes us with its unseen pins.
The mouths of tykes emit no steam
and paper Christmas trees look out
onto the merry, decked-out scene.
Instead of snow — fluff, cotton wool,
and a glass floor posing as ice.
People gaze up and feast their eyes,
for free, as a fake angel flies
amid the strings of ersatz pearls.
The traffic lights, like cigarettes,
flicker in rhythm down the street,
while a supposed Santa Claus,
sweating right through his fur-trimmed coat, 
explains, in tones so rich and sweet,
the charms of winter at the Pole.
On TV youngsters smile profusely,
sing carols, then, in swimming trunks,
race one another to the waves
(without the beach, we can’t have music).
And farther down, beside the bridge,
on fragrant eucalyptus trees,
a triptych of bright lanterns swings
to glorify the newborn King.
The night descends. A star’s suspended
between the palms; this strange and shoddy
mirage of Yuletide makes no sense.
Still — Merry Christmas, my dear friend!
You’ll give it all, love everybody.

January 1965

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Рождество в Санта-Монике

Зной в декабре, не холод колкий,
Что жжёт невидимой иголкой.
Из детских ртов не пышет пар,
Бумажные глазеют ёлки
На принаряженный бульвар.
А вместо снега пух и вата
И пол стеклянный, словно лёд;
И лицезреют все бесплатно
Поддельных ангелов полёт,
Поддельных жемчугов мерцанье,
Сигналов уличных мельканье
Подобно вспышкам папирос.
В очках и меховом кафтане
Потеет мнимый Дед Мороз;
Он детям объясняет гладко
Зимы невидимый уют.
По телевизии Колядки
Юнцы зубастые поют,
Потом в трусах купальных липких
(Без пляжа музыка не та)
С разбега в волны. У моста,
На благовонных эвкалиптах
Фонариков подвешен триптих
Для прославления Христа.
Ночь. Над крыльцом звезда повисла
Меж пальмами; в ней мало смысла,
Убог рождественский мираж.
Но все же — друг мой, Merry Christmas!
Ты всех полюбишь, всё отдашь.

Январь 1965

“The Life We Led in Turkey”: Alexander Voloshin in Constantinople

Last week I completed my translation of the second volume of Andrey Kurkov’s Samson Kolechko mysteries, which are set in Kyiv in 1919.  As I confessed in my brief translator’s note to the US edition of the first volume, The Silver Bone, which will appear in March 2024, “submersion in that earlier period of crisis and uncertainty proved cathartic. After all, I had as little control over the fate of Ukraine, which is also my homeland, in 2022 as Samson had over its fate in 1919, when the reins of power seemed to pass from hand to hand every few weeks. It was oddly reassuring to cling to Samson as he did his best to find his way through the fog of war and revolution, and even more reassuring to reflect on how far Ukraine had come since those dark days.”

Samson stayed in Kyiv, refusing to budge, while others had little choice but to flee. After closing his second case, I felt like turning my attention back to those displaced by the catastrophes of the 1910s. And so I set sail again with the buoyant Alexander Voloshin, who dedicated a few brief early chapters of his On the Tracks and at Crossroads to a colorful description of émigré life in Turkey in the early 1920s. One of the Russophone “notices” he cites in the second of these chapters is a want ad for a sight-reading pianist. I can’t help but wonder: did Vernon Duke apply for that position? He would have been a shoo-in.

Chapter Eight

Look how many! Being driven… Where? 
What does their wailing mean?…
— A. S. Pushkin, “Demons”

The wild Black Sea was all aroar —
the Red Devil laughed on shore
as we drifted through the fog…
Left Crimea to the dogs…
The Cheka was on a spree.
You support democracy?
Monarchy? Not Bolshevik?
You’d be done away with, quick.

We escaped that pit of Hell.
Our Armada’s sails did swell
as we journeyed on and on…

The sky brightened towards dawn
and fresh breezes swept it clear.
Suddenly, green cliffs appeared.
All was not yet lost for us!
We drew near the Bosphorus…

Chapter Nine

What isn’t there at that fair!
— N. V. Gogol, “The Fair at Sorochintsy”

Although there is simply no
capturing the whole tableau
of the life we led in Turkey,
I assure you: we were working.
Some of us even revealed
talents theretofore concealed.
This one’s acting, improvising.
That one’s painting? How surprising!
Him — a cook? And croupier?
Lawyers driving cabs all day,
doctors getting paid to sing,
high-born ladies waitressing…

You could hear our Russian cries,
hawking dumplings, little pies
on the corners of each street:
who has time to be discreet?
Diamonds, trousers, icons, furs —
name your price, and all your yours!
Millions of rubles sold
for a pittance — useless, old…

Russian names were all around:
“Sevastopol Meeting Ground” —
entertainment, coffee, tea
(in the courtyard, balcony).
Vodka served at “Russian Fleet,”
borscht and herring — what a treat!
“Café Moscow”? Window dressing:
owner was a true Odesan…
“Lotto Club” for decent wine.
Next door: “Midwife Katzenstein
from Yekaterinoslav” —
always did her job with love.

Notices: “Madame Petrov,
fortuneteller from Rostov”;
“Bloom, assisting your affairs”;
“Cup of Tea — come drown your cares”;
“Can secure a foreign visa”;
“Floor show, opening this season,
needs sight-reading pianist”;
“Zadkine, occult analyst”…
Signs of home on every block —
cockroach races round the clock!

Without wreaking devastation,
heroes of the emigration
had laid siege to Istanbul,
taking charge of it in full.

Chapter Ten

Kindly take yourself off!…
— A. P. Chekhov, The Wedding

We toiled on, without cessation.
Then the Turkish population,
with a most respectful bow,
asked us to get going — now…

They said, “If we had our druthers,
we’d be rid of you, dear brothers.
First you hand us a defeat,
now you worship at our feet?
Since you’re running, run some more.
Hosting you is such a chore —
plainly put, we’re sick and tired…”

Well, that left us quite inspired
to leave Turkey double-quick —
we ourselves were feeling sick.
Now we all had but one dream:
to New York! Put on full steam!

---

Глава восьмая

Сколько их, куда их гонят,
Что так жалобно поют?…
А. С. Пушкин

Море Чёрное грохочет,
Красный Дьявол вслед хохочет,
Мы плывём в туман и тьму…
Там — в оставленном Крыму —
Вакханалия чекистов, —
Демократов, Монархистов,
Беспартийных режут там, —
Режут всех, кто был не хам!

Мы-же вырвались из ада,
И на юг плывёт Армада
Белых Русских кораблей…

К утру — сделалось светлей,
Разогнало ветром тучи,
Берегов зелёных кручи
Показалися вдали,
И — в Босфор суда вошли…

Глава девятая

И чего только нет на этой ярмарке!
Н. В. Гоголь

Описать, едва-ль, сумею
Вам подробно эпопею
Цареградского житья,
Но признаться должен я,
Что России эмигранты
Обнаружили таланты:
Тот — художник, тот — артист,
Тот шоффер, тот куплетист,
Те, вдруг, стали поварами,
Те — крупье… Девицы, дамы, —
В ресторанах подают,
Доктора — в хорах поют…

Всюду русские с лотками:
Кто торгует пирожками.
Кто — пельменями «в разнос»…
Кто-то на угол принёс
«Бывших денег» миллионы…
Продают — меха… иконы…
Бриллианты и… штаны, —
Бедной Родины сыны…

Всюду — русские названья:
«Севастопольцев Свиданье» —
Кофе, чай и кабаре,
(В мезонине, во дворе);
«Русский Флот» — обеды, водка,
Ежедневно — борщ, селёдка,
А внизу — в углу, стоит:
«Содержатель — одессит»…
Ресторан «Москва»… «Полтава»…
«Из Екатеринослава
Акушерка — Каценштуб»…
На углу — «Лото и Клуб»…

Объявленья: «Де-Петрова —
Хиромантка из Ростова»…
«Блюм — ходатай по делам»…
«Чашка Чая» — Русских Дам…
«Достаю в Европу визы»…
«Кабаретной антрепризе
Нужен нотный пианист»…
«Цадкин — психо-окультист»…
«Файф-о-клоки Черной Розы»…
Русский сборник — «Смех сквозь слезы»…
«Конотопская нуга»…
«Таракании Бега»…

Словом — все тогда признали,
Что Царь-Град завоевали,
Без губительной войны, —
Эмиграции Сыны!…

Глава десятая

Позвольте вам выйти вон!…
А. П. Чехов

Дни бегут, сплетаясь в годы,
И турецкие народы,
Сделав вежливый поклон, —
Просят нас — убраться вон…

Говорят: «На самом деле —
Вы нам, братцы, — надоели!…
Коль уж начали бежать —
Потрудитесь продолжать!…
На войне, так вы нас били,
А теперь, вдруг, — полюбили…
Словом — будьте так добры!»…

Из турецкой мы дыры —
Сами вырваться хотели…
Все друг дружке надоели,
Все мечтали, как-нибудь, —
На Нью-Йорк направить путь…

“Two of Everything”: Vernon Duke’s Fine Romance

Vernon Duke found true love relatively late in life, in the mid-1950s, when his musical secretary introduced him to Kay McCracken. A mezzo-soprano from Bozeman, Montana, Kay was less than half his age — but I gather age was never anything but a number for Duke. The romance was a whirlwind, and the two tied the knot on October 29, 1957. It was a happy marriage, cut short by Duke’s sudden death on the operating table on January 16, 1969. The memory of that day, and of the happiness that it shattered, are very much alive for Kay, with whom I spoke by phone last week.

The occasion for my call was the completion of another translation — this time of a poem Duke had dedicated to his bride. Kay vividly recalls picking up copies of the book in which the poem is found, Picture Gallery, from the publisher in Munich in 1965. But of course she couldn’t read its contents, which included, among other things, a lyric about Christmas in Santa Monica and a lighthearted skewering of the hippies at the Whisky a Go Go on Sunset Blvd. (No scene was too wild for the young-at-heart Duke.)

Duke had told Kay that he’d written the poem for her, but it remained inaccessible, locked away in another language, for exactly six decades. Last week I shared my translation. I wish I could express how much in meant to me to hear her giggle at each witty line, and sigh occasionally, and finally say, through tears, “That got me right in the belly.” I felt it too. Here’s the poem.

Two Dollars

In all the dizzying pre-wedding turmoil
(like Gogol’s hero, I had awful jitters),
running around to get champagne and flowers
(they didn’t smell like flowers from Crimea)
and every other necessary trifle,
I nearly didn’t make it to the office,
my darling Kay, where newlyweds, by law,
have to obtain a proper marriage license.
I found you waiting there, impatiently,
casting quick glances at your bracelet watch
(my Scottish heather brought up in Montana).
Then, holding hands, like children off to school,
we rushed up to the counter, panting wildly,
and I declared, “Here are the documents,”
as I threw down the papers with great pride.
“Two dollars,” grunted the unfeeling clerk,
who looked to me just like a sunburnt cactus.
In desperation, I took out my wallet
and found no money. I had spent it all
on things we needed for the celebration
(an L.A. wedding is a big production).
But, hastily, you drew from your own wallet
a crumpled, crinkly pair of greenish bills,
resembling two squirmy little lizards,
and slipped them to the clerk — “Two dollars, is it?” —
then, with a faint smile, added shyly, “Thank you.”
Pursing his lips, the gruff clerk merely grunted,
and we raced off towards the church, like mad.
Along the way, you whispered to me, “Honey,
always remember who paid for the wedding.”
And I’ll remember, always, darling Kay
(my Scottish heather brought up in Montana).

* * *

Then came the hour of our first real parting —
of that sweet sorrow, as the Bard described it.
I had to travel to New York, for reasons
I’ve long forgotten. At the sooty station,
we kissed each other sadly and embraced,
reluctant to let go. True newlyweds.
“I’ll have to eat all by myself tonight,”
you said so sweetly, with a little sigh,
then rummaged in your wallet. “I’m afraid
I have no money.” I pulled out two dollars.
“All right,” you said. I stepped aboard the train.
The smoke of it smelled strange, rather disturbing.
A little later, in the Pullman car,
where it was cool, I wore my blue pajamas
and thought of you. I drifted off, and dreamt
of Scottish heather growing in Montana…
Then came a vision of my own finale
(I hope it, too, will come with some delay):
Bottles of medicine. Half-darkness. By my bed,
you, darling Kay — clenched tightly in your hand
a crumpled, crinkly pair of greenish bills,
resembling two squirmy little lizards.
Brimming with love and fear, you say to me,
“Here, honey… Don’t forget the telegram…
Send it as soon as you arrive… It won’t be easy
for me to stay here, all alone, on earth…”
As difficult as it may be, God willing,
I’ll still discern your words, with gratitude,
but I’ll no longer need to take your money.

* * *

Friend, you and I have two of everything.
Two homelands — your America, my Russia
(a Scottish heather and a Slavic birch).
A pair of dogs. And a duet for piano.
Two dollars. And two lives. Until the end.

June 1963

---

Два доллара

В нелепой суматохе перед свадьбой
(Как Подколесин, свадеб я боялся)
Я бегал за шампанским, за цветами
(Они не пахли, как цветы в Мисхоре),
За разной разностью необходимой —
И чуть не опоздал в бюро, Катюша,
Где, по закону, новобрачным нужно
Свидетельством о браке заручиться.
Ты там ждала меня нетерпеливо
(Шотландский вереск, выросший в Монтане),
Смотря украдкой на браслет с часами;
И, за руки держась, как дети в школу,
Мы кинулись галопом, задыхаясь,
К чиновнику. «Вот, мистер, документы», —
Я заявил, их бросив на прилавок.
«Два доллара», — мне процедил чиновник,
Похожий на сожженный солнцем кактус.
В бумажнике, порывшись бестолково,
Я денег не нашел. Я их истратил:
Расходов перед свадьбой очень много
(В Лос-Анжелесе свадьбы театральны).
Из кошелька ты вынула поспешно
Зеленые, помятые бумажки,
Похожие на ящериц вертлявых;
Чиновнику их сунула: «Возьмите…
Два доллара, не правда ль?» — улыбаясь,
Ему застенчиво сказала: «Thank you».
Чиновник буркнул, поджимая губы,
И мы помчались в церковь. «Помни, милый,
Твоя жена за свадьбу заплатила», —
Шепнула, подбоченившись, Катюша
(Шотландский вереск, выросший в Монтане).

* * *

Вот подошла и первая разлука —
«Чужая сторона», как пел шарманщик.
В Нью-Йорк мне съездить — а зачем, не помню —
Пришлось, и на измызганном вокзале
Мы на прощанье грустно целовались,
Как полагается молодоженам.
«Придется в первый раз одной обедать», —
Вздыхая, ты промолвила печально.
Порылась в кошельке. «Боюсь, не хватит…» —
Два доллара я вытащил мгновенно.
«Аll right, спасибо»… — и пыхтящий поезд,
Пропахший чем-то странным и тревожным,
Меня увез — ив Пульмане прохладном,
В пижаму облачившись голубую,
Я думал о тебе; потом приснился
Шотландский вереск на холмах Монтаны,
Потом представился финал грядущий
(Придет и он; надеюсь, с опозданьем).
Лекарства. Полумрак. У изголовья,
Катюша, ты; в руке твоей зажаты
Зеленые, помятые бумажки,
Похожие на ящериц вертлявых;
Суешь мне их с испугом и любовью.
«Вот, милый… не забудь мне телеграмму
Послать, как только ты по назначенью
Прибудешь. На земле одной остаться
Мне нелегко…» Твои слова, даст Боже,
С трудом и с благодарностью расслышу,
Но деньги больше мне не пригодятся.

* * *

У нас с тобой, мой друг, всего по паре:
Две родины — Америка, Россия
(Шотландский вереск, русская береза),
Дуэт роялей. Две больших собаки.
Два доллара. Две жизни. До свиданья.

Июнь 1963

“The Smoke of Time”: From Crimea to Santa Monica with Vernon Duke

I thought I was finished with Vernon Duke’s Los Angeles poems, but it turns out that the sequence from his 1962 collection wasn’t the end of the story. He kept on writing funny, touching verses about Southern California. Santa Monica seemed to exert a special pull on him, and a poem from June 1963 reveals one good reason for that. The beach reminded him, as it reminds me, of the Black Sea.

Duke spent the happiest years of his childhood in Crimea, partly in the resort town of Alupka, the splendors of which he describes in his joy-ride of an autobiography, Passport to Paris (1955):

The Black Sea is bluer than the bluest Mediterranean; the fish more varied and far tastier; the flowers larger and more fragrant; and above all, the fruit not to be compared with any obtainable elsewhere. My most vivid recollection of Crimea is the taste of the local grapes and the astonishing variety in their shape, size and flavor. I particularly remember three: the huge yellow-green Chaoosh, the subtly perfumed Isabella, and the common but infinitely juicy Shashla. The everyday drink of all tourists and residents of Crimea was a fresh grape juice squeezed before your eyes from a pound of Shashla; this drink, amber-green in color, in no way resembled commercial grape juice as we know it in the U.S.A.

His adoptive home may have lacked suitable grape juice, but in other ways the shore of the Pacific brought him back to his boyhood. In this poem, even a fiddler crab’s Soviet-style salute can’t dampen his mood. As the smoke of time drifts away and one nears one’s final destination, why not let bygones be bygones?

Nature Morte

Is this Crimea? Is it the Pacific?
Same salty water, same sweet sun, same view:
a picture-postcard seaside panorama
beneath the same clear sky, same shade of blue.
The water has the smell of fresh cucumbers.
A jellyfish coils like a blown-glass snake.
Rising behind him with its snowy lining,
a wave’s thick shirt descends to overtake
and drape a swimmer. On the shore, a crab
offers his well-worn communistic greeting
and millions of fish with crimson gills
commence their International’s big meeting.
Yet in Alupka I was but a boy,
while Santa Monica’s my denouement…
The smoke of time swirls like a curly cloud
above the figure of a tanned old man,
who lies with fingers laced behind his head.
He smiles, recalling his unlikely story.
America, Crimea — does it matter
where I cross over into Purgatory?

June 1963

---

Nature Morte

Неясно — Крым иль Тихоокеанский пляж.
Соленая вода и сахарное солнце,
Песка, цветов и гор открыточный монтаж,
Ито же небо, что такой же синькой полнится.
Вода знакомо пахнет свежим огурцом,
Стеклянною змеей свивается медуза;
Подкладкой снежною вздымаясь над пловцом,
Его окутывает голубая блуза
Податливой волны; вот подползает краб
С коммунистическим, как водится, приветом,
И рыбы миллионами баровых жабр
Участвуют в интернационале этом.
Но я в Алупке был мальчишкою шальным,
А эпилог мой — Санта Моника… и дым,
Дым времени кудрявым облаком клубится
Над загорелым господином пожилым,
Что руки заложил под черепом своим.
Он улыбается. Какая небылица!
Не безразлично ли — Америка иль Крым
Перед чистилищем последняя граница?

Июнь 1963

“No Poets Have Dared”: Vernon Duke’s Los Angeles Cycle

I began translating Vernon Duke’s cycle of Angeleno poems in April 2020, not long after the start of the first COVID-related lockdown in the United States. At the back of my mind, there must have been a vague plan to render all ten, but I would only start in on an individual poem when it called to me.  Occasionally, the poems coincided with some incident in my own life.  Often, they matched the mood in which I found myself, or which I wished to inhabit.  When my favorite haunts, like the Framers Market at Third and Fairfax, were suddenly off-limits, here was Duke with a lyrical key to the gate.  When I tried to conjure up my memories of an old neighbor, here was Duke with a loving portrait that might as well have been of her.  And when I celebrated my birthday at a tropical bar in Tulsa earlier this month, here was Duke with a sea breeze cocktail in verse.

This week I finished my translation of the last of Duke’s lyrics.  Below is his introductory ode, which bemoans LA’s relative lack of worthy poetic representation ca. 1962.  There’s no question that, in him, the town had found its true lighthearted bard.

O city whose praises have yet to be sung,
whose image is stained by your filmmaking neighbors —
you’re but an amusing chimera to some:
that con artist, Hollywood, did you no favors.

No poets have dared to embrace our fair town —
they find tabloid glory too chintzy to chase.
Alas, poor L.A., you are simply too young…
No picturesque ruins… Your past leaves no trace…

Since I, quite by accident, turned Angeleno,
my smooth-sailing ship ran aground, as it were:
I don’t yearn to see the Tyrrhenian Sea, no —
not even Sonoma, not crisp Mendocino,
not beautiful Napa, Carmel, or Big Sur.

For here are my curtains, my backdrop, my stage,
my footlights and spotlights — dramatic illusion…
I’m comfortable here in my green Palisades,
where I hobnob with mountains and clouds and the ocean.

---

О, город, никем по сей день не прославленный,
Соседством экранной столицы отравленный, —
Тебя несуразной химерой зовут,
Тебе не помог Хлестаков Холливуд.

Наш город поэты воспеть не отважились —
Бульварная слава поэтам претит,
И нет у тебя, малолетний Лос Анжелес,
Ни ветхих руин, ни разбитых корыт.

С тех пор, как случайно попал в твои списки я,
Корабль мой усталый наткнулся на мель;
Мне песни сирен не нужны Сан-Францисские,
Меня не влекут ни Сорренто, ни Иския,
Меня не прельщает кудрявый Кармель.

Здесь занавес мой, авансцена и задники,
Подмостки, огни, театральный обман:
Мне в Тихом своем хорошо Палисаднике —
Соседи — холмы, облака, океан.