Dumb Americans, or the Steps of the Commodore

Перевод рассказа"Тупые американцы или шаги Коммандора"


The phrase “dumb Americans,” launched by a standup comic, was a runaway hit with our audiences.

Hence the unspoken belief that Russians are better at everything: brains, education, and while we're at it — food too. Not to mention, Russian women are more beautiful.

- We’ll pass through La Rochelle on the way. Want to stop there? - my wife asked as we planned our vacation route.

Would I?

La Rochelle! Whose heart, among my generation, doesn’t stir at the sound? The Siege of La Rochelle, Anjou wine, breakfast on the ramparts of Saint-Gervais in full view of the enemy garrison…

- Find out where that bastion is on Google before we get there, so we’re not searching for it on the spot, - said my wife when we agreed to visit that marvelous city.

Alas, no trace of the Bastion Saint-Gervais remains. Google isn't even sure it ever existed. The historic center of present-day La Rochelle most likely never saw the days of the glorious musketeers. All that's left from those times is a small fragment of city wall facing the sea, and a couple of towers nearby.

A bit of comfort came from the market, where — probably just like in those days — a young oyster vendor shucked them by hand, pouring wine generously into plastic cups for those wishing to consume on the spot. Some coarse bread was thrown in as a snack. I eagerly joined in. Everything for one euro — oyster or wine. Bread and lemon wedges included. Even the Walrus and the Carpenter, if you recall, ate oysters with bread — though, unlike me, they had no vinegar instead of lemon.

Her smile was just as generous and stirred certain vague fantasies. The sudden appearance of my wife reduced them to zero.

Later, I sent a photo of the city gates to my sister. Her reply came instantly:

- Is that the La Rochelle? From The Three Musketeers?

Yes, sister, that one. Remember how we used to fight over that battered copy of the book, taken from someone for a week, trying to be the first to find out what happens next? Oh, and those illustrations! I used to hide it after reading so I could pick up again after school, not waiting for it to become “available.” But by the time I came home from second shift, it was always gone. She had found it, was reading it behind locked doors, or had re-hidden it after finishing. Fuming, I’d try to take it back or go searching while she watched me with triumphant glee.

At the landscape architecture firm where I work now, it’s customary to bring back a little something from vacation — a souvenir, like chocolates or magnet.

I started handing out La Rochelle candies to my colleagues, beginning with Sandra, the most “sophisticated” of our team. Her husband is a TV anchor. They live in Westchester, a wealthy suburb of New York.

- These are from La Rochelle — the one besieged by the musketeers. They even had breakfast there afterward.

- What do you mean?

- La Rochelle… The Three Musketeers… Dumas…

- Musketeers?

I started to explain, but gave up. She didn’t get it. My wife would’ve understood immediately. So would my sister, her friends, my classmates. Sandra clearly didn’t. Maybe she saw the movie once, but it had blurred into the hundreds she’d seen — and we hadn’t.

Not one of the fifteen colleagues I offered candy to reacted to the phrase:

- It’s from La Rochelle.

La Rochelle meant nothing to them. Their childhoods had no such city. They likely hadn’t read The Three Musketeers at all.

I don’t blame them. I realized that what drifted into our stifling little world like a breeze through a cracked window — the freedom to read what we liked — was the natural atmosphere they always lived in. Alongside our musketeers, they had so much more: Holden Caulfield, Jean Louise Finch, Scarlett, Captain Ahab. Do many of my peers even know who that is?

But another time, when I brought back fancy soaps from Avignon and handed out samples saying,

- This is soap from Avignon

I was asked:

- Oh, did you go on the bridge?

What bridge? I wondered.

Turns out everyone but me knew the song about the bridge of Avignon.

When our younger daughter started earning decent money, she casually asked:

- What day was your wedding?

Truth is, we didn’t have one. Just a lunch with relatives after a quick civil ceremony. Our other daughter was already six months old. We told her that date.

She gifted us tickets to the Met Opera — Eugene Onegin starring Netrebko.

We went after work. I wore a classic gray double-breasted suit, bought years ago at a church charity sale for $8. The tie, just as fine, had been a gift from my wife during our first year in America — a kind of investment in our shining future. I’d only worn it a few times.

In the amphitheater where we were seated, I stood out. Everyone else was in casual: jeans, sweaters, sneakers. Down in the orchestra section, though — as far as I could see — people were dressed as opera-goers should be. My outfit would’ve fit in there. The Met is not cheap, even for my daughter. I brought a 7x opera glass and got my money’s worth.

As a kid, I had been taken to see Onegin, so I had a rough idea of what to expect. But when the curtain rose, I was confused.

It looked like the inside of a log cabin, maybe a summer house near Moscow, with a glassed-in veranda. Outside, a fair was in full swing, with people dressed in costumes from Bunin’s and Chekhov’s era: caps, striped jackets, embroidered shirts, straw hats — instead of frock coats and bare shoulders.

What did this have to do with Tchaikovsky? He didn’t live that long. And certainly not with Onegin and Tatyana. Later came women in Victorian dresses — buttoned to the chin, puffed sleeves, long skirts…

Onegin wandered around in a crumpled light summer suit that old Soviet intellectuals still wore in the 1950s.

Maybe the costume department accidentally pulled items for Uncle Vanya, play by Chekhov?

During intermission, I walked around. In a lower-level restroom, near the orchestra, a man in a bowtie caught my eye and eagerly said:

- You noticed, right? So-and-so — he named the singer — missed the note in that one spot?

He was bursting to share. My age, tastefully dressed, thin, wiry — a real-life Woody Allen. Clearly a rich music lover. He’d taken me for one of his own — because of the suit. Good thing he didn’t notice my shoes, which I’d bought at Marshalls. Just like in that O. Henry story about the hobo trying to get arrested for the winter.

- Of course, - I lied, - But worse still — the set doesn’t match the time period.

- Why? - he asked, genuinely surprised.

- The costumes and interiors look late 19th century — but the opera takes place at the beginning.

Then he asked a truly dumb question — one that showed he hadn’t read Pushkin's poem:

- Really?

He didn’t know whether to believe me or not. After all, they don’t let just anyone direct at the Met. If they did it this way, there must be a reason.

The opera got even better. Lensky showed up to the duel carrying a Russian 1944 carbine instead of a LePage dueling pistol. I recognized it — my uncle Kolya used it on illegal hunts, and I’d held it myself at fourteen.

Lensky sang his melancholy aria seated on a fallen tree at the edge of a snowy forest, straight out of a wartime Soviet play. Only burning tanks in the background were missing. He and Onegin then wandered off into the woods, dragging their rifles. If you didn’t know the plot, you’d think they were going hunting. Then came the shot.

I didn’t get it. Was the director trying to present Russia ; la russe, with samovars and all? Yes, there were samovars. Maybe he figured: Everyone knows Chekhov. Let’s just give them familiar Russian scenery, like in “Three Sisters.” As for the rifles, maybe they were meant to show disregard for convention: This is opera, people come to listen, not watch. After all, when watching Turandot, no one questions whether the costumes are authentically Chinese. Oriental, exotic costumes — and that's okay!

The finale was my favorite part. The massive Met stage turned into the frozen Neva River. The Peter and Paul Fortress glowed against a burning sunset. Giant malachite columns — nods to St. Isaac’s — rose from the ice. It was snowing.

In the dim light, between the towering columns, their reflections gliding over the polished floor, Netrebko and Onegin walked back and forth, wearing long coats with fur collars. Mind you, in the original version, this scene takes place in the room of the Petersburg mansion.

Each sang in their own language — and ultimately, about the same thing: love. The music said the same. It was brilliant.

My God, how she sang! For that alone, all is forgiven.

Who am I to judge anyone?

But what does any of this have to do with the title? Ah — here’s how.

Once, my boss began to limp. He’d suffered something like a stroke — a ruptured brain aneurysm. He started dragging one leg. Thank God, over time, it passed. Our relationship was strictly professional: he respected me, I respected him. We existed comfortably, side by side, without crossing personal boundaries. One day, I stayed late at work.

I heard the door open, and then came slow, heavy footsteps. I recognized them instantly — it was the boss. In the empty office, they echoed ominously, approaching me. He almost never stayed that late, and certainly never walked through my section on his way to his office.

- Commodore’s steps, - I muttered discontentedly, loud enough to be heard — noting the dramatic sound of his gait, for no real reason. Just like the Commodore's steps in Blok’s poem.

The steps continued and slowly reached my desk. The boss appeared at my cubicle and — with what seemed like deliberate gravity — extended his hand. He had never, ever shaken my hand before. Puzzled, I shook it. And just as slowly, majestically limping, he proceeded to his office.

“If only he knew,” I thought, “who the Stone Guest really was.” You haven’t read our Pushkin, Americans — let alone Blok. I would’ve told him, if there were ever a chance, how Don Juan once invited the statue of the Commodore from the cemetery to dinner. And how the statue came, its arrival foretold by that same ominous sound of its steps. Then the Commodore held out his hand — and Don Juan, fool that he was, dared to shake it... And that was the end of him.

And then it hit me.

Damn — he extended his hand to me, didn’t he? Something he’d never done before.

Why?

That must mean he heard my remark — and decided to play along. He acted out the role of the Commodore’s statue — and was now watching to see what I’d come up with next. He’d been enjoying the game from the very start. He was genuinely curious how I’d respond.

And I could have responded brilliantly — but it never even crossed my mind that he might understand what it was all about.

He hadn’t read Pushkin or Blok, of course — but there’s Mozart’s opera! Moliere, for heaven’s sake — that’s where it all began. He could’ve seen that at the theater — maybe even at the Met. And come to think of it — so had I! I had simply forgotten.

Suddenly it all came rushing back — that long-forgotten production: Kanevsky, playing Sganarelle, rolling cart wheels across the stage of the Malaya Bronnaya Theater, alongside Kazakov as Don Juan. It was meant to underscore the futility of Don Luis, who at that very moment was trying to persuade his son to abandon his sinful life. I liked that staging choice back then — it was one of the few I actually managed to interpret.

They don’t need Pushkin or Blok to know who the Commendore is, and what his footsteps mean. They know from the source. We learned it all secondhand. Like the list of Greek ships of Troyan war— we knew it from Mandelstam.

I had failed that cultural test — utterly and shamefully.

If only I could catch up to the boss and reclaim the moment. But no — the chance was gone.

“You smug amateur,” I said to myself.

Then again, I’m hardly alone. There’s a whole sea of people like me — take your pick.

So tell me: Who’s the dumb one now?