scope it out.”nI removed my shoes and climbed onto the bed.nMatvey pulled the cloth off.nVigorous black lines, here and there touched by color,nran over the entire canvas. The lines twisted into spirals, fellndown, soared up; naked bodies, some winged figures, gustyntongues of flame, heaved up mountains could be discernednin them. Light and dark were wrestling there like two livingnbeings.n”This is great!” I said.n”You like it?”n”I do indeed. What is it?”n”I haven’t finished it yet. It’s the Batfle of the Angels withnthe Devil. As Saint John said, ‘Michael and his angels werenbattling the Devil, and the Devil and his hordes werenbattling them!’ And this battle,” he exclaimed, “you see,nthis battle is still going on, now more than ever! They’renwrestling for our souls. I see them clinching in the air. Likenthis!” he clinched his hands and attempted to move in thenroom, but since there was nowhere to move, sank down onnthe bed.nWomen’s voices and the clatter of dishes were heard fromnthe other room. They had, apparently, begun setting thentable.n”… There’s another thing I’m pondering over,” hencontinued, “how to make sure my painting’s not going tondeteriorate. Almost all pictures painted after the 18thncentury are darkening and getting cracks, but the oldnmasters are shining. Why’s that? What’s the secret? Fornthree years I’ve been pondering over it, and, you know, Inthink I’m close now. I’m sure they used eucalyptus balsamnfor their primers. I spent a year making the primer for thisncanvas. The secret is, they ground the stuff not into linseednoil, as everybody thinks, but into cedar oil, you see! If younput cedar oil in the sun for a couple of months, it settles,nand then you add eucalyptus balsam and you get annastonishingly firm surface. That’s for the primer, and for thenpaints, I recently ran across a description in an oldnmanuscript of how the medieval monks made their colors.nYou know what they did? They added honey and egg whitento their pigments and, also, bees. Really, can you believe it,ncrushed, dried bees!”n”What for?”n”For the wax,” he said excitedly. “I tried it, and that’snabsolutely amazing! Want to take a look?” He took from thenshelf a jar with paint and opened it. “Just smell that honey!nAnd look, what a smoothness. Put a drop on your finger!nIsn’t it beautiful!”nFor dinner, we had cabbage soup and boiled potatoes.nWe could all barely fit at the small table. I, as a guest,nsat on the only chair; Ida, beside her mother, on the bed;nMatvey and Tolik on the cot, with Tolik on top of threenpillows.n”Ran into Sergey’s wife today,” the old woman said,nladling the soup from the pot into the dishes. “She saidnthey’ve bought a new apartment. Will be moving soon.nEverybody’s fine. Only we’re in the pits.”nThe old woman was tall and skinny, with a small bonynface and big red hands. From her appearance you wouldnthink she was Matvey’s mother rather than Ida’s.n”Mama, please …” Ida said quietiy.nIda was a small, thin woman who faded early.n”What ‘please’? I’m not saying anything. That Sergeynwent to the same art school as him,” the old woman said tonme, nodding at Matvey. “The man is a moron, but henmakes money hand over fist—all from his pictures!”n”Sergey serves the lie. He’s a lost man,” Matvey said.n”Lost!” the old woman exclaimed smacking the pot withna ladle. “The guy has two apartments, a wife dressed up likena doll, and he calls him ‘lost.’ And look who’s talking! Wendon’t have enough to buy an extra chair …”n”Mama, I beg you, we have a guest now,” Ida said.n”That’s right! Maybe at least because of the guest he’ll getnashamed of how we live.”n”But for God’s sake, mother, I’ve told you. Matvey’llnfinish the canvas and then start doing something aboutnmoney. Are you having a good time in Akulinsk?” Idanturned to me, evidentiy trying to switch the subject.nBut the old woman wouldn’t stop.n”I know how he’ll start doing,” she muttered. “For yearsnhe’s been doing this garbage. Painting devils! If, instead ofndevils, for all these years he’d been making pictures likenSergey’s, we’d have our own apartment too, and wouldn’tnbe living in this hell!”n”Not just for an apartment, for my life, I wouldn’t donwhat Sergey does. Painting all those Lenins and Marxesn. . . selling his soul for money!”n”You just listen to him!” the old woman exclaimedndisgustedly. “He finds words real good, drumming about allnthese souls and demons and devils. I’m old, and I don’tnbelieve in that s–t. And you, a young guy, should benashamed to hammer away these words like some oldnilliterate jerk. It’s sickening to listen to it!”n”Don’t listen then.”n”And I wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t look, but it turns mynstomach, when I know that for five pictures like Sergey doesnwe could buy a nice apartment. Take a look around. Aren’tnyou ashamed to keep a family like this?” She was gettingnreal heated now.nMat’ey sat silently, bending his head over his plate andneating his soup, as if he didn’t hear her.n”The soup is excellent. It was mama’s idea to put the dillnin,” Ida tried again.n”What the hell are you talking about?” the old womannshouted at her. “Don’t you hide your eyes,” she turned tonMatvey. “Look at your son,” she poked her finger at Tolik.n”The boy runs around like a ragamuffin, and his fathernpaints devils. People like you should be forbidden to havenchildren!”n”You have no right to say this to me!” Matvey slammedndown his spoon.n”Matti, don’t! Mama, that’s enough, stop it!” Ida exclaimed.nTolik, apparently used to such scenes, sat there calmly,nand taking from his plate the circles of boiled carrot, laidnthem out on the table.n”What do you mean stop it? I won’t let you shut me up!”nthe old woman shouted. “Am I talking about myself? Am Inthinking about myself? I wish I were dead and not seeing allnthis!”nHer small face puckered up suddenly and tears spurtednnnMAY 1987/25n