Dreams of My Russian Summers: A Novel

Dreams of My Russian Summers: A Novel

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781611450545
Publisher: Arcade Publishing
Publication date: 05/15/2011
Pages: 256
Sales rank: 506,492
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.20(h) x 0.80(d)

About the Author

Andreï Makine was born in Russia in 1957 and emigrated to France in 1987. In 1995 his novel Dreams of My Russian Summers won the Goncourt Prize and the Médicis Prize, France’s two most prestigious literary awards.

Geoffey Strachan has translated works from French and German in a wide variety of fields, including all the novels of Andreï Makine. He has been awarded both the Scott Moncrieff Prize and the Schlegel-Treck Prize.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

While still a child, I guessed that this very singular smile represented a strange little victory for each of the women: yes, a fleeting revenge for disappointed hopes, for the coarseness of men, for the rareness of beautiful and true things in this world. Had I known how to say it at the time I would have called this way of smiling "femininity." ... But my language was too concrete in those days. I contented myself with studying the women's faces in our photograph albums and identifying this glow of beauty in some of them.

For these women knew that in order to be beautiful, what they must do several seconds before the flash blinded them was to articulate the following mysterious syllables in French, of which few understood the meaning: "petite-pomme." ... As if by magic, the mouth, instead of being extended in counterfeit bliss, or contracting into an anxious grin, would form a gracious round. The whole face was thus transfigured. The eyebrows arched slightly, the oval of the cheeks was elongated. You said "petite pomme," and the shadow of a distant and dreamy sweetness veiled your gaze, refined your features, and caused the soft light of bygone days to hover over the snapshot.

This photographic spell had won the confidence of the most diverse women: for example, a relative from Moscow in the only color photo in our albums. Married to a diplomat, she spoke through clenched teeth and sighed with boredom before even hearing you out. But in the photo I could immediately identify the "petite pomme" effect.

I observed its aura on the face of a dull provincial woman, some anonymous aunt, whose name only came up when the conversation turned to the women left without husbands after the male slaughter of the last war. Even Glasha, the peasant of the family, in the rare photos that we still possessed of her, displayed the miraculous smile. Finally there was a whole swarm of young girl cousins, puffing out their lips while trying to hold on to this elusive French magic during several interminable seconds of posing. As they murmured their "petite pomme," they still believed that the life that lay ahead would be woven uniquely from such moments of grace ... .

Throughout this parade of expressions and faces there recurred here and there that of a woman with fine, regular features and large gray eyes. Young at first, in the earliest of the albums, her smile was suffused with the secret charm of the "petite pomme." Then, with age, in the more recent albums, closer to our time, this expression became muted and overlaid with a veil of melancholy and simplicity.

It was this woman, this Frenchwoman, lost in the snowy immensity of Russia, who had taught the others the words that bestowed beauty. My maternal grandmother ... She was born in France at the beginning of the century in the family of Norbert and Albertine Lemonnier. The mystery of the "petite pomme" was probably the first of the legends that enchanted our childhood. And these were also among the first words we heard in that language that my mother used, jokingly, to call "your grandmaternal tongue."

One day I came upon a photo I should not have seen ... . I was spending my holidays with my grandmother in the town at the edge of the Russian steppe where she had been stranded after the war. A warm, slow summer dusk was drawing in and flooding the rooms with a mauve glow. This somewhat unearthly light fell upon the photos that I was examining before an open window, the oldest snapshots in our albums. The pictures spanned the historic watershed of the 1917 revolution; brought to life the era of the tsars; and, moreover, pierced the iron curtain, which was then almost impenetrable, transporting me at one moment to the precinct of a gothic cathedral and the next into the pathways of a garden where the precise geometry of the plants left me perplexed. I was plunging into our family prehistory.

Then suddenly this photo!

I saw it when, out of pure curiosity, I opened a large envelope that had been slipped between the last page and the cover. It was that inevitable batch of snapshots that have not been judged worthy to appear on the rough cardboard of the pages, landscapes that can no longer be identified, faces that evoke neither affection nor memories. One of those batches you always tell yourself you must sort through one day, to decide the fate of all these souls in torment....

It was in the midst of these unknown people and forgotten landscapes that I saw her, a young woman whose attire jarred oddly with the elegance of the people who appeared in the other photos. She was wearing a big dirty gray padded jacket and a man's shapka with the earflaps pulled down. As she posed, she was clasping to her breast a baby muffled up in a wool blanket.

"How did she slip in," I wondered in amazement, "among all these men in tails and women in evening dress?" And all around her in other snapshots there were these majestic avenues, these colonnades, these Mediterranean vistas. Her presence was anachronistic, out of place, inexplicable. She seemed like an intruder in this family past, with a style of dress nowadays adopted only by the women who cleared snowdrifts from the roads in winter ... .

I had not heard my grandmother coming in. She placed her hand on my shoulder. I gave a start, then, showing her the photo, "Who is that woman I asked her."

A brief flash of panic appeared in my grandmother's unfailingly calm eyes. In an almost nonchalant voice she asked me, "Which woman?"

We both fell silent, pricking up our ears. A bizarre rustling filled the room. My grandmother turned and cried out, it seemed to me, joyfully, "A death's-head! Look, a death's-head!"

I saw a large brown insect, a crepuscular hawkmoth, quivering as it tried to plunge into the illusory depths of the mirror. I rushed toward it, my hand outstretched, already feeling the tickling of its wings under my palm. It was then I noticed the unusual shape of this moth. I approached it and could not suppress a cry: "But there are two of them! They're Siamese twins."

And indeed the two moths did seem to be attached to one another. And their bodies were animated with feverish trembling. To my surprise this double hawkmoth paid me no attention and did not try to escape. Before catching it I had time to observe the white marks on its back, the famous death's head.

We did not speak again about the woman in the padded jacket ... . I watched the flight of the liberated hawkmoth — in the sky it divided into two moths, and I understood, as a child of ten can understand, why they had been joined. Now my grandmother's disarray seemed to make sense.

The capture of the coupling hawkmoths brought to my mind two very old memories, the most mysterious of my childhood. The first, going back to when I was eight, was summed up in the words of an old song that my grandmother sometimes murmured rather than sang, sitting on her balcony, her head bowed over a garment on which she was darning the collar or reinforcing the buttons. It was the very last words of her song that plunged me into enchantment:

... We'd sleep together there Till the world comes to an end.

This slumber of the two lovers, of such long duration, was beyond my childish comprehension. I already knew that people who died (like that old woman next door whose disappearance in winter had been so well explained to me) went to sleep forever. Like the lovers in the song? Love and death had now formed a strange alloy in my young head. And the melancholy beauty of the melody could only increase this unease. Love, death, beauty ... And the evening sky, the wind, the smell of the steppe that, thanks to the song, I perceived as if my life had just begun at that moment.

The second memory was so distant it could not be dated. There was not even a very precise "me" in its nebulousness. Just the intense sensation of light, the aromatic scent of plants, and silvery lines crossing the blue density of the air, which many years later I would identify as gossamer threads. Elusive and confused, this vision would nevertheless be dear to me, for I would succeed in persuading myself that it was a memory from before birth. Yes, an echo sent to me by my French ancestry. For in one of my grandmother's stories I was to rediscover all the elements of this memory: the autumn sun of a journey she made to Provence, the scent of the fields of lavender, and even those gossamers floating in the perfumed air. I would never dare to speak to her of my childish prescience. It was in the course of the following summer that my sister and I one day saw our grandmother weep ... for the first time in our lives.

In our eyes she was a kind of just and benevolent deity, always true to form and perfectly serene. Her own life story, which had long since become a myth, placed her beyond the griefs of ordinary mortals. In fact we did not see any tears. Just an unhappy contraction of her lips, little tremors running across her cheeks, and a rapid batting of her eyelashes....

We were sitting on the carpet, which was littered with bits of crumpled paper, and were absorbed in a fascinating game: taking out little pebbles that were wrapped in white "sweet papers" and comparing them — now a glitter of quartz, now a pebble, smooth and pleasant to the touch. On each paper were written names that we had, in our ignorance, taken for enigmatic mineralogical labels: Fécamp, La Rochelle, Bayonne. ... In one of the wrappers we even discovered a rough and ferrous fragment, which bore traces of rust. We thought we were reading the name of this strange metal: "Verdun." ... A number of pieces from this collection had been thus stripped bare. When our grandmother came in, the game had just begun to take a livelier course. We were quarreling over the most beautiful stones and testing their hardness by striking them one against another, sometimes breaking them. Those we found ugly — like the "Verdun," for example — were thrown out of the window into a bed of dahlias. Several wrappers had been torn....

Our grandmother froze above this battlefield scattered with white blisters. We looked up. It was then that her gray eyes seemed to be on the brink of tears — just enough to make it unbearable for us if she broke down.

No, she was not an impassive goddess, our grandmother. She too, it seemed, could suffer unease, or sudden distress. We had always thought she moved in such a measured way through the peaceful sequence of days, yet she too sometimes hovered on the brink of tears!

From that summer onward my grandmother's life revealed new and unexpected facets to me. And above all, much more personal ones.

Previously her past had been summed up by a few talismans, a number of family relics, like the silk fan, which reminded me of a fine maple leaf, or the famous little "Pont-Neuf bag." Our legend maintained that it had been found on the bridge in question by Charlotte Lemonnier, aged four at the time. Running ahead of her mother, the little girl had stopped suddenly and exclaimed, "A bag!" And more than half a century later, the muted echo of her ringing cry could still be heard in a town lost amid the endlessness of Russia, under the sun of the steppes. It was in this pigskin bag, with enamel plaques on the fastening, that my grandmother kept her collection of stones from days gone by.

This old handbag marked one of my grandmother's earliest memories, and for us, the genesis of the legendary world of her memory: Paris, the Pont-Neuf. ... An astonishing galaxy waiting to be born, which began to sketch its still hazy outlines before our fascinated gaze.

There was, besides, among these relics of the past (I remember the voluptuousness with which we caressed the smooth, gilded edges of those pink volumes, Memoirs of a Poodle, Gribouille and His Sister ...), an even older testimony. The photo, already taken in Siberia; Albertine, Norbert, and — in front of them, on one of those artificial pieces of furniture that photographers always use, a kind of very tall pedestal table — Charlotte, a child of two, wearing a lacetrimmed bonnet and a doll's dress. This photo on thick cardboard, with the name of the photographer and replicas of the medals he had been awarded, intrigued us very much: "What does she have in common, this ravishing woman with her pure, fine face, framed in silky curls, with that old man, whose beard is divided into two rigid plaits that look like the tusks of a walrus?"

We already knew that this old man, our great-grandfather, was twenty-six years older than Albertine. "It's as if he'd married his own daughter!" my sister said to me indignantly. Their marriage seemed to us ambiguous and unhealthy. All our textbooks at school were full of stories that told of marriages between girls without dowries and rich old men, miserly and hungry for youth, to such an extent that any other kind of conjugal alliance seemed to us impossible in bourgeois society. We strove to discover some malign viciousness in Norbert's features, a grimace of ill-concealed satisfaction. But his face remained simple and frank, like those of the intrepid explorers in the illustrations to our Jules Verne books. After all, this old man with a long white beard was only forty-eight at the time ... .

As for Albertine, supposed victim of bourgeois morality, she was soon to be standing on the slippery brink of an open grave into which the first spadefuls of earth were already flying. She would struggle so violently against the hands that restrained her and would utter such heartrending cries that even the funeral party of Russians, in that cemetery in a distant Siberian town, would be stunned by them. Accustomed as they were to tragic outbursts at funerals in their native land, to torrential tears and pitiful lamentations, these people would be stricken in the face of the tortured beauty of this young Frenchwoman. She would flail above the grave, crying out in her resonant language, "Throw me in as well! Throw me in!"

For a long time this terrible lament echoed in our childish ears.

"Perhaps it was because she ... she loved him," my sister, who was older than me, said to me one day. And she blushed.

But more than that unusual union between Norbert and Albertine, it was Charlotte, in this photo from the turn of the century, who aroused my curiosity. Especially her little bare toes. By a simple irony of chance, or through some involuntary coquetry, she had curled them back tightly against the soles of her feet. This trifling detail conferred a special significance on what was overall a very ordinary photo. Not knowing how to formulate my thought, I contented myself with repeating in a dreamy voice, "This little girl who finds herself, heaven knows why, on this comical pedestal table, on that summer's day that has gone forever, July 22, 1905, right in the depths of Siberia. Yes, this tiny French girl, who was that day celebrating her second birthday, this child, who is looking at the photographer and by an unconscious caprice curling up her incredibly small toes, in this way allows me to enter into that day, to taste its climate, its time, its color...."

And the mystery of this childish presence seemed to me so breathtaking that I would close my eyes.

This child was ... our grandmother. Yes, it was her, this woman whom we saw that evening, crouching down and silently gathering up the fragments of stone scattered over the carpet. Dumbfounded and sheepish, my sister and I stood with our backs to the wall, not daring to murmur a word of excuse nor to help our grandmother retrieve the scattered talismans. We guessed that in her lowered eyes tears were forming....

On the evening of our sacrilegious game we no longer saw an old-fashioned good fairy before us, a storyteller with her Bluebeard or her Sleeping Beauty, but a woman hurt and vulnerable despite all her strength of spirit. For her it was that agonizing moment when suddenly the adult betrays herself, allows her weakness to appear, feels like a naked emperor under the penetrating gaze of the child. Now she is like a tightrope walker who has made a false move and who, off balance for several seconds, is sustained only by the gaze of the spectator, who is in turn embarrassed at having this unexpected power....

She closed the "Pont-Neuf bag," took it into her room, then called us to the table. After a moment's silence she began to speak in French in a calm and steady voice, while pouring tea for us with her familiar gesture: "Among the stones you threw away there was one I should really like to get back...."

(Continues…)


Excerpted from "Dreams of My Russian Summers"
by .
Copyright © 2011 Arcade Publishing, Inc..
Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Dreams of My Russian Summers 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 6 reviews.
Morning-Star More than 1 year ago
The way Makine has written this book is extremely lyrical; his analogies swim beyond the surface of subject and expression. A great biographical work intertwining Russian history. I enjoyed the dimensions of the first person narration, and his journey from boyhood to manhood. With the tug and pull of an ever-changing and maturing perspective on the panorama of his life, the narrator finds himself on a traveling road toward an untouchable place his heart had always been.
Guest More than 1 year ago
A brilliant book which goes beyond other autobiographies. Makine has created a masterpiece that will stand among the great classics of our time. 'Dreams of my Russian Summers' has earned its place on my bookshelf of great novels. Among the many Russian authors that are now making name in 'Western' literature Makine has definitively taken the lead. The book tells many stories that are intimately linked; the pains of growing up not just for the main character but for Russia as a country. Sometimes funny, sometimes grim, but lively and gripping right to the end. I finished the book in one reading.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This special book, as I read it, reminded me of the close relationship that my own son had with his great-grandma. Truely a great book!
Guest More than 1 year ago
This novel is truly special; I found the grandmother-grandson relationship brought back memories of my own childhood. Charlotte Lemonnier will be remembered for all time. This novel deserves inclusion on university 'must read' lists.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Man_Of_La_Book_Dot_Com More than 1 year ago
"Dreams of My Russ­ian Sum­mers" by Andreï Makine is a fic­tional, semi-autobiographical book. The book was orig­i­nally writ­ten in French and has won sev­eral awards. The book is told from a first per­son nar­ra­tive. The book opens when the nar­ra­tor, who is also the author, flips through old pho­tographs which belonged to his grand­mother. Soon the grand­mother walks in and starts to rem­i­nisce about the photos. The story con­tin­ues to explore the grandmother's life as well as the narrator's life and how her sto­ries influ­enced him. "Dreams of My Russ­ian Sum­mers" by Andreï Makine is a beau­ti­ful book, a lyri­cal and relat­able story of the author who was born in Rus­sia but spent his sum­mers with his grand­mother Char­lotte Lemon­nier. Charlotte's sto­ries took a life of their own and ulti­mately became an inte­gral part of the author as well. The book is as much the story of Char­lotte as it is of the author. Born in the early 1900s, she moved to Rus­sia with her father who prac­ticed med­i­cine. Over the years Char­lotte went back and forth only to be in France on the even of World War I. She soon returned to Rus­sia with the Red Cross dur­ing the rev­o­lu­tion. Char­lotte stayed in Rus­sia and is beared wit­ness to the hor­rors of war, star­va­tion, famine, polit­i­cal mur­ders, indus­tri­al­iza­tion and finally the fall of the country's leaders. Andreï visit his grand­mother in a small Siber­ian town where she buried her Russ­ian hus­band. Even though she accepts her des­tiny in Rus­sia, she still holds a nos­tal­gic place in her heart for France. I can cer­tainly appre­ci­ate the beauty and crafts­man­ship of the author's tale. Every­thing that had to do with the grand­mother is pure gold, the images con­crete, and she lived an admirable, if dif­fi­cult life. But the other parts of the book lost me espe­cially the last sec­tion. I couldn't decide if the book crossed the line from "artis­tic" to "pompous", I'll go with "artis­tic" because I feel that was the intention. It's too bad I'm not able to read it in the orig­i­nal French, espe­cially since the author had to invent a French trans­la­tor because the book pub­lish­ers sim­ply didn't believe a Russ­ian author could have such mas­tery of their lan­guage. This book won both the Prix Goncourt and the Prix Medicis, first time for a book to win both at once. The trans­la­tion by Geof­frey Stra­chan is both attrac­tive and cap­tures (I hope) the style and col­ors of the story.