Morning reading | prisoner of time

Pasternak certainly would not have imagined that at his own funeral in 1960, his Lara, Ivinskaya, would not have been able to say goodbye to him at all, as Lara had done, but could only look at him in a hurry as the crowds had.

In 1929, Dr. Zhivago died, and he suffered a heart attack on the tram. The tram he was riding on stopped and went, and for the tenth time was chased by an old woman on foot. She was Miss Frieli from Melyuzeev and had known Zhivago twelve years earlier. It was during World War I, when Zhivago and Lala had treated the wounded and sick at her place, and she thought they should be in love. A Swede who has been applying to return home for twenty years, only recently when she was approved, she went to Moscow to apply for a departure visa, and on this day she went to her country's embassy to get her passport. Little did she know that she had driven zhivago on the tram and had surpassed him in life.

Zhivago's body was transported to Camele Alley and placed in the room where he last stayed. Twenty-eight years ago, on Christmas Eve, on his way to a party, he had once crossed the alley and saw the room, which had a candle burning on its windowsill, and a circle of ice melting from the glass window; and in the room, Lara was talking to her future husband and then going to shoot the calamity star of her life. The swing in the wall, the outside of the wall, the beautiful people in the wall, have not yet entered each other's lives.

Lala, who had no choice but to leave Zhivago, returned to Moscow after more than a decade, and subconsciously walked to the Kamelgle alley, to the room where her husband had lived, which she had personally rented for him, and every detail in it she felt precious. But she was taken aback: the door was wide open, there were so many people inside, and there was a coffin, and the deceased was Zhivago. She went into the room, and all the people, sitting, standing, or walking around, including Marina (Zhivago's current wife), said nothing, gave way to her as if in tacit agreement, walked outside the room, and closed the door, leaving her alone. She hugged the coffin, the flowers and his body tightly with her body, her head, her chest, her own heart, and her arms as wide as her heart, crying and talking, saying goodbye to him...

Perhaps, this is also the funeral scene envisioned by the creators of Zhivago and Lala? However, Pasternak certainly did not expect that in 1960, at his own funeral, his Lara, Ivinskaya, could not say goodbye to him at all like Lara, but could only look at him in a hurry with the crowd, and even this had to rely on the help of others.

My arrival was accompanied by whispers and a half-turned curious look... Very few people understand me... There were more and more people, and it was very difficult to stand still in front of the crowd, and I left from the porch opposite the house... I sat down outside the window of Villa Pasternak... Behind the window was a farewell. My lover lay there, completely estranged from all the people who came to see him. And I sat in front of my locked door. (Ivinskaya, The Prisoner of Time)

"My mom and I sat down on the earthen platform next to the porch. We seemed to be in a daze, so we sat like this for about an hour... Mother seemed to be in a dream all the time. She couldn't go into the house and stay by the coffin—there was a 'family' on duty. The figure of her curled up against the earthen platform by the porch obviously made many people feel sad, but no one dared to say it. Only one man came up to her, treated her as a widow, kissed her hand, and sat down beside her. She immediately burst into tears hysterically. He told some stories about Russia's brutal history, about how Russia buried its own poets... In a word, he said something ordinary, but it was said to her, and this matter was very important to her. (Imerianova, The Legend of Potapov Alley)

"I want to walk with you in front of his coffin." He said, lifted her up, and walked around the coffin...

The ranger knight who mourns the righteous way in the crowd also has a don Quixote-style dry and bitter face, and he is The author of "The Golden Rose" that countless readers like, Paustowski. Sure enough, he had a heart of gold. In those cruel times, he remained kind and sincere.

I shared this detail with several of my Golden Rose fans, and one of them replied to me, "I would like to have the opportunity to do what Paustowski did to Ivinskaya." (Shao Yiping)