A Russian Sister

by Caroline Adderson

  “I asked Father if I could, but he strangely insists on wedlock.”

  Aleksander laughed. “Then marry, why don’t you? Why are you slaving here for Antosha?”

  She glanced up. “Am I slaving?”

  He lifted his glass in the air, waiting for her to follow suit. When she didn’t, he drank down his own. “It looks like it.”

  “Did it occur to you that I love Melikhovo?” She gathered the cards and snapped them as she shuffled. “Besides, no one I particularly care about has proposed, not that it’s any of your business. What’s so amusing now?”

  “Who would dare ask you? They’re all terrified of falling out of favour with the famous writer.”

  He picked up her untouched glass and flung its contents at the back of his throat.

  The younger boy appeared in the doorway. “Papa?” he quavered, which caused Aleksander to cough and spray the carpet. The child stiffened in terror, his naked legs stork-thin under his long shirt.

  “Bed!” Aleksander roared.

  “Bed is a good idea,” Masha said, tossing down the cards before Aleksander noticed they were shaking.

  “It’s the truth,” he told her departing back.

  THE DAY AFTER ANTOSHA RETURNED TO CHRISTEN THE flush toilet, Tsar Aleksander III died. His father, Aleksander II, had been a reformer. He’d emancipated the serfs and was loved for it, yet that wasn’t enough to turn radicals into friends. After his assassination, his son took the opposite approach, repealing many of the elder’s reforms. So Aleksander III was mourned as tyrants are, insincerely. The schools closed for the three days of the charade. Masha had no reason to go back to Moscow.

  During those three days, Antosha was called away several times to see patients. He complained bitterly, as usual, about driving on the bumpy autumn roads. “My heart’s so badly jostled, I’m no longer capable of love.”

  Yet it seemed to Masha that these protestations over house calls were also insincere, that he actually wanted to go. She didn’t know how to manage the conflicting feelings his evasion caused. If only she had separate compartments, one for her anger, red, one for her resentment, green, one for her sorrow, blue. One for her love too, for she yearned for their former closeness, not this nervous distance. What colour would it be? At the same time she knew her long face, an imitation of their brother Aleksander’s, and her accusing silences, kept him at a distance.

  One morning he reached out. In the dining room before his day’s writing began, he told her, “Sister, our dear Father has no end of praise for how you managed things while I was gone. ‘Glory to God, she puts any man to shame.’ I suppose you didn’t have any time to paint. All because I felt restless.”

  “We did rather feel like you were running away,” Masha said.

  “Not at all.”

  He turned his kind eyes on her, but she couldn’t allow the matter of Lika to pass. Possibly Aleksander’s comment was still festering inside her too.

  “Perhaps it was your conscience you were running from.”

  He drew back with a look both querying and offended.

  “It’s quite obvious Lika’s pregnant,” Masha said.

  No reaction now. Antosha poured out his coffee, lifted the cup, and took a sip.

  Of course there was the other matter, the unspeakable one. Did he know what had happened to Lika, who was once “happy-seeming and preternaturally kind?” These words described her well and were the very ones he’d used to warn Misha off the youngest girls in the brothel.

  “I didn’t make her pregnant,” Antosha said.

  The utter reasonableness of his reply could only provoke. “You did nothing to stop it from happening!”

  At the sound of Masha’s raised voice, Mother appeared in the doorway.

  “Good morning, Mamasha,” Antosha told her, slipping out.

  The next day the schools reopened, and Masha went back to town.

  HOW LONELY AND FRIGHTENED LIKA MUST BE. MASHA imagined her moving her green-stoned ring to her marriage finger. Taking Antosha’s picture from her bag to show the landlady. P.S. This gift obliges me to nothing.

  Yes, ma’am. He’s my husband. He’ll be joining me soon.

  That must have been the most painful thing of all.

  Misha stopped in at the Moscow flat unexpectedly one night. When he asked the news from Melikhovo, Masha only shrugged. She was the one staying away now. She hadn’t been home for two weeks.

  “Well, I have some,” he told her without his usual relish.

  It turned out that he’d come specifically for this purpose. Not to gossip, but to comprehend, the way he had when Klara had betrayed him and he’d kept thrusting her letters at them. He paced the rug, filling the flat with the stink of his cigarette. Some cheap brand.

  “I went to see an editor about a story. Guess who I ran into there. Ignati.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Masha said. “He needed money.”

  He turned in surprise. “So you know all about it?”

  “No. It was a joke.”

  “Some joke. Ignati told me he’d just made a ‘quick jaunt’ to Switzerland.”

  In Lika’s last letter to Masha, she’d finally sounded as desperate as she probably was. I’d give ten years of my life to be sitting on the veranda at Melikhovo with you. I was a fool not to let you stop me from going away . . . Masha wrote back but received no reply. By the probing way Misha was looking at her now, she knew he’d guessed Lika’s condition.

  “He goes there, then comes right back. I wonder why. And he drops a chummy hint about our big brother saving his hide.” He sucked on the cigarette and made a face, as though his own smoke sickened him.

  “Did she have it?” Masha asked.

  “She must have.”

  “A boy or a girl?”

  “Sister, he didn’t even mention Lika, let alone the baby. He just said he got stuck, and Antosha sent him money to come back. ‘Ha ha ha! What a fine friend!’ and he shoves out his chest. Then he shakes my hand goodbye and goes off whistling some damned Ukrainiac song. That’s brutal, don’t you think? He’s left Lika there all on her own with a newborn. What a monstrous cad! I’m disgusted that Antosha would help him like that. I suppose he feels he owes Ignati, but still. Is anyone helping Lika?”

  “Has she written you?” Masha asked. “She didn’t answer me. I’m afraid she’s moved.”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t heard from her at all.”

  “I’ll go see Granny, then.”

  “That’s it?” he asked. “You’re not going to say anything to the big brother? Even after this, he can do no wrong?”

  “I’m not going to take Ignati’s word for anything.”

  Misha extinguished the cigarette in the tray and, without a word, left. Before the door slammed, it let in a chilling draft.

  Masha went out straightaway; otherwise she wouldn’t sleep. She took a cab to Arbat. There the old woman, powderless and dressed for bed, three times denied Lika through the space in the door.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. No, I don’t have her address. What child do you mean?”

  Masha had been too frank. But as she turned to leave, Granny said in a bewildered mew, “A girl,” then closed the door.

  It was about eleven by then and snowing. The whole city smelled of it. The rooftops and naked branches of the trees, the boulevard benches all freshly layered, virginal in the streetlight. The first-snow feeling that Nature treated them to but once a year.

  A girl. Masha needed to walk off the news.

  Once a peasant woman surprised them by giving birth at Melikhovo. She was waiting in line for treatment when, abruptly, she struck off through the garden. Masha was tending to her cabbages, but the blatancy of the woman’s trespass, the curious way she walked—half-lurch, half-waddle—drew her eye. She wasn’t visibly pregnant. In that case, she would have been confined. When she got down on all fours behind the artichokes, Masha marched over to see what was going on.

  Such animal stra
ining. Masha ran for Antosha, pounding her fists on his window.

  The snow was thick enough now to leave prints. Under her feet, it spoke in squeaks. She must have been walking for ages, seeing nothing. Psychic blindness. The Hermitage Hotel was just ahead, and, as she passed it, Masha glanced inside at the line of men at the bar talking and laughing in their world behind the glass. How she’d love to go in and warm herself with a drink. What would happen if she did? If she walked through the door and joined them in their row? She pictured pulling off her gloves, throwing them down and, while she waited to be served, watching the empty fingers slowly curl.

  A baby girl like Evgenia.

  More footprints here. Passersby flowed in both directions. There was a definite sense of merriment in the air. She couldn’t remember how Evgenia died, just Mother bent over the cradle, Masha clinging to her while she rocked with silent grief.

  Masha stopped in her tracks. Was it her fault? Had she dropped Evgenia or left her unattended? Mother never wanted to talk about her to Masha. Had she destroyed that life too?

  Cabs lined the street, the drivers bundled on their boxes and, like their horses, occasionally shaking the snow off themselves. One spat, and at the sound of it, she lifted her head to see a whole row of students coming toward her, arms linked, singing some coarse song. She waited for them to break ranks and pass on either side, but instead they surrounded her, their multiple arms groping her through her coat. A mouth reeking of alcohol mashed painfully against hers.

  “Get off me!” Masha shoved aside the one who’d kissed her. She got a few good kicks in too.

  They lurched back, seemingly astonished by her resistance, except for the one rubbing his shin, who grimaced.

  It was nothing to them. They’d probably mauled a half-dozen women on their way. Now they lumbered off toward Sobolev Lane, hooting laughter. Masha stood there shaking, not just with anger, but with the physical thrill of her defiance. It flooded her body, warmed her up.

  Nearby a cabby drew up another bloodied wad of phlegm and expectorated on the white, white snow.

  6

  I KNOW THIS LETTER WILL APPEAR TO COME OUT OF the blue after so long . . .

  Masha paused with the pen in hand. He’d probably think she was with child and needing rescuing.

  You once wrote that you hoped to see me again before you died. I pray that your demise isn’t forthcoming. In fact, I’m wondering if you would like to visit us, for I would very much like to see you again too . . .

  She posted the letter on her way to Melikhovo.

  Mother and Father expected her every weekend, were perplexed by her absence. Why even tell them she was coming home? She hired a sledge at the station. As she neared the house, Brom and Quin heard the harness bells and came out barking, leaping like rabbits through the new snow, just their heads showing. They were so funny. Why did she hate them so?

  Their barking drew the famous writer from his desk. He stepped out on the veranda and watched her trudge along. When she smiled and waved, such relief showed on his face; his enveloping embrace when she reached him reiterated it.

  Long ago she’d copied out his comical “Elements Most Often Found in Novels, Short Stories, Etc.” The last line read: “More often than not, no ending.” This was his ideal—a dramatic scene averted, never to be mentioned again. Their life as it was.

  He didn’t notice she’d brought no bag.

  “You’re still wearing black,” he said. “For the Tsar?”

  “No. I’m in mourning for my life.”

  He roared with laughter.

  After an effusive welcome from Mother and Father, they all sat down to lunch. Antosha pulled the bay leaf from Mariushka’s cabbage soup, passed it between his lips, and placed it delicately on his saucer.

  “I’ve been thinking, sister. Why don’t you move into my study?”

  A peace offering. “Where will you work?” she asked.

  “I have the cottage now. All a writer needs is a chair on which to settle his tender backside and a place to lay his page. You’d make better use of the space.”

  “That’s generous,” Masha told him.

  “Antonshevu gives us everything,” Mother remarked as Mariushka ladled out her serving. “We owe so much to him.”

  “Our Saviour more,” Father added.

  “Mamasha, it’s we who owe you,” Antosha said. “You gave us the gift of life.”

  “This sweetness is better left for dessert, no?” Masha lifted her spoon and took a sip. “Please pass the salt.”

  Antosha laughed again, this time until he coughed.

  After the meal, instead of napping, he joined Mother and Masha in the parlour. With Brom and Quin sitting expectantly at his feet, he offered a matinee performance of the dachshund skit. Every evening the dogs took turns placing their forepaws on his knees. Then Antosha would entertain everyone by dispensing advice, medical or spiritual, or simply passing along farmyard gossip.

  This afternoon he told Quin, “Our dear sister has been staying away. Why, she won’t say. I fear that she was cross with me. But Quinine, as a sister yourself, you know that without one, things go to rack and ruin, and quick.” He patted Quin’s sleek head; with each touch her eyes closed in bliss. “Masha is the heart of this household. After Mother. Mothers must always come first. Brom?”

  Quin put her front paws back on the floor. Brom lifted his.

  “Brom, I advise you to confess. You’ll feel better getting it off your chest. How many hens did you kill? Three. What’s that?” He leaned in, and Brom licked his ear. “A chicken is not a bird? What of it? You must confess.”

  Throughout the monologues, Mother wiped tears of hilarity off her face. Masha laughed too, in spite of herself.

  Then Antosha yawned and said he had to lie down and think for a few minutes.

  While Masha helped Mother stack the tea things on the tray, she turned the question over in her mind. Was she prepared for the answer?

  “I need to ask you something, Mother.”

  She looked up, face as bland as a cow’s.

  “How did Evgenia die?”

  Mother started, as she always did when this lost daughter was mentioned. Creases complicated her simple face while, slowly, her lip was drawn into the toothless space.

  “She had a fever. We sent for the doctor, but it was useless.” This she said dully, as a presentation of fact. But then the emotion came, tinged with accusation. “Why? Why do you ask me this now?”

  “I just wondered. You never told me.”

  Mother set down the dishes. She crossed herself, then made the sign over Masha. In the doorway, she paused with one hand on the jamb, as though this short distance was too much. Her back stooped more than before. Masha lifting this painful burden off her conscience had reminded Mother of hers.

  “Mamasha, I’m sorry,” Masha called as Mother shuffled away.

  Masha put away her regret for now. Drowsiness would have fully settled on Antosha. She went to his room and, ear to the door, heard the rumblings that confirmed sleep. Soundlessly, she stepped inside.

  Hanging in the dim air, scent and pulmonary decay. She could just make him out curled on his side in the narrow iron bed, one hand in a boyish fist under his cheek. He was still in his jacket, the blanket pulled to his waist. Thirty-four years old, two years older than Kolia when he died, his breath moving in and out of him more laboriously year by year.

  Across from the bed was the washstand with his fishing rod propped against it. On a nail above the ewer was the mirror in which Masha slowly emerged from the gloom. His devoted sister, amanuensis, supplier of women. Her furious face.

  Perhaps she made a noise. Or had he sensed a vindictive energy, something catlike, a Mrs. Svoloch standing at the foot of his bed? He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. Making out her shape, he started and sat up.

  “Sister?” Felt around for the pince-nez in his breast pocket. “What’s wrong?”

  “Did you send money to Ignati, so he could l
eave Switzerland?”

  Her eyes had fully adjusted. She saw the ivy on the wallpaper she’d helped hang. She saw his frown.

  “I gave him money, but not for that.”

  “For what, then?”

  “So he could hire Lika a wet nurse.”

  Of course. She shouldn’t have believed Misha’s third-hand version of events. “Well, he ran away and bragged to Misha that you funded his escape.”

  Antosha coughed. When he removed his hand, his mouth was set in anger. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll speak to him.” He stared at her. “Is there anything else?”

  Briefly, she wavered, her fury tamped down once again by his reasonableness. She cast her eyes around the tidy room. The rug on the wall next to the bed keeping out the chill, Mother’s curtains and the slit of light between them.

  “Yes. Someone suggested to me that I might have got married if not for you.”

  “Who? Aleksander, I suppose. Oh, the ass.” With a sigh, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, then sat squeezing the bridge of his nose, the blanket hooked on one foot.

  “People—” Lika, she meant. Isaac too. “People have also suggested that you have no feelings.”

  Without looking at her, he said, “How am I supposed to answer that accusation? Do you have proof?”

  “Svoloch.”

  He nodded. “Ah. Because I didn’t want a wild animal tearing up the house, I have no feelings.”

  “You didn’t cry at Kolia’s funeral.”

  “Sister, I do my crying on the page.” He said this so wearily, almost as a plea, that she nearly backed down again.

  “I’ve had suitors. You drove them off.”

  “I’ve driven no one off.”

  “Not Lieutenant Egorov?”

  “Who?” He squinted up at her, then remembered and twitched with irritation. “Egorov again? He’s haunting me.”

  “You said it was too bad, after all, that you didn’t let him marry me.”

  He turned his gaze on the washstand while his hands kneaded the fabric of his trousers, breath growing even more ragged.

  “I said no such thing. Perhaps I expressed regret for selling a decent man short, but that doesn’t mean I forbade him from marrying you.”