Sour Cream
Natalia Petrovna Kivokurtseva came from the same Kivokurtsevs that were bodyguards to Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich.1 But, you know, only now we can mention this; before – not a peep. She told no one, and no one knew, so somehow she managed to keep it secret and not get into trouble. And come to think of it, why would anyone bother with her? She never married – times were such that she couldn’t possibly find a proper match. You could count the decent bachelors in Stargorod on the fingers of one hand. Her father died in 1920, mother in ’24. What did she know? Embroidery, piano, French. She asked around at the music school and worked there until she retired, and since she didn’t have a university education, her pension was just a notch above that of a kolkhoz milkmaid. Later, they increased it, twice, and she was grateful for that. And then what? Before the war there were the Gryaznins, the Korobovs, the Ebermanns and the Shirinskys, but they were all gone; the last one, Nikolai Nikolayevich Monteifel was in the museum’s employ, with the paintings department – she buried him in the sixties. His children were all in the capitals – they had degrees. She had colleagues, of course, but some had died, and the others had forgotten about her. She was alone.
She got used to it. To the ladies on the bench she never said much – they had little to talk about. They got used to that, too: they’d greet each other, and that was it. Once, people from the museum came. They wanted to buy her painting, but she refused; instead, she bequeathed it to the museum in her will – the painting was all she had left, her mother used to say it was Italian. Recently, however, it hasn’t mattered to Natalia Petrovna where the painting came from: she’d look at the little painted cows and their young cowherd, and the tiny castles and towers up on the hill, and remember things. Her eyesight has gotten poorer, but she can still see the picture in her mind.
The museum people mentioned that the Assembly of Nobles2 had started up again in Moscow, and that women were now being admitted as well. But this, pardon me my dears, is nonsense. It’s all in the past, and if someone’s got the taste for playing dress-up – well, it’s not dangerous anymore, apparently. But she doesn’t. And not with those people. Her eyes don’t see, her feet barely walk – she’s ashamed of herself, but she gets around.
It was her eyes that let her down in the end. One morning she went out, first to buy some canned mackerel. She spent three hours in line and they ran out right before it was her turn. Then sour cream. Another line. She got some. She was on her way home, when, near the home for deaf children, a drunk stumbled out from behind a fence, knocked her into the mud, broke her jar of sour cream and, for good measure, cursed at her: “Damn blind hag, high time you kicked the bucket, you bitch.”
High time indeed. She headed home, having more or less scraped off the dirt; tears swelled to a lump in her throat, but she held strong. The Kivokurtsevs don’t cry, that’s what her Mama had said when they took Uncle Kolya away.
She remembered it. She remembered her whole life. She didn’t go to college – not with her background. And as to whitewashing her pedigree by working in a factory, no, thank you. She taught children music, quietly. And just as quietly, like a mouse, she slipped into retirement.
And now she couldn’t even bring her sour cream home. It was very upsetting.
Chin up, knees straight, past the old ladies on the bench, with a “Good evening!”
“Hello, hello, Natalia Petrovna, what happened?”
She didn’t even attempt an answer. Went upstairs, took her clothes off. Coat into the bathtub to soak it before the dirt caked. Afterward, a cup of tea. She had no strength left. She boiled the water for tea, to have with a bublik and a piece of hard candy, instead of sugar.
The museum girls – good, nice girls all – sometimes asked her, “Natalia Petrovna, what do you remember?”
And she’d always answer, “Nothing, girls, absolutely nothing…”
She took the cup to the sink, put it down with a clang – her hands shook, her head was spinning. High time, bitch.
For the first time in her life she didn’t wash her dishes.
She went to her room and fell into the armchair. She looked at the painting on the wall. The Kivokurtsevs’ home was long gone and the one that had been Ms. Goncharnaya’s was gone too, but the Shirinskys’ still stands. How strange…
They think they’ve got themselves an Assembly of Nobles…
“I-di-ots!” she said, hitting each syllable hard, staccato.
But she didn’t cry. No, she did not. She felt better, after a while.
* * *
1. Father of Peter the Great; ruled 1645-1676.
2. An institution of self-governance in Russia from 1766-1917.
The Living Well of the Desert
Tatyana Zlatkova stood in line for cottage cheese at the grocery store. She felt a painful poke in her side and snarled back, but, thank goodness, the spat didn’t turn into a scene. The other woman, wearing a blue tweed coat, apologized. Tatyana sighed and apologized, too. She had no choice but to be in this line – it was imperative that she buy cottage cheese.
Tatyana Zlatkova had fled to Stargorod from an ill-fated, cruel love affair in Leningrad. She purposely chose the job of tour-guide. If there was one thing her time at the Hermitage had taught her, it was that the research department was a life-sucking swamp. She’d spent ten years in one of those and she wanted to be free, to walk around, stare, and talk about the things she loved most in the world. She also believed in educating people.
At first things went smoothly. She and the indigenous expert Osokin – short, with a small voice, his eyes completely faded at 43 – were the museum’s two best tour guides. Osokin never changed. Between his groups he sat on the bench in the nook behind the tour-organizers’ kiosk, read Knowledge is Power and delighted in engaging whomever approached him in long discussions about the latest scientific discoveries. Osokin was very good at his job, but at heart he was a rapturous fool, and Tatyana could not stand men like that, not to mention the rest of his ever-humble countenance… No, she could not possibly understand why the girls in the department felt so sorry for him and made plans – smiling but nonetheless earnest – to get him married. Tatyana was stern with Osokin, but, naturally, chatted with the girls, though she tried to avoid their endless tea-breaks as much as possible. She was well respected and a bit intimidating.
Sometimes, Tatyana spent all her time dashing around the city, with one group after another. Other times, when her mood changed, she kept to the museum collection. She was readily forgiven for these sudden swings, since there were never any complaints about her, only thank you’s from her rapt audiences.
Her little Nadyushka, who was just a baby when they moved from Leningrad, grew up in day-care, and later pre-school, but strangely enough, rarely got sick. After work, Tatyana would pick up Nadyushka from extended hours and they’d walk home, where they read books and built a cardboard city. They were happy together.
But then school started, and with it came school infections: measles, mumps, and scarlet fever all in one year. And all that came with bills. Money became short. Tatyana took on more groups, worked harder, and pulled through. In the summer, when the girl got stronger, they went on vacation to Sudak, to the Black Sea, and in the second grade things went back to normal.
Only somehow, after that summer, everything at work changed instantly, as if a veil fell from Tatyana’s eyes; she suddenly felt an all-consuming hatred for the public. She hated people for their pettiness, bad manners, and rudeness. Especially the kids – they were undisciplined, inattentive, and loud. She must have just ignored them before, speaking to those who were listening, but now she was possessed – she could snap, she could even yell at someone. She was also tired. A single vacation was not enough for the year she’d had.
Something was missing. She felt suddenly and completely bored. She was tired of getting up at the same time every day to go to work. Now she looked at Osokin, that meek Stargorod lamb, with a new incomprehension that bordered
on envy: how could he do it? He noticed nothing around him, as always. No, she felt no pity for him, only disgust.
It was known that Osokin rose early and before going to work made his rounds in the neighborhood, where he shared a small house with his elderly parents. He scattered crumbs for the sparrows and dropped morsels for every stray cat (who sat waiting for him) – a bone, a piece of fish, a slice of bacon or even some sausage. As if nothing had changed in the stores.
Tatyana once made a caustic joke about him at the office, and then couldn’t forgive herself for it. She should have kept her mouth shut, but no – it was coming after her, the familiar life-sucking swamp. Inexorably. Inescapably. It had been pursuing her for nine years, ever since she left Petersburg, and it was about to catch up.
And that’s when she realized that it was going to be like this forever. Until she died. Because she hated standing in lines; she lost all her dignity there. Because she’d taken on more groups and still couldn’t afford to buy meat. Because she hated her job. She’d even considered asking for a transfer into the Country Painting Department: it was nice and quiet, a cushy gig.
Someone prodded her from behind, “It’s your turn, miss, come on!”
She bought her cottage cheese and felt slightly better: she could fry up a batch of cheese pancakes and not worry about dinner for two whole days.
She picked up Nadyushka at school and, on the way home, now cursing absolutely every bit of her existence, took a spot in a line for frozen pollock. It didn’t look like it would take more than half an hour, but she was still appalled. She wanted to go home, where it was warm, to her kitchen, to her green-shaded lamp. Nadyushka perched on the radiator trying to read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, clearly with little success.
The child had an idea. A secret. She said so when Tatyana picked her up: “Mom, I’ve got a surprise for you.” And now she kept fidgeting – she couldn’t wait to go home.
At home, when they finally got there, they had no time for surprises at first: they had to change, wash their hands, and make dinner. A school notebook lay on top of Tatyana’s plate. She noticed that her daughter shut her eyes when she opened it.
The title was written in colored marker: “Essay: Why I love My Mom.” A simple piece. Naïve. Written and read a thousand times before.
Everything became clear. They hugged, and the cheese pancakes got burned on the stove. Tatyana made a new batch. She opened a can of condensed milk, and declared a feast. They sat together, drank tea with cheese pancakes dipped in condensed milk, and watched Good Night, Kids!
Then Tatyana gave Nadyushka a bath and put her to bed. She read Huckleberry Finn to her, breaking her own rule: Nadyushka was old enough to read on her own. But they made it an event – and once was okay.
She put her hair in a braid before going to bed, and the braid came out thin as a rat’s tail. She lay in bed, looked at the sleeping Nadyushka and thought about the essay. It was funny, it said: “My mom’s the most loved mom in the world because I love her very much!” But it was still nice.
It was really not that different from one of her tours: “Here’s a depiction of the Savior on his throne, look how detached and lonely he is, but still all-powerful…” She always used the same words to describe the image, the facts were not important – only the intonation was. Such a small thing.
She yawned, but she wasn’t ready to fall asleep yet.
“Yes, the intonation…”
She picked up the day’s Izvestia from the nightstand, skimmed over it, then read:
Facts and Commentary: The Living Well of the Desert. Of course, the desert means sand, first and foremost. Dunes can be as tall as multi-storied buildings. But even here some vegetation persists – camel-thorn and various grasses thrive in the dunes. Could there be a way of obtaining moisture from these living symbols of the desert?
Turns out there is: half a dozen plastic bags, pulled over different plants, could collect from two to two and a half liters of water in a day, as condensation. Of course, the liquid doesn’t taste like tap-water – it’s more like strong green tea.
Salsola Early and Salsola Southern are the best plants for this.
Funny. Tatyana tried to picture these “salsolas” and the dunes… the symbols of the desert. And the life-giving water hidden inside them. Dunes rose in front of her eyes and she fell asleep.
The next day Tatyana found herself on the bench next to Osokin. The spring sun was warm, and the nook between the buildings where the bench stood protected them from the wind. There was decidedly nothing to do. She told him what she had read in Izvestia. Osokin listened attentively, even though he had heard of this phenomenon before. In return, he told her about a new science, synergistics. Tatyana never understood anything related to physics or mathematics, but Osokin made it sound so interesting that, listening to him, she lost all track of time.
Iron Logic
A tiny sun-bunny – hop! – flips from the window, from the crack in the lace curtains – hop! – onto the mirror, and crackles, and pops, and skitters all over the room: onto the ceiling, the floor, the Yatran typewriter, the desk and into Shishmaryov’s eyes. The chairman squints, pushes budget sheets away, leans back in his chair. On a day like this one should be out in the field, waiting for dusk. When things go still, the sun sets, and only pink streaks, then scarlet, then purple – then dusk. That’s when they come: wizz! – jet-quick teals, whoosh! – golden-eyes, swoop! – fat mallards. And after – wild onion, fish stew over the fire, and Pal-Petrovich, serene, happy, Pal-Petrovich finally at peace, and Andrei Yevgeniyevich – with all his troubles sent to hell, and a story, a joke! And in the morning – out in the mist, whistle to the grouse: a hard full trill like a cock, one cut-off quick, half-garbled – like a hen’s.
“Yes, siree...”
But there is the Plan. Norms to fulfill. The harvesting of things. Of bark, for instance. And there are huntsmen. The Forester. The hunting season’s around the corner... And where are the huntsmen? The huntsmen are ready – but he’s got no money for staff. And where can he get it? From Pal-Petrovich, of course. Pal-Petrovich: we take him hunting, he gives us a staff position. Although, truth be told, Pal-Petrovich doesn’t need anyone’s permission to hunt; if he wants something, he gets it. But no, he won’t just go over the chairman’s head like that – they’re friends, aren’t they? So, what then – to beg? Calling, cow-towing, pleading? And Pal-Petrovich is stern at work, oh, very stern. It wouldn’t look good. Not good at all, quite disgusting in fact. And if he refuses – then what? Flattery, ingratiation, so on? Right? Quite logical indeed. And wasn’t there a Lefaucheux rifle procured for Pal-Petrovich? Such a piece of work that rifle – pretty as a picture! A perfect toy. I’d love to shoot one myself: for bird there’s nothing better. But it wouldn’t be right. You wouldn’t look right with it, Mister Chairman of the Stargorod Sporting Society, you would not indeed. You have to wait. Be patient. When Colonel Yegorov croaks, someone’ll have to find a new home for his Sauer – the old soldier promised to bequeath it to you, didn’t he? A three-ring Sauer, the real deal! A trophy. That’s even better than a Lefaucheux. Certainly not worse. And Yegorov’s got cancer. The hospital won’t admit him again – Vdovin refused to operate, said it’s pointless. So there you have it. Ready, set, march – the grouse will still be there. Trilling.
And that’s when the phone on the desk, a Hungarian model, with buttons, trills just like a grouse: “Bee-bee-bee-beep!”
Perk up, like a spaniel, grab the thing – gently, like a shot bird – carry it to your ear:
“Shishmaryov speaking.”
Sound stern, sharp. Take pride in the sharpness – you can’t keep things in order without being sharp and stern.
On the other end of the line – the regional administration chairman, clearly irked.
“Shishmaryov? Shestokrylov here. Is there a reason you’re not cleaning out your toilet?”
“Which toilet, Savvatei Ivanovich?”
“What do
you mean, which toilet, damn it? You know perfectly well! I have to apologize to my Italian tourists for your toilet, and you want to fool around? Who’s in charge of the portable toilets on Solikha dig, me or you?”
“I am, Savvatei Ivanovich, I am indeed, but you know, those archaeologists...”
“Shishmaryov, do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth? You have three days, and I don’t care if you have to scoop it out by hand, do you hear me? I don’t give a flying hoot about your damn archaeologists, and you better think long and hard about why the chairman of the regional administration should have to clean up your shit! All right, that’s it, Shishmaryov. If you don’t get it done – I’ll see you in my office.”
Shishmaryov placed the receiver carefully back on the phone and only then cursed. Without any special anger, however – a snap, as if at a passing fly. That’s life right there, isn’t it? Like he’s got nothing better to do. And, of course, it has to be the scientists! He’s just about had it with their kind – you give them an inch, they take a mile, never fails. But not this time, no sir – they’ll clean it up themselves!
He rubbed his hands together, let himself chuckle even, put on his suit jacket, looked himself over in the mirror, straightened his tie, sighed and grabbed a leather portfolio for added solemnity. Then he went out onto the porch.
All this is happening why? He knew it – he didn’t want to move into Syrtsov’s lush offices, he did everything to get out of it. But no, they just had to move him there – twisted his arm, basically. Said it was temporary. It’s been ten years. And it’s a his-to-ri-cal landmark (like they’d ever let him forget about it)! It’s good historical wood heating – that’s one thing. Then he had to give up one of his precious huntsman lines for a stoker – that’s another. Then he had to build them an outhouse – with six holes, a beauty of a thing, that was the third. Except now, every batch of snot-nosed kids that comes through on a school trip just has to stop by his, Shishmaryov’s, place. And use the toilet.
Stargorod Page 2