They’d parted with a firm handshake, neither convinced of the truth of the other’s argument.
“So how is life for you with your new family, my son?” Zoya interrupted his ruminations. She pushed a small plate of baklava closer to his side of the table.
“All right. They are . . . hardworking, even if they lack Papa’s sophistication and your good breeding. You know Ksenia Semyonovna is of humble stock. Her mother was a peasant, her father a merchant. She is uneducated, but not illiterate or stupid.”
“And your father-in-law? He is clever with his hands, yes?”
“Well, yes, Ilya Nikolaevich is gifted,” Filip conceded. “He is what you might call a good and righteous man. But I find him dull.”
“And your bride, she is well?”
“She is the light of my life, Mama. She is so . . . so alive. I am happy just to look at her.”
“Can she cook?”
“Well enough, I suppose, given the limited provisions available. Her mother is more capable that way, constantly trading and foraging. We do not often go to bed hungry. Still, I miss some of your dishes—the grape leaves, and that wonderful Greek soup you make. And this lovely baklava. If you could teach my wife to make it, I think I would be completely content.” He lifted a spoonful of the confection to eye level, admiring its paper-thin layers interlaced with honey.
“It is not so difficult if you know how,” Zoya dismissed the compliment, bristling a little at the comparison with the other household. “The dough requires no yeast, but does need some butter or lard, or it will not layer properly. This is a poor imitation. It should have more honey, and nuts, too, which I do not have.”
“Let me see what I can do.” Filip swallowed the pastry, drained his cup, and rose to go. “There must be hazelnuts in the woods. Galya will know.”
“Don’t go to any trouble for me,” Zoya sighed, rising to see him to the door. “Just don’t forget me.”
“Filipok, wait,” she called down after him, stopping his rapid descent. He looked up the stairwell at her, smiling.
“You have not called me that since I was five years old.” He came back, obeying her beckoning finger.
“I forgot to ask you, how is Maksim? Any change?” Zoya whispered, pulling her son into the apartment vestibule even though the hallway was deserted, with no nosy neighbors in sight.
“Only for the worse. He used to try sweeping the yard now and then, but gave that up, saying it was too difficult with one hand. Now he does nothing. And he never goes out.”
“What does he do, then? Read, like you?”
“Not anymore. He says nothing interests him. Most of the time, he just lies on his cot, staring at the ceiling.”
“Ai-ai-ai.” Zoya shook her head, absorbing this last bit of news with the perverse pleasure only a confirmed gossip would understand. “He is a lost soul. A lost soul. His mother must be suffering so. I will pray for them to the Virgin Mary, and to Saint Nicholas, the worker of miracles.”
That will surely help, Filip wanted to say, but stifled the sarcasm just in time and bent instead to kiss his mother’s cheek.
“Go, son, go,” she insisted. “And be kind to him. A lost soul,” he heard her repeating behind the closed door.
Filip headed downtown, taking the long way through the park, stopping to buy a bag of cherries from a red-faced country woman’s pushcart. He could bring them home; Ksenia would make compote or jam or her sweet-tart kissel’ thickened with potato starch and served with rice cakes. He bit into the first one. Or he could eat them all, feel their juicy sweetness explode in his mouth, and no one would know. Well, maybe not every last one, he thought. I’ll save a few for Galya; she can enjoy them when I walk her home from work.
From the park, he walked to the seawall, strolled along the esplanade, enjoying the cool spray, watching the rocking of the waves. He knew his mother meant well. She was sentimental, but even she understood the crucial difference between sentiment and true compassion. If everything was in God’s hands, as she believed, then some of us were clearly meant to suffer more than others. Maybe it was enough to put some spare change in the poor box and say a hasty prayer. It was a facile argument, he knew. It lacked something about good works, personal responsibility, and the prospect of eternal salvation, but he had no patience with it one way or the other.
And Maksim, poor devil, what grievous sin had he committed to deserve his fate?
He had been arrogant, Maksim. So what? Filip could see no wrong in knowing your own worth, staying on the path to your chosen future. If anything, Maksim’s mistake had been in caving in, accepting the patriotic rhetoric, losing sight of his own carefully laid out plans. He had been blinded by the illusion of the importance of service to others. “See where that gets you,” Filip said, spitting the last cherry pit into the Black Sea.
Galina came out smiling, holding something half-concealed in her left hand. She locked up the shop, then opened her hand. “Look,” she said brightly, “Zinaida Grigoryevna gave me this, for Maksim. What do you think?”
Filip glanced at the mechanical spinning top balanced on her palm. “I think Zinaida Grigoryevna has lost her mind,” he replied. “Too much romantic poetry can do that to a person. What possible use is this . . . this trifle to a war veteran?”
“Well, the paint is chipping here and here. But the plunger you push in to make it spin, that works fine. She thought it might help him to, you know, exercise his good arm . . .” Her voice trailed off, as if no longer sure of the soundness of the idea.
“Dura. No, not you, Galya. That woman, she is a simpleton!” He reached for the toy, intending to toss it in the gutter, but Galina was quicker. She closed her hand and stuffed it into her pocket.
“I will give it to him anyway. It might cheer him up.”
When they got home, Maksim was sitting on his cot, staring at the rug hanging on the opposite wall. It was a nature scene, a partridge and her chicks partially concealed in meadow grass, a fox watching them with interest from behind a bush, an eagle circling the panorama above the trees.
She sat down next to him. “What are you thinking about?”
“That picture. It’s supposed to be peaceful, I think, but it’s full of calamity about to happen. The forest food chain in tapestry. The only one who survives is the eagle. Until the hunter appears, that is.”
“What a gloomy outlook. Not everything gets eaten all the time, not even in nature. Look, I brought you a present.” She placed the top on his night table, pushed the plunger down to make it spin.
“What the—” He stared at the gyrating plaything, its stripes of blue, yellow, red blending into a blur of color. He looked up at his sister.
“It might help you strengthen your arm, and . . .”
“Is this one of your idiotic jokes?” he exploded, bringing Ksenia running in from the kitchen, Filip and Ilya from the yard. “What is wrong with all of you? Can you not see that I am worthless? No good to anyone? What is the point of ‘strengthening my arm’ if I can do nothing with it? Ni cherta. Not a damn thing.” He flung the toy across the room; it bounced off the far wall and came to rest, still wobbling, under Ilya’s worktable. Maksim stormed out, muttering, “Pardon my language, Mama,” when he squeezed past her. “Just leave me alone,” he said from the doorway through clenched teeth, his back to the room. “All of you.”
When the evening meal was ready, Filip came in from the yard by himself. “Galya has a headache. I will bring her her food.”
“I—” Ksenia rose, soup ladle in hand.
“No. I will do it.” Filip took the plate from her, balanced the bread on the edge, and retreated, coming back after a few minutes to take his place at the table. They ate in silence.
3
“MAKSIM,” KSENIA SAID SOFTLY, moving aside the curtain that separated his cot from the rest of the room, “are you sleeping?”
“No.” He kept his eyes closed, his one arm shielding his face from the light.
“Go to the p
ost office for me, proshu tebya. Please, I ask of you, do this for me. I have a letter for my sister, your aunt Varya, in Kostroma.”
He faced her. “Why bother, Mama? She will not receive it. And if she does, you will never get her reply.”
“We must try, son. She may not receive my letter, kto znaet? Who knows? But if she does, she will know we are still alive.”
“Why me?” he asked peevishly. “It will take me forever to get there, and what if they’re not open today? Or if there’s a long line, with no way to rest my leg. I would not be home till sundown, and nothing will be accomplished. Send Filip; stamps are his special interest.” He rolled onto his side, face to the wall. “Let me sleep.”
Ksenia retreated to the kitchen. She stood, head down, hands grasping the back of a chair, for a long time. Finally, she raised her chin. Nyet, she decided. No.
She left the letter on the table and gathered a few things: a three-legged stool Ilya had fashioned from scraps, the legs cleverly carved to disguise imperfections in the wood; the last two painted teacups and matching saucers from her wedding set; a multicolored shawl Galina had knitted from odd lengths of scavenged yarn. She tied everything in a bundle. As an afterthought, she tucked several cloth dolls and Maksim’s discarded spinning top into one of her dress pockets and went out.
She took the streetcar north, to the city limits, then walked in an easterly direction, keeping to the wooded edge of the road. No one challenged her. She was just another baba lugging things around for who knows what purpose.
The day was clear and hot, the midsummer air still, the road nearly deserted. Somewhere far away, thunder rolled, approaching and receding in great invisible waves. Ksenia stopped to rest at the edge of a meadow. She listened. Yes, it was thunder. Not guns, not bombers. Thunder. “Jehovah’s chariot,” she observed, and smiled.
The road ended, turned into a dirt track through woods of pine and birch. Ksenia looked up. The sky above the treetops was still blue, the leaves high overhead barely disturbed by a breeze she did not feel. The storm was still some distance away. At the edge of the Tatar village she met a boy herding a few goats, brandishing a thin leafy branch. He waved it at her, as if taking pleasure in its supple motion; she raised a hand in return greeting. Later she would wonder if this had really happened. Or was it a dream, a vision of some bucolic paradise conjured by her need for relief from ugly, treacherous reality?
The first house she came to was small, the roof thatch in need of repair. The young woman who answered her knock shook her head, pointing to the small children clustered at her skirts, the baby in her arms. Outside, an older girl scattered a handful of kitchen scraps; Ksenia watched the two hens and lone rooster cluck and peck, devouring every trace within minutes.
She had not visited this particular village before, knowing that you could not keep coming back to the same people too often and expect good results. Choose a bigger house, she told herself, one that looks more prosperous. She found one near the village center, a solid structure with a painted flower trellis and shiny brass pump in the yard. The woman here was older, her tawny skin set off by large silver hoop earrings, a medallion necklace adorning her deep red caftan.
Ksenia untied her bundle and showed her wares, not in the aggressive manner she used on market days, but with simple dignity. Neither woman spoke much. They communicated with gestures and a few words that both understood in their respective languages. The Tatar examined the shawl from both sides, seemed to like its variegated colors and approve the workmanship. She turned the stool this way and that, tracing the carving with a slender finger. She held the teacups up to the light, looking for hairline cracks or imperfections. Finally, she nodded. She disappeared into the summer kitchen at the side of the house and came back with a small sack of flour, some carrots, and a few plums.
Ksenia nodded her appreciation, then gathered up her courage and said, “Do you have any meat? Myaso?”
The woman hesitated. She pressed her lips together, then took back the flour and produce and came back with a small paper-wrapped parcel and three eggs. “Loshadina,” she said. “Horse meat.”
Ksenia bowed deeply, touched her hand to the ground at the woman’s feet. She wrapped the eggs in her handkerchief, tying the corners with care, and slipped them into another dress pocket. She had turned to go, holding the meat parcel against her chest, when a lurid flash of lightning bisected the sky directly above, followed by a clap of thunder that sent both women back into the open doorway. Catching each other’s eye, they both laughed at their instinctive reaction, then turned to watch the first heavy raindrops kick up puffs of dust in the yard, sending chickens into the sheltering branches of a nearby oak.
Within minutes, it was over; the furiously falling curtain of rain lifted as suddenly as it had descended. Ksenia stepped out, ready to leave, but the woman restrained her with a light touch on the arm. She went inside and reappeared with a cup. Ksenia drank. She did not care for koumiss, the pungent fermented mare’s milk that had been a staple of the Tatars’ nomadic ancestors for generations. But it would have been worse than rude to refuse, and she was hungry.
Leaving the village, she stopped again at the first house. Ignoring the look of annoyance on the young mother’s face, she gave her the cloth dolls and spinning top without a word, and turned for home. She did not look back to see the speechless young woman, toys in hand, stare after her in open-mouthed amazement.
It was evening when Ksenia reached home. She was tired from the day’s traveling, but knew she still had work to do before retiring to her bed. Ilya was at his worktable, bent over a bit of ivory he was carving with a fine-gauge tool, his face illuminated by the glow of the lamp at his elbow. How handsome he is, Ksenia thought. His hair still dark and glossy, his tall body trim. And those hands, those beautiful, sensitive hands.
“Good evening, my dear. Dobryi vecher,” he said, without missing a stroke, looking up only when his tool reached the edge of the piece. “Was your expedition successful?”
“Yes. There will be meat pie tomorrow. How is . . .” She glanced toward the curtained corner of the room.
“Sleeping.” Ilya picked up a wood-handled chisel, the blade fine as a scalpel, and set to work creating intricate flower petals. “Galya left you some food.”
In the kitchen, Ksenia lifted the plate covering a small bowl of millet, two thin smoked smelts laid across the top. She ate one of the fish, grinding its tiny bones with her teeth, swallowing the head whole, licking her fingers one by one.
She untied the parcel and examined the meat. It looked fresh, with no greenish discoloration or brown curled edges, but who knew how long ago the animal had been slaughtered? Or died, more likely. Healthy horses were too valuable to kill for meat. She had to cook it now, tonight, taking no chances on spoilage from the summer heat. If only I had an ice house, or a cool cellar, like in the country, she thought. I could rest now.
She sighed, added wood to the stove, covered the meat with water in the soup pot, peeled an onion from her kitchen garden. When the water boiled, she skimmed off the gray foam, added a dried bay leaf and the onion, along with two garlic cloves, and moved the pot to the back burner, where the heat was less intense and the soup would simmer, undisturbed, extracting as much essence from the meat as possible. She sat at the table, peeled the last of the month’s potatoes, working expertly, her knife removing barely a shadow of the pulp. This is my craft, she thought. She savored the way the knife’s handle fit her hand, the sharp blade worn paper-thin from many years’ use. My tools.
She stirred the peels into the stockpot with a wooden spoon, put the potatoes on to boil in a separate pot. Tomorrow, she would shred the boiled meat, mix it with the fork-mashed potatoes and make a pie, using the potato water to enrich the dough. If there was enough flour, she would use one of the precious eggs to make lapsha, add the homemade noodles to the stock for a meal as satisfying as it was economical. The other eggs she would save for Maksim. They would give him strength, and pe
rhaps, she fervently wished, a moment’s joy.
Ksenia picked up the bowl of cold millet and ate it, slowly, standing up, chewing the swollen grains with deliberation. “Needs salt,” she said to the empty room, but added none, scraping the last of the cooking liquid out with her spoon, finishing her supper with the second smoked fish.
From her kitchen window she could see into the room outside, a wisp of smoke rising from the kerosene lamp on what was now Filip’s desk, his head bent over a stamp album, no doubt. She could not see Galina, but guessed she would be on the bed, sewing, working on one of the scrap projects that seemed to occupy all her spare time. And yes, singing. Ksenia could hear snatches of a popular melody—what was it? Ah, “Sinyi Platochek,” “The Blue Scarf,” another plaintive song of love and loss. Then Galina moved into her line of vision and Ksenia stepped back; she felt a flicker of shame at her intrusion but was unable to avert her eyes. Filip rose and the two of them swayed together, dancing in the impossibly cramped space, Galina’s mouth at his ear, still singing the haunting waltz. Ksenia saw the flush rise in Filip’s cheeks, and then the light went out.
4
MAKSIM RESISTED SEEING the doctor. “What’s the use? A doctor is not a magician, a wizard who can restore the past with a few incantations. Save your money, Mama. Let it be.”
But Ksenia was adamant. “You may not know everything. An older doctor, with experience, may be able to help you, to improve your life.”
“Improve my life?” He laughed, a strangely mirthless, bitter sound. “You mean equip me with a hook so I can tie my shoelaces and terrorize small children?”
Roads Page 13