She was lost and fearless, silly and experienced, gullible and manipulative; she needed someone who would know how to talk to her, how to lead her through therapy. I am not a psychiatrist, and I don’t know how to do it right, but I kept talking to her. I told her about my friend Ninka. Yulka only smiled—she knew this story, it was her own. Love? Anton started doing drugs with his wife Svetka; she later got clean and left him, found herself a sugar daddy. Yulka had something similar at the beginning; she and Anton had found each other.
“It’s easier together, not as scary, you know?”
What I knew was that they both had to be admitted, and the sooner the better. It was getting close to noon; I had to get back.
“I’ll stop by later. If you need me—knock.”
“He’ll sleep for a while now,” Yulka smiled a soft, peaceful smile at me, hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. “You go now, thank you.”
Mark Grigoriyevich and his student were having tea; they had finished their lesson. The student’s name was Natalia, and she was very young, no more than twenty. They had a strange way of taking their tea: they kept looking at each other with such electricity that my hair started crackling just being in the same kitchen. The both shone like the gold medal that Natalia, “thanks to Mark Grigoriyevich,” had won at a prestigious contest in Prague. Tired and happy, he couldn’t take his eyes off her; his hands, which had been hidden under the table when I came in, now reached helplessly for her long, musical fingers.
I turned and tip-toed out of the kitchen. I went to Grandma’s room and held her hand. I sat at her side and waited for her to open her eyes. My pulse slowed and the blood that had rushed to my face in the kitchen slowly retreated. I felt peaceful and comfortable here. The door to the apartment opened and closed. Grandma opened her eyes and gazed at the ceiling from under lowered brows, as if she could see angels dancing on its white expanse.
“It’s Vera, Grandma.”
“Vera-Vera,” she echoed.
She was in splendid mood. Her feeble hand tensed into a weak fist, capturing my fingers.
. 8 .
Mark Grigoriyevich flew out the same evening. He called from the airport, apologized for not spending more time with us and piled on excuses—his master-class, his rehearsals…
The next day, the doorbell rang when I was in the middle of ironing. Grandma was sleeping and I had started on the housekeeping chores. I had not gone back to apartment 84 because I knew that I had exhausted my resources there. Yulka had to find it in herself to make the decision. I did not know her world, but I suspected that one’s will is the first thing the drugs take.
When I opened the door, I saw a tall, fit man wearing a jeans jacket and corduroy pants. I noticed his hands: large, knotty, and covered in bulging veins, very strong. He had a short, neatly-trimmed beard. He looked to be well in his fifties, pushing sixty. I had expected to see Yulka and my face must have betrayed my displeasure.
“I’m sorry, Vera, Yulya told me about you. I am Valentin Yegorovich, Anton’s father.”
“Oh sure, please come in,” he’d taken me by surprise: I had no intention of crossing paths with him.
“Vera,” he said urgently, “you must come with me now. Please, bring your kit. Anton is much worse.”
“Have you called the ambulance?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid they won’t make it in time. I want to take him to Botkin Hospital, it’s much closer. If you can hold off the crisis, it would be better to take him to his attending. The doctor is waiting, I phoned him.”
“What’s happening?”
“He can’t breathe; he’s turning blue. I just stopped by accidentally—the door was wide open and Yulka’s gone. Please, hurry.”
I followed him as I was—in a t-shirt and my house-skirt.
Anton sat on his bed, leaning against the wall—eyes darting about, cold sweat on his forehead. He extended his arm to me, but then had a fit of coughing and spat out a light-colored frothy glob onto his pillow. He could not speak; he tried to exhale, but it was difficult. His chest sounded like a volcano ready to erupt. His face was pale and bluish. Finally, with enormous effort, he managed to push the air out, but then he began to choke; his face distorted with horror, and his arm that was reaching towards me hung limp like a noodle. I used my stethoscope to check his heart and lungs; I could clearly hear moist crepitation in the lungs. Heart tones were dim, the pulse was frequent and weak.
“What’s wrong with him?” Valentin Yegorovich asked as I handed him my stethoscope.
“Sounds like cardiac asthma. Was he on his back this whole time?”
“I don’t know. He was sitting up when I found him.”
“It often happens at night, when the body is horizontal: it increases the flow of blood to the heart. The psychological stress may have contributed as well.”
Hearing the diagnosis, Anton shook with another fit of coughing.
“Open the window—he needs more air. And hold him up, he can’t sit upright by himself.”
Valentin Yegorovich followed my instructions with military precision; there was not a trace of hesitation in him as he took a firm hold on his son’s shoulders. I injected camphor, then, slowly, strophanthin with glucose, and finally, intramuscularly, eufilin. Anton was visibly revived, he felt a little better and began to breathe more evenly. His hand searched his chest as if trying to find the object that obstructed his breathing.
“Can we take him now? I think we’ll make it in forty minutes.”
“Call the ambulance, now’s the time.”
“Vera,” Valentin Yegorovich spoke sharply, “you must help me. The ambulance will take him to Botkin or the district hospital. He needs specialized (he emphasized the word) care. I just don’t trust regular doctors.”
Anton, the sucker, as if to spite me, was breathing almost normally. The blue tint retreated as the flow of oxygen restored color to his face.
“Vera, listen to him. Dad knows..,” he started coughing again, but easier and without hacking up his insides.
“Please, I implore you,” his eyes drilled into me as if in a hypnosis session.
“It’ll be on your conscience.”
The son nodded obediently. We dressed him quickly, holding him up on both sides, and walked him down the stairs. I got into the back seat with him.
Valentin Yegorovich took off with a whine of spinning tires. I opened both back windows: Anton needed fresh air. He fell onto my shoulder and blinked frequently; the seizure had given him a good fright and wore him out. Now he was breathing carefully, listening intently to his body. Automatically, I began to stroke his head to comfort him; the boy pressed against me like a rain-soaked little monkey, shuddering.
Valentin Yegorovich made use of every gap in traffic; other drivers let him pass, but finally, at a traffic light, we ran into a jam.
“How is he?” Valentin Yegorovich asked suddenly, not turning his head.
“He’s alright, coming back,” I caught his eye in the rear-view mirror: it was focused, scrutinizing.
The cars crawled along. Street vendors walked against the traffic, shoving fake watches or promotional leaflets through open windows; beggars trailed after them. Familiar clothing caught my eye: a padded Tajik robe, belted with a sash, and a skull-cap. An old grey-bearded man with desiccated face led a small girl by the hand. His right hand, folded into a cup, reached towards the car windows. People didn’t give him much, but the Tajik bowed and thanked them every time. I knew, of course, that he was not a real Tajik, but a Tajik gypsy—our men would never stoop down to begging. Finally, the old man came to our car. Valentin Yegorovich gave him some small change.
“Thank you, sir.”
The gypsy glanced at the back seat. It was Ahror. The traffic light turned green, and the car slowly moved forward. I leaned to the window, rolled the glass all the way down, and stuck my head out, calling,
“Ahror! Akó Ahror!”
He did not look back. The noise of the engines drowned my vo
ice.
“Ahror! Ahror!”
The girl turned to look and followed us with an indifferent gaze. She could not hear me either.
“Was it someone you know, by chance?”
Valentin Yegorovich’s voice brought me back to reality.
“My eyes played a trick on me… He cannot be here in Moscow, no way.”
“We can stop and check on the way back. They usually don’t leave their spots.”
The car sped on; we did not talk anymore the rest of the way to the clinic. When he drove through the gate, Valentin Yegorovich said to his son, “They are giving you quite an honor: Alexander Danilovich himself has come out.”
The doctor, an easy-mannered bear of a man with a smiling face, opened the car door, pulled out Anton and patted him on the shoulder.
“Welcome back, buddy. Come on, you can make it on your own,” he prodded, seeing Anton’s legs folding limply under him. Anton responded to his voice, straightened up and made an attempt at looking tough. I told Alexander Danilovich what I had injected.
“Excellent, excellent! Surgical training, huh?” nothing, it seemed, could cloud his jolly disposition.
“Nursing, but I used to work in a hospital.”
“Aha,” he scratched his nose meaningfully. “Feel free to call, as always,” he nodded to Valentin Yegorovich by way of sending him off and then whispered to my ear: “Thank you, you handled everything like a true professional. We’ll go to work on him right away.”
Then he re-assumed his bravura and walked the patient into his realm.
We rode back more slowly. I don’t know why, but I suddenly started talking about Panjakent and about Ahror. The fear that we wouldn’t get Anton to the clinic in time was gone, the doctor’s praise had given me a shot of confidence, Valentin Yegorovich felt trustworthy, and I kept talking and talking, unable to stop; my outpouring must have seemed a touch neurotic.
When we reached the intersection where we’d gotten caught in the jam, Valentin Yegorovich pulled over, and threw his raincoat over my shoulders. We walked over the entire block, looking into courtyards and alleys, but the Tajik and his girl were nowhere to be seen.
“He looked like him, he looked just like him, but I must have made a mistake,” I said for the hundredth time.
And still I was convinced that it was Ahror I had seen. Sure, the man was bearded and much thinner, but his face, his eyes, his shape were all Ahror’s. Except that there was absolutely no way that Ahror had made it to Moscow. The war in Tajikistan had passed by the Panjakent valley and Ahror was not the kind of person to uproot and take to the road.
Valentin Yegorovich walked me to my apartment.
“I’ll go clean up now,” he nodded at number 84. “Thank you, Vera.”
“Thank God that it turned out ok; we were lucky he didn’t get lung oedema.”
“You’re just not used to it; you can’t kill those bastards with an axe,” he looked up at me. “But I still intend to thank you. Tonight I am taking you out to a restaurant, and I will not take no for an answer. When should I pick you up?”
To this day I don’t know why I said:
“At nine.”
. 9 .
Why did i think i saw Ahror? The look in his eyes? The old man that fed linen hay to the line at the factory in Zhukovo had eyes like that. He fed it, the machine ate it; he bent again, picked up a new roll, unfolded it, and threw it onto the conveyer belt to be chewed up like dry feed. The old man worked as he’d been taught when he was little: with respect for his task, neatly raking up loose hay from the floor, but without taking any pleasure from his work. The Gypsy could not have been Ahror; Ahror is shorter, and, I think, his arms were not as long, and his fingers were different… But I haven’t seen Ahror for so many years, who knows what he looks like now, and whether he is alive at all. Why did fate chose to bring back my childhood? Should I blame all the sleepless nights by Grandma’s side when I indulged in reminiscing? His daughter from his second marriage could not be as young as that girl; she must be an adult now, with her own kids, Ahror’s grandkids. Or was it the robe and the skull-cap? I haven’t seen them for so many years, and would rather not see them ever again, and still, still I stuck my head out the window and called after the old man’s back!
What did I blabber on about the expedition and the museum? In Soviet days Valentin Yegorovich had been to Tajikistan, but never to Panjakent: he photographed various construction projects for a newspaper.
And what does he do now? He didn’t say. Why did I agree to go out to a restaurant with him? Because I’d never been to a restaurant—only to a café that one time with Viktor? He has a nice foreign car, fast and comfortable. So he must have a job. How, then, did he manage to stop by in the middle of the day to check on his son? And where was Yulka? Why did she leave Anton alone? Why does Yulka call him “Skull”? What should I wear to the restaurant? Ilsa’s embroidered blouse? Mark Grigoriyevich oohed and aahed when he saw it on me.
At least Grandma didn’t demand my attention: she sensed that I was too preoccupied with something else and retreated inside herself.
I did have a leather jacket I bought at the Vietnamese Market at Savyolovsk, a warm and thick jacket to wear in bad weather, but of course I had to forget it and instead bundle up in his oversized coat when we were searching for Ahror.
Grandma made groaning sounds and produced a hard, dry pile of feces, like donkey droppings. I washed her, and she immediately fell asleep. That’s why she seemed so inward: she must have been uncomfortable since morning, poor thing.
I have to put the fish from the sink back into the fridge. I won’t be eating in, and I have no energy to cook it now.
He said one of the things he remembered about Central Asia were the donkeys. I did not tell him about the asinine torments I spied on the day I ran away from Ahror.
The old man in the worn robe—was it Ahror? No, of course it wasn’t.
What should I talk about at the restaurant? Does he want me to keep an eye on Yulka while Anton is in hospital?
At nine, he was at the door, wearing the same corduroy trousers and jean jacket, only having changed into a lighter-colored shirt.
“Vera, is this from Central Asia?” he felt the hem. “Pure linen, it looks great on you.”
My shyness delighted him, and he smiled kindly. We found something to talk about.
The rest was like a page out of my long-loved Arabian Nights. That, accidentally, was the name of the restaurant, which looked like a castle built of shimmering cornelian: everything inside dazzled and reflected in countless mirrors. There was a fountain in the center and tiny backlit fountains in spots where you least expected to find them. The doors to the main hall were studded with silver nails, my feet sank into lush carpets, and the tables appeared to have been carved out of precious sandalwood. Goldfish swam contemplatively in a shallow pool fed by the fountains; a pair of pet ducks, beaded with glittering drops of moisture, preened next to a hut built for them on a small raft. The only thing missing was the peacocks to strut around on the mosaic marble floors. A fire roared in the hearth, fed by large logs, but I hardly felt its heat when I walked past: the heat was already inside me, it ran in my veins, and it took all I had not to reveal my excitement.
We sat down on soft sofas. As if summoned by a magic wand, Oriental beauties appeared—their pale faces like breathing moons—and brought in foods on silver platters and drinks in sweating decanters. Valentin Yegorovich filled our glasses with thick, dark wine.
“Let’s not think about sad things. Let us feast!”
And feast we did, and laugh—he as much as I—and reminisce about things, interrupting each other. He started an Arabian Nights game: we were to speak ornately, as in the Orient. Words suddenly surfaced from the depth of my memory; Valentin Yegorovich had also loved the tales since he was a boy.
He was out to make an impression—and he did. I had no idea I could be so carefree. I drank freely and easily, the way I had never drunk before.
They had real plov: with cumin, tangy barberries, and large heads of garlic topping the pile of rice like golden church domes. The rice was not too soft, and the juicy meat cooked to perfection. Valentin Yegorovich ate with gusto, biting off mouthfuls of hot peppers and grinning at me happily as I kept up. We discussed the plov, and gave the chef a heart-felt A. He then literally forced me to eat a lamb kabob which he had dipped in pomegranate juice—and it was so good! Not even good—wonderful! Afterwards, we had cantaloupe so aromatic it could beat any incense, sultana, and lady’s fingers grapes, sweet as sugar. It felt good to dip my fingers into a bowl of cool water strewn with rose petals and wash off the grape juice. Valentin Yegorovich, like a pasha rewarding a faithful subject, kept ordering new dishes, and we were served crumbly sorbet, pistachio halvah, thick and soft like butter, and savory dogwood jam which had to be washed down with dark thyme-infused tea, slightly bitter, like the wild blackthorn berries that we used to devour on the way home from school when we were kids. It was a magical night.
We walked back. Valentin Yegorovich slipped his hand into the crook of my arm, and told me how, when he was a newspaper photographer, he did a series about the settlement in Pitsunda.
“Yes, I’ve heard of that. Aunt Leyda told me that her ancestors came to Tver region from the Black Sea shores.”
“There they lived, blonde among the black-haired Abkhazians and Georgians, speaking their strange language.”
For some reason, we both found this observation very funny. Anton and Yulka could not be further from our minds. Throughout the night, he was in character: puffing his cheeks like a ferocious shah when he summoned the waitress and speaking in a solicitous falsetto when he begged me try yet another dish, like a court flatterer. When we reached our apartment building, he unsealed the lock on the outside door with the magical, “Open, Sesame!” and then suddenly put his face close to mine, so that I looked straight into his crazy eyes, and whispered:
“I won’t let you go before you let me know you.”
Fish- a History of One Migration Page 24