Your Ad Could Go Here

by Oksana Zabuzhko

  She always loved to swim—she loved to feel the water caress her body, the tickle upon entering, its marvelous, soft touch that fondled her in most secret, most shameful ways, and now she found another pleasure, to which she could have devoted hours if she had her way—how lazy she would become then, she laughed in feigned horror!—she enjoyed looking at her nude body, marveling at it as a discrete thing apart from herself: everything was so delicate and perfect, from the arch of her foot and up, along the chiseled line of her calf and thigh, made, it seemed, by a single stroke of a master carver, the dome of her stomach like the church chalice bearing the blessed sacraments: when she first made this discovery, she recoiled in fear from such a blasphemous thought, but then each time she lowered her eyes, she found the same sight—a shallow chalice that glowed with a gentle pearly luster, it was here, inside her, it was her, there was no escaping it, and this involuntary, seemingly independent of her sacrilege gave her a glimpse of such frightening, sweet beauty that shimmered like precious diamonds at the bottom of a ravine that it seemed if you peered in more closely, you would lose your senses. Now more than ever before did Hannusia feel herself worthy of song—not just someone’s grand and sorrowful, larger than life itself, love sung a-voice, the way she had heard her father sing that night after her mother—she knew now it was her mother he sang for, but this would not be enough for her now, just think: were such beauty as hers to be given to one man alone, once and till the end of his days, that one man would have to die from happiness on the spot, having seen her just once as she was now, reflected in the slow river water, having touched just once the silk of her skin, cool and yet somehow warmed from the inside—not one of the young men known to her could even be conceived to measure up to such a gift—no, it wasn’t a new longing expressed in old words that she yearned for, but a new song, composed for her alone, one that would suffuse each and every one who heard it with shivers under their skin, with this just now apprehended sense of a tangible and accessible sacredness—a feeling sinful, terrifying, and sweet, in whose deepest recesses her light would shimmer, forever desired—Hannusia, Milady Hanna.

  “Verdant willow, open up, Hanna has come,” she’d whisper as she descended the riverbank and untied her sashes before stepping into the water, while in her mind she’d call out, Fold open, steep bank, let me enter, yellow sand, make way, deep river—everything, everything around her had to give way as she came to it, unfurling, smiling in greeting, lauding her—the riverbank with its leaves, the river with its waves, the birds with their chirping, and that’s exactly what would happen when she appeared, everything was set in motion down to the depths of the earth where, like bees in a hive at night, secret springs slowly hummed—in such moments she felt she could hear the entire earth all the way to the sea, and if she were to press her ear to the ground, she would hear the rider on the open steppe, and the salt cart on the beaten road, and, were she to pull her thought tighter, she could, for a lark, heave a rock away from a traveler’s path, or on the contrary, block his passage—this, of course, she never did, but the very knowledge of this ability, as well as countless others—an entire universe of them!—hers to play with as she pleased, filled all of her happy being, down to her fingertips, with an avid, tumbling force, and from its cresting swell she would leap from the riverbank into the water with a sharp cry, unable to keep within herself such an overabundance of joy. The water nymphs teased her from the rushes, calling out, Switches, switches, I smell the straw scent of witches!—the water roiled around her body in white foam, as if around a fired iron, as she came to the surface—Lying spawn!—she shouted back to the nymphs as she threw her head back into the clouds that floated, reflected, in the river, and her voice carried far and wide over the water, because the little imps were lying, she did not smell of straw—of a peasant’s hut—but of wormwood; she had taken up the custom of rubbing herself all over with it, and carried a bunch of it at her waist, that’s what peeved the nymphs—they didn’t dare show their faces to her, but contented themselves with whooping out from the rushes, and even their hoots were less angry than sad, as if they, too, gave her a greeting, acknowledged her invincibility.

  Because straw scent or not, the smell of her own home was becoming hateful to Hannusia—she only felt truly herself when she was alone, by the river, in the woods or the fields, and people, whether kin or strangers, kept her out of sorts, as if one day a different kind of people was supposed to arrive from somewhere far in the great wide world for her, people more like the ones who inhabited her mother’s tales, and it was for these people that she dressed into her fine clothes and fixed her hair every day—a princess in the tower, while those around her, the blind and small minded, thought her a haughty mother’s daughter who disdained the very best lads in the village and traded them as fast as a Gypsy trades horses, waiting for Lord only knows whom, while the father’s daughter agreed with them so much more, a fine and well-behaved child, that’s right, and a hard worker, too—local gossip to make your ears wilt. Hannusia honestly did not feel she was being too choosy with the lads—she always refused the matchmakers, who, during the first autumn of her maidenhood seemed never to leave her doorway, one set walking in, the other walking out, With all due respect, I thank you for the honor, goodfolk, but I still haven’t had my fill of my parents’ good care—never once did she send anyone off with a pumpkin as a token of her refusal (to her mind, it was beneath her to mock a poor fellow so publicly, as if she really cared about him!). All of this seemed to her somehow not-real, not meant for her, although, in its own way, entertaining, the way one is entertained by a puppet show put on by the seminarians at the winter fair, or some such. Girl, you have your head full of air, the older women would say to her and shake their heads—but air it was not, quite the opposite, hard and solid, like a coin worked into a string of beads, a certainty of her predestination for another fate, which everyone around her, except for her mother, from whom she always felt silent support, cheerfully and unanimously were determined to shake, and to withstand this threat she thought more and more often of the old pilgrim woman and the night her childhood ended and maidenhood began, which was pressed into her memory as brightly as a gold-clad icon, until the day she finally plucked up her courage to go three villages over to ask a seer woman known across their whole country what was it that she must do to summon her true destiny, and not the one people kept foisting on her, as if she couldn’t tell their tin from her true gold—however, precisely on that day, as if on purpose to upset her plan, Olenka got a toothache, her cheek swelled up so badly that she could barely open her eye, they feared she’d caught Saint Anthony’s fire, so it was Olenka who was taken to the healer—right in their own village, but Hannusia could not leave home at such a time, someone had to keep up with the chores until Olenka recovered—and this is what happened every time, as if Olenka had returned to her casual torment, like when she was little and put herself underfoot just to hinder whatever Hannusia was doing: no sooner did Hannusia fix to go out into the world somewhere—maybe not to the seer woman, but let’s say as a bridesmaid to the other village, where she’d been invited, and folks rumored all kind of men from the regiment were expected, up to and including the colonel himself!—when at the critical moment—how unlucky!—Olenka inevitably fell into one of her mishaps, usually not as serious as it was aggravating, but which managed, nonetheless, to put a dead end to all Hannusia’s meticulously executed preparations, and always in a way she could not really protest—how could you, for instance, hold it against the poor Olenka when she twisted her thumb or cut her foot with a scythe so she couldn’t even walk for three days! It seemed silly to think so, but Hannusia could not rid herself of a gnawing feeling, like a splinter under her skin, that her sister would not let her go—not away from her, Olenka, because nothing would’ve pleased her more than to see Hannusia married off—she watched all Hannusia’s matchmakers like a hawk, you’d think her skin tensed with that focus—but, queer as it seemed, toward Hannusia�
�s own destiny, as if jealously guarding an invisible boundary beyond which lay that which was Hannusia’s alone, something special that Olenka, and all the other girls, were denied even to imagine, so whenever her sister was about to cross that boundary, Olenka dragged her back with the burden of all of her mundane maladies, back to the thickets of their domestic routine, as if Hannusia were a cow with a rope around her horns. The devil take it, Hannusia’d think, angry at her own feelings, and would go brew linden-bloom tea for her younger sister, who lay curled up under the quilt and shook with coughs, loud as a dog’s barks, having contrived to catch a cold in the middle of the summer, precisely when Hannusia was supposed to be sent off with other women not just anywhere, but to Kyiv itself to take embroidery to sell at the monastery: Hannusia embroidered handsomely. Well, they would just have to sell her work for her.

  In public, however, Olenka never complained, was always cheerful and even keeled, smiling sweetly at elders and even more sweetly at the village lads: shyly, dropping her eyes and fidgeting with the handkerchief in her hands or with the edge of her lovely apron—clearly, still very young. She would become especially shy around those who had asked for Hannusia’s hand and were refused: you’d think she felt, by virtue of blood relation, at fault with them and desired to rectify, ever so delicately, the injury caused them by her family, as though to atone, according to old custom, for the dishonor. Soon enough this was noticed—one of Hannusia’s recent suitors, who began to frequent the tavern after his unsuccessful courtship, where he would buy a drink for anyone who would listen and tell them, loud enough for the house to hear, what a foolish business it is to pine for a woman, after all they’re a dime a dozen, just whistle and they’ll come running. On the next feast day, also, apparently having had a drink or two, he grabbed Olenka by the hand: What about you, will you marry me? Olenka blushed beet red down to the bottom of her neck, broke loose, and ran away, hiding in a throng of girls, while the young man cocked his hat and marched down the street, singing with great feeling: “’Tis with your sister I’ll spend the eve, her talk is different than yours has been”—which, in fact, was an insult, and not a minor one, said Hannusia, hugging the flustered Olenka by the shoulders and drawing her close—Now there’s a dumb bully, pay him no mind, while the song mocked them from afar, “Her talk is different, her words aren’t stark, her skin’s not fair, her brows aren’t dark,” felt at once cut to the quick by the bastard’s rudeness—You scoundrel, I was too kind when I gave you the boot—and, deep in her soul and despite herself, somewhat flattered and vindicated, not so much in her vanity as in her need of justice: finally Olenka has been shown, unambiguously and by an outsider, her place in relation to her sister, so she’d know—and here Olenka, flashing her tear-filled eyes—never before had Hannusia seen her, such a quiet little mouse, so furious—breathed straight into her face so that Hannusia even felt her sister’s spit drop onto her own lips, “Just you wait, we’ll see who comes out on top!” “Good heavens!” Hannusia spit to the side in pique, but all the same for a long time afterward she could feel the drops of Olenka’s spit like specks of fire.

  She forgot about that misadventure fairly soon—a new worry beset her: a few times now Markian’s son, Dmytro, made passes at her, regally and carelessly—an exceptionally handsome lad, that could not be denied, just look at him on a Sunday when he’d wear his red sash that blazed like fire, and a rich man’s son, and an only child to boot, so it’s not like he’d need to borrow money for his young man’s caprices—“Will you come out tonight?”—he’d ask, looking her over with a leer, as if he had already undressed her and was now assessing her naked, like a Turk at the slave market—would he take her right there, or keep walking?—“If you come out, I’ll hire musicians.” Hannusia pressed her lips together, which instantly made her look like her mother: “Thank you for the kind offer, but I have enough money of my own”—the first time, perhaps, she’d ever brought up her earnings, and it left her with an unpleasant feeling, as though he had tricked her into showing all her virtues at once, including those she did not value particularly highly, because she took them for granted—truly like presenting yourself at the slave market, as in, What do you think me, friend, a pauper?—but she had no other recourse against the innate and seemingly all-encompassing sense of superiority he exuded with every stitch, down to the last careful fold in his sash. Dmytro, for one, actually would have girls run to his whistle, he himself was not in the habit of chasing, and Hannusia could not quite find the means—and was very angry at her own helplessness—just did not know how to burst the bubble of that rich boy’s pride, he was round and smooth as if glazed, nowhere to scratch him, and only squinted his eye at her, like a happy cat in the sunlight, in anticipation, and the more she pursed her lips, the more dismissively she tossed her head, the more it entertained him—like a small child’s antics. He did, however, hire the musicians as promised: Hannusia deliberately dragged her heels and came to the dance last, when the company should well have given up on her, and smiled to herself when, obviously bored a minute earlier, Dmytro blossomed with a new joy when she appeared: “Aren’t you a proud one,” he said quietly, stepping close and squeezing her by the shoulders, painfully, like he wanted to knead her into a ball, like dough removed from the wrap of her clothing. His breath, tickling her ear, was hot, fired up by dancing, and for an instant Hannusia felt a sweet weakness in her body—she moved toward him and pressed—almost struck—her chin against his shoulder, thus swallowing the surreptitious smile of her brief victory—“Let’s go then,” he said simply, signaling the other couples to make way, as if it was clear as god’s day that she would be dancing only with him, as if that’s the only thing she’d come for, as if he had already taken her into his hands for as long as he wanted, and she did not like that, so when he spun her around as they danced—sharply, so that she became dizzy, each turn a new test: he didn’t dance with her, he danced by means of her, his every move telling the crowd, “Look what I’ve got!” when he grabbed her by the waist and pressed her close, not so much asking as commanding: “Come out to the meadow tonight, I’ll be waiting for you”—she just laughed at him (this time turning her head so as not to get it in the teeth with his shoulder again): “There’s no holding off for you, Dmytro, is there?” He was so stunned he stepped out of the dance circle—dragging her behind him: “Look at you, aren’t you shrewd!”—and stood there, not lifting his hands off her, which was beginning to look quite inappropriate, like they were embracing in public, and Hannusia gently but persistently freed herself—“Careful you don’t outshrew yourself,” he said, suddenly unpleasantly, all but menacing, and looked at her again in that evaluating way of his, except this time it was different—undiluted, sharp, cold, and clouded, like a breath-fogged blade, and that cold echoed in Hannusia—I see now we’re really talking!—with a sudden and clear satisfaction that she did knock him down a rung, but at the same time she felt the prick of the insult in the fact that, goodness gracious, it was only now that he’d finally seen her—he saw only a thing before: the best girl in the village, a new trophy worthy of decorating his father’s hearth. At that, Hannusia felt a real chill—the sweat between her shoulder blades evaporated—breathing at her from the maw of the infinite desert that suddenly opened around her, endless like the night sky; at that moment she could have simply told Dmytro, whose thoughts she could read as easily as if they moved in front of her, like a school of small fish teeming at the bottom of crystal clear water—I won’t marry you, don’t waste your time—but he wouldn’t have believed her, because any sensible soul would say she could not possibly marry anyone else. And so Hannusia held her tongue—and soon enough came to realize with a heavy heart that Dmytro’s family, once they took something into their heads, were not ones to let it go: people began to drop meaningful hints at her from all sides, and found every occasion, as if they’d plotted around her, to mention Dmytro in her presence, some with a nod and a wink—Now there’s a fine young man, and the fiel
ds he’s got, and the cattle!—and others shooting straight—So, when shall we have fun at your wedding, Markian’s sure to spare nothing for his only child! Oh, how lucky you are, sweetie, sighed the more openhearted and poor of the girls, while the richer ones said nothing, since more than one of them had her sights set on the lad, and Hannusia, from all of that, slowly began to feel like a wild beast, driven toward the pit by whistling and hooting hunters: she was precious game, of course, a prize, and all around her commanded, nay, demanded she be mightily proud of this, yet even the rarest beast is prized for one thing—its pelt.