Stalina

by Emily Rubin

  “He came often?”

  “He came the day after she died and paid for the cremation.”

  “I sent them two hundred dollars for the expenses. Who was this person?”

  “It was an M. Kharkovsky who signed the register.”

  “Maxim.”

  “You know him?”

  “He was my uncle, sort of.”

  “A relative? Then it’s easy; he could help you.”

  “He’s not my uncle.”

  “A friend to your mother?”

  “Yes, and I called him uncle.” It never occurred to me that anyone else would be sad about my mother’s passing.

  “I have his address, Stalina. The rooming house gave it to me.”

  “He probably still lives in the same place, 45 Smolny Prospekt.”

  “Yes, that’s the place.”

  20 February 1994

  Dear Maxim,

  It’s been a long time since we have had contact, but I heard from my friend Olga, who has helped me since my mother’s passing, that you are in possession of her ashes. I also learned that you paid for her cremation. That was very generous, but the rooming house on Lermontovsky Prospekt has cheated us both. I sent two hundred U.S. dollars for the expenses. Olga went to pick up Mother’s ashes and her few personal things to send them to me here in the U.S. where I now live. It is not an option for me to travel to Russia at the moment to collect them. I am merely a worker at a motel in Berlin, Connecticut, and have not amassed any kind of a fortune, even though I am very happy. I am sorry if you have suffered for the loss of my mother. You meant a great deal to her. Before I left Petersburg, I had a conversation with my mother about her ashes. Here is that conversation word for word. I thought it would amuse you and would help you to carry out her wishes.

  “Mother, your ashes, what would you like me to do with your ashes?”

  “My ass? Why are you so concerned with my ass, Stalina? There are nurses here.”

  “Not your ass, Mother, your ashes, after you die. Do you have any requests?”

  “I’m not dead yet.”

  “Mother, the time will come, and I just want to do what is right.”

  “Use them to powder your face. You are always so concerned about your looks.”

  “What about where we used to swim in the gulf?”

  “That water is polluted.”

  Maxim, did you not find my mother infuriating toward the end?

  “Mother, I have many memories of swimming with you there. The beautiful gardens and fountains of the Winter Palace in the background. The fried fish sandwiches we used to have for a picnic. It was a pretty place, wasn’t it, Mother?”

  Maxim, I know you are not my uncle. It was on one of our swims that my mother told me about you.

  “Then put me in the sea, Stalina, if that’s what you want.”

  “Is there someplace else?”

  “I want revenge, Stalina.”

  “With your ashes? For whom?”

  “Find Nadia’s parents; spread me in their midst. I want to harass them for all time. They don’t deserve any peace.”

  “I am not sure where they are, Mother.”

  “Find them. They had your father sent away.”

  “How do you know that, Mother?”

  “They were both informers. Radya used to say she got all that caviar and fine wine from a cousin who worked on a ship. It was all arranged.”

  I know where Nadia’s parents are, Maxim. They live here in America in the Brighton Beach. You may keep some of her ashes, spread some in the Gulf of Finland, and send the rest to me to take to Brighton at the beach.

  Yours truly,

  Stalina Folskaya, Sophia’s daughter

  He wrote back. Quickly.

  Dear Stalina,

  Your letter came today, and I write to you as I await my dinner at the Café Karenina, near the Maryinsky Theater. Perhaps you know the place. Your mother and I had dinner here often. I will go to the opera this evening. Carmen is playing. The maître d’ led me to a table in a corner from which I have the advantage to view the entire restaurant. Each table is decorated with a white linen cloth, a small white vase, and a fresh cut yellow rose. I want to set the scene for you, Stalina, because if you are anything like your mother, you will love all the details.

  The vaulted ceiling of the café is painted with elaborate medieval-style tapestry hunting scenes. Knights on horseback in full armor pursuing unicorns and lions with wings. The restaurant was originally called “The Gryphon and the Unicorn,” but Leo Tolstoy supposedly ate here and enjoyed himself tremendously, so the owners renamed it Café Karenina. The paintings are still a tourist attraction, of almost equal popularity as the famous beef goulash. The original owner’s twin daughters painted the murals and were renowned for their ability to paint a canvas simultaneously without speaking about its contents.

  The waiter has delivered my stew and refilled my wine glass. I thank you for offering me a portion of your mother’s ashes. I will spread some in the Gulf of Finland as per her request. I will use my few connections to get the documents needed to safely send the ashes to you. Expect them soon. I hear Brighton Beach in the winter can be very much like Leningrad, only a bit warmer. It is up to you to honor your mother’s request to spread her ashes near Nadia’s parents. Revenge is a strange animal. The past does not change. They were wrong to give your father up. An easy target because he wrote poetry when he was angry and wore that odd chapeau. I am much more passive, and that could be the reason your father tolerated me. He knew I would be there for your mother. It was difficult for us all, but please know that I did my best to make her happy.

  I have your mother’s copy of Through the Looking Glass. We used to read it to each other. The pages still smell of her rose attar perfume. If you don’t mind, I would like to keep the book. She must have held it after holding a leaky ink pen because her thumbprint is smudged permanently onto the first page. If I remember correctly, this book was also a favorite of yours.

  I am deeply sorry for your loss.

  Sincerely,

  Maxim K.

  I can see why my mother loved Maxim, but I think he may be mistaken about the thumbprint. My father’s fingers were always covered in ink from his writing. His thumbprint decorated the first page of my copy of the same book. I know the beginning of the story from memory.

  “Chapter One, Looking Glass House. One thing was certain, that the white kitten had had nothing to do with it—it was the black kitten’s fault entirely. For the white kitten had been having its face washed by the old cat for the last quarter of an hour (and bearing it up pretty well considering): so you see it couldn’t have had any hand in the mischief.”

  When my father read about the naughty kitten unraveling the ball of yarn Alice had been tending to in the quiet of the afternoon, he made it all seem so real. It was snowing in the story, just like it is here today. Alice thought the snow hitting the windows sounded like kisses. “Just as if someone was kissing the window all over outside,” she told the kitten as she settled in for her famous nap.

  * * *

  Here at the Liberty Motel, Svetlana has grown full and round in the care of the crow under the pines. I named the crow Zarzamora, like my hair dye from Cuba. I like to call her ZZ for short. Svetlana goes out every day to see her, even though I have started to leave food for her in the linen room. She goes out when it snows to visit with ZZ even though there are no worms to be had from the frozen ground. When Svetlana walks in the snow, she shakes out her paws every couple of steps as she makes her way toward the pine trees. After some initial squawking and mewling, both animals settle down and sit together quietly. They linger. The cat’s nose and the bird’s beak twitch when they smell something on the wind. A car coming up the drive, or the linen room door opening, interrupting their business of shuffling through pine needles to find slow bugs. I started taking photographs of these two, but it felt like I was intruding. I have no desire to exploit their love. Leave the lovers alon
e. This is the policy I have adopted for my customers at the Liberty as well.

  Chapter Twenty: To Come Again

  My mother’s ashes arrived from Maxim in a cigar box wrapped in the yellow apron my mother always wore. The pockets were decorated with traditional embroidery in red, yellow, and blue dancers skipping along the front of the apron. My father bought it for her when he was on a trip to Warsaw. She wore it every day, taking it off only when she went to bed. She often looked at aprons sold in the markets, but she never purchased a new one. Maxim included a note with his package.

  Dear Stalina,

  As you know, your mother, Sophia, was very dear to me, and I mourn her passing. I visited her even when she did not recognize me anymore. I have taken care to spread her ashes in the Gulf of Finland. The days are getting a little longer now, and I had a sunny afternoon for the travel to Peterhof. There were people swimming in the gulf even though the temperature was close to freezing. The cold water does not appeal to me, but the swimmers all looked vigorous and pleased with themselves. Your mother was a wonderful swimmer. There may have been someone swimming that day who swam with her at the Academy. I threw her ashes out across the top of the water. They stayed on the surface and formed a cloud that changed shapes as the current moved back and forth. I stood at the water’s edge and watched as the cloud of ashes first came toward me and then drifted steadily out to sea. The small, gentle waves were like your mother’s elegant, long-armed strokes taking her farther and farther away from shore.

  One of the nurses at the rooming house told me that the night your mother died, there was some confusion over fish balls in the commissary. She became hysterical and threw them across the room. They brought her back to her room to calm down. She put on this apron, which she had hidden under her mattress, and demanded that the staff let her do the cooking. They finally calmed her down by offering her a lipstick. She painted her lips and then used the lipstick to write something on her bedsheet. There is a mark on the apron where she patted her lips. I thought you might like to have the apron. Your mother was a wonderful cook. I hope you learned her recipe for cherry pie, which was a favorite of mine. It is good to know you seek happiness in America. This concept seems very foreign, but very commendable, if not a bit lovely and naive.

  Nostrovya,

  Maxim K.

  * * *

  I was surprised Maxim did not know the poem my mother wrote on her top sheet. I did not want to break the spell of his ardor. Maybe the people at the rooming house knew he was not her husband and hid my father’s words from him. I was inspired by his story of the ashes and was excited to be taking them to their requested liberation.

  “I have to go to New York to pick up my mother’s ashes. There is some regulation,” I explained to Nadia. Maxim had in fact sent them to me directly, but I lied to Nadia. “I also want to take this opportunity to see the Statue of Liberty, and if I have time I will go to Brighton.”

  “The Statue of Liberty—I have only seen it in pictures. It will be good for you to see Brighton Beach. My parents will be happy to have you visit.”

  Revenge is filled with subversion like a blini stuffed with mushrooms.

  Nadia continued, “They will walk you along the boardwalk and you will see the ocean.”

  “I would like that.”

  “Take a day away from the motel; you have been working without a break. I’ll have one of my boys cover for you.”

  “Thank you, I could use a day off. It has been a hard time for me,” I said.

  Perhaps Nadia had no idea how her parents betrayed mine.

  “Stalina, what happened with you and Amalia?”

  “She stole something of mine from Russia, sold it, and believed it was her right to do so. There was no place for me with her anymore. I am happy living at the motel.”

  “Have you heard from Mr. Suri?”

  “Yes, a postcard came the other day.”

  I showed Nadia the postcard of a rodeo in a shopping mall in Oklahoma. At one end of the rodeo ring there was a ten-foot-high model of the Statue of Liberty. Mr. Suri’s handwriting was small, tight, and very delicate.

  Dear Stalina,

  On the way to Arizona, I made a stop in Oklahoma. Garson has joined me here to complete the journey together. The replica of Lady Liberty reminded me of the motel and you. Maybe you should get one for the entrance. I am fascinated by the rodeo. Taming the wild beast. I bought a cowboy hat, and Garson got a whip. Whatever happened to Svetlana and the crow? Does the life of a motel manager suit you? I’m sure it does. If you still think of me, I hope it is as a friend. I will send my address when I arrive at my destination.

  Yours truly,

  Franklin Suri

  “He really cared for you, Stalina,” Nadia said after reading the card.

  “I liked him very much; he was hardworking,” I said.

  “I hope I didn’t stop anything between you two, but he was ruining my business.”

  “I think he is happier now that he has gotten away from the motel. I don’t think he was a true believer in the short-stay concept.”

  “Not like us! Short stays forever!”

  “Short stays forever!” I joined in.

  “Our customers return for their short stays, over and over,” she said.

  “They come and hope to…” I stopped and waited for Nadia to join me.

  “To come! And come again!” She laughed and threw her arms overhead and then embraced me. Two days later, I took a day off from work.

  Chapter Twenty-one: Brighton Beach

  Once in New York City, I traveled by subway to Brighton Beach. Compared to our glorious Russian metro, the New York subway was like a creature suffering from a bad case of gastric distress coupled with rheumatoid arthritis. The tunnels were intestines, and the screeching brakes were the beast’s twisted, grinding jaw. When the doors opened, a belch of rancid smell permeated the car. Crazed writings in a strange alphabet covered the walls, and garbage was everywhere. A lonesome, unattended roaring giant was this train named N of the BMT Line. All of this was very unsavory, but as the train came out of the tunnel, I was delighted to see a beautiful view of the homes and narrow streets of Brooklyn. On top of one building was a billboard for a hairdresser written in Cyrillic. I felt a thrill and fear, as if I was returning home. It was a Monday in March and, coincidentally, the anniversary of Stalin’s death. Anyone alive in Russia at the time remembers where they were on that day in 1953. I was at home with Olga, playing cards and admiring our new hairstyles in the hand mirror my mother gave me for my birthday. As I came down from the elevated subway platform at Brighton Beach Avenue, the busy markets and businesses reminded me of home. The smell of juniper, cinnamon, and dill used to pickle beets, turnips, and garlic, along with the mouth-watering oils from the smoked fish, filled the air along the sidewalks. Who could resist going inside the markets? And Russian was being spoken on the street. Surrounded by everything familiar, I felt light in the head.

  “I’m meeting Mina at three at the hairdresser,” a woman wearing a gray sable coat said in Russian to another woman in mink.

  “The meringue cake at M&I is fresh today. Do you want me to pick you up some?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, I would love some for tea. My mother-in-law is coming over, and the meringue cake is her favorite.”

  “Sweetening her up again?” the woman in mink asked.

  “Josip and I are going on the cruise we won at the raffle. I want her to mind the dogs while we’re gone.”

  “Meringue cake will do it?”

  “That and if we promise to take her on the next cruise.”

  They turned the corner. I watched as their coats disappeared into a fruit stand, and I headed for the boardwalk. Even a block away the damp salt smell of the sea hung in the air. The wood of the boardwalk was wet from a morning rain. I sat on a bench against a newly whitewashed wall and stared at the ocean. An old woman wearing a paisley headscarf was throwing bread over a railing, feeding seag
ulls on the beach. The birds were going in circles overhead. A young mother pushing a baby carriage stopped to wipe mustard off her child’s hands and face. The sun was warm and lovely, and the seagulls threw shadows like airplanes flying in formation over the boardwalk. Two painters were whitewashing the walls along the sides of the boardwalk. They stopped to take a break when their partner returned with a tray of hot dogs and french fries. I could smell the food on the wind. The child with the mustard on his face started crying. His mother lit a cigarette and pushed the stroller closer to the beach and the seagulls. The birds screeched in harmony with the baby. There was much commotion as the birds rose, flapping fiercely and surrounding the old woman. She dumped the remaining crumbs in her bag over the railing, sat back, and fixed her scarf, which had come undone. The child started laughing, and the mother put out her cigarette and continued to walk down the boardwalk. The birds made a spiral into the air and dove for the bread. Brighton Beach was feeling very agreeable.

  A dog came running up the boardwalk as the painters started to whitewash the next wall. The owner held out a large bone to the dog, who promptly grabbed it and put it securely between his front paws. He chewed ravenously right in front of me. His owner, who was wearing a blue and red jogging outfit and had a little bit of a limp, came over to retrieve his dog.

  “Come on, Pepe, I haven’t finished my run,” he said.

  The dog ignored him. This was one of the largest dogs I had ever seen. He had long legs with bulging joints. His back had black splotches on his otherwise white coat. He had haunches the size of a pony and did not sit his behind fully on the slats of the boardwalk. A large but delicate beast.

  “I had a dog named Pepe. He was much smaller than yours,” I said.

  The man was dark like Mr. Suri and had a gold ring in his nose.