Baba Dunja's Last Love

by Alina Bronsky

  She falls asleep in my bed without complaint after she has tossed and turned in the foil. I lie awake next to her feeling weighed down, breathing shallowly so my ribs don’t hurt too badly. I used to sleep like this with Irina and Alexej when they were little and nestled against my body, which back then was quite sizable. They liked that I was so soft and warm. Jegor liked it, too.

  The girl breathes as delicately as a bird in my bed, Petrow is swaying in the hammock in his garden, and Jegor haunts his way around the abandoned gardens and bemoans the loss of things he can never bring back.

  It’s embarrassing, but I have to stick to the truth. Of all mornings, I slept late on this one. I open my eyes and the bed beside me is empty. If I were to get up hastily I’d have to spend the rest of the week crawling on all fours, and I’m too old for that. A crackling sound directs my gaze. Glascha is rolling old buttons across the wood floor, she must have found them in a drawer. The buttons stop at the bedside carpet. The aluminum foil hangs from her in tatters.

  Now I do jump out of bed. For a second the pain pins me back down on the mattress and I suppress a groan.

  “You have to watch out for the foil, my little gold piece.”

  “It got messed up.”

  “I see that. We’ll make you a new set of armor.” Now I also have to cough miserably because my throat feels so damaged.

  We are just finished with the foil when someone knocks on the door. I quickly wrap a scarf around my neck to hide the strangulation marks. Then I open the door. The Gavrilows are standing there, both with the same look on their faces. Mr. Gavrilow looks as if I have pooped in front of his garden gate.

  “Baba Dunja,” says Mrs. Gavrilow while her husband peers past her into my sitting room. “We think that you should be the first to know.”

  I shove Glascha behind my back, as if I could shield her this way from all the evil of this world.

  “The newcomer is lying in the garden with a split skull,” Mrs. Gavrilow reports precisely and spitefully.

  “My papa?” asks Glascha startlingly astutely behind my back.

  “No, another person,” I answer automatically.

  “But where is my papa?”

  “He had to make an unexpected trip, dear.”

  She accepts this. Or, at any rate, she doesn’t ask any more questions and gets down on her knees to collect the scattered buttons.

  “And what do you expect from me, Lydia Illjinitschna?” In special situations we address each other by first name and father’s name. We’ve never lifted a drink to friendship together.

  “There are flies on him already,” says Mr. Gavrilow, looking at me reproachfully.

  Not ten minutes later they are squatting on my bed drinking the African coffee Irina sent me from Germany. The Gavrilows are at least twenty years younger than I am. And yet they seem to think that the death in the garden is more my concern than theirs. The rationale for this they keep to themselves for a while until Mr. Gavrilow tentatively lets it out of the bag.

  “You are sort of like the mayor here.”

  “Nobody has ever insulted me like that before.”

  “I understand that you have a lot to do, Baba Dunja, but it’s unhygienic.”

  Ten minutes later my house is so full that I send Glascha out to play. I would like to go with her but everyone is talking at me. Even Lenotschka is there. Scattered among them are the dead, who grimace disgustedly when the living step on their feet. All of them want to tell me that the newcomer is lying in the garden with an axe in his head. All of them look at me and expect me to make him disappear. Along with the flies. And the commotion.

  My own head hurts so badly by this point that it feels as if I have an axe in my brain, too. Usually those of us here in Tschernowo leave each other in peace. Sometimes we visit each other, but never all at once. We have an unspoken agreement that everyone takes care of his or her own problems without disturbing the others. For example, I don’t wave Laura’s letter and shout, “Who can tell me what this says? Can anyone tell the difference between German and English?”

  But now there is a collective problem, and there are flies on it.

  Petrow turns up at some point as well. Everyone moves aside for him: his apparent proximity to death affords him respect. He wasn’t expecting the crush of people and he peers around somewhat intimidated. From the look on his face it’s clear that he, too, wants me to decide what to do next. I sigh. My ribs hurt worse and worse, but that’s not something I want the others to notice. I press a hand against them as inconspicuously as possible.

  “Petrow,” I say loudly. “Don’t you also tell me there’s someone lying in the garden.”

  Petrow closes his mouth and tries to read my expression.

  Sit down with the others and act shocked, I try to tell him with my eyes. I won’t betray you. The others have no idea it was you.

  The animated chattering continues.

  “We have to call an ambulance!”

  “A hearse,” corrects Petrow shyly.

  “We need to go to Malyschi.”

  “What would we do there? They’re all corrupt and drunk.”

  “I can’t manage the hike there.”

  “Who here is in the best shape?”

  “Me, I’m practically dead.”

  “I’ve had water in my lungs for five years.”

  “My heart laughs itself silly if I take more than three steps.”

  The ones who feel sickest of all are the two rosy-cheeked Gavrilows. Of course. In the end, it emerges that they all consider me the fittest.

  “The audacity you all have to suggest an old woman, who already has one foot in the grave, undertake this journey. Don’t you have any conscience? I was just in Malyschi and won’t manage it a second time.”

  “All right, Baba Dunja.” That’s Petrow now. “I’ll go. You look really pale. Everyone out, she needs to lie down.”

  The Gavrilows do in fact make a show of trying to get up from my bed. But then they sit back down. I look at Petrow’s translucent face. He almost certainly hasn’t eaten anything today, and very little yesterday. His eyes gleam and the few hairs on his head are standing on end. You didn’t have to have been a nurse’s assistant to see that Petrow wouldn’t make it far.

  It really will have to be me. I’ll take Glascha. If I walk slowly and breathe gently, I might make it. I just need to gather my strength a little, for fifteen minutes at least. But before I can tell everyone, Sidorow’s voice quakes through my house.

  “One could also call the military police.”

  He really said it: One could also call the military police.

  A feeling of awkwardness spreads through the house.

  “Perhaps you can phone home like E.T., but us earthlings need a functioning line.”

  That’s Petrow. I can tell from the faces of the others that as far as they are concerned he is speaking in riddles. Who knows what half-rotted book he’s been reading.

  “I only wanted to help you idiots.” Sidorow’s voice wells up, offended. “It won’t be long before he stinks to high heaven.”

  Everyone nods. Nobody wants Sidorow to get upset.

  “The sound quality is VERY GOOD!”

  “Thank you, Sidorow,” I say. “Maybe later.”

  He slams the door as he leaves, shaking my entire cottage. Someone must have found what was left of my gooseberry vodka, which I keep for medicinal purposes. When the bottle is passed to me it is as good as empty. I look around for a glass but then just pour the rest straight into my mouth from the bottle.

  The door suddenly opens and Glascha appears on the threshold in aluminum foil.

  “I called Mama,” she says loudly, after she has found me.

  I shove the empty bottle behind my back, ashamed.

  “I told you.” Sidorow rocks back and forth behind Glascha
like a reed in the wind. Glascha’s whole face is lit up.

  “I called Mama. I knew the number.”

  “You are my clever little piece of gold,” I say. “Sidorow, I tell you this in all sincerity: I’m already sick to my stomach without your help. Get out of here and don’t make the child crazy.”

  “Mama is picking me up!” says Glascha. “Together with the military police.”

  I feel during the next few hours that they could be the last for our village. The Gavrilows have done something sensible for the community for a change and covered the dead man with a tarp. I didn’t even know they had one, though I had a feeling their farm was a stockpile of valuable and useful things. The others have scattered and gone back to their own houses and yards, and I’m alone with Glascha and Marja, who has spread out on my bed. I sit on a chair and try to find a position in which my ribs hurt a little less.

  “I don’t think the foil does anything,” says Marja.

  “Pffff,” I say. “It helps a lot.”

  “Do you know who did it?” asks Marja.

  As long as the child is sitting nearby with her ears perked up I can’t risk Marja elaborating on her thoughts to me. I shush her admonishingly.

  “I think it was Gavrilow,” says Marja, not wishing to understand my warning.

  “Stupid woman, a boil on your tongue, what motive would he have?”

  “He was afraid that he was going to get robbed.”

  “You spent too long in the sun, Marja.”

  “Or it was you. You hunted him down.”

  I spring out of my chair in shock. But I get dizzy and nearly fall over. Marja doesn’t notice, she is working on her fingernails with a file Irina sent me.

  “Why would I have done it, Marja?”

  “Because he was evil.”

  “I can’t kill everyone who is evil.”

  “Not everyone, naturally.” Marja yawns. “Don’t get so upset, I’m not going to snitch on you.”

  “Neither am I,” says Glascha.

  If I were ten years younger I would now be very scared. But as it is I’m just tired. I’m waiting for everyone else to hole up in their houses so I can sit undisturbed on the bench outside. I dream of winter: everyone cowering inside and the wind blowing snow against the window. I’m even looking forward to Glascha no longer being here. She’s constantly hungry and I won’t let her eat vegetables from my garden. I make her gruel with UHT milk I fetched from Sidorow, and mix in the last of my sugar because she won’t eat the mush otherwise.

  “Your mama will surely be here soon.”

  “My mama is coming as fast as she can.” Glascha presses into my hip and buries her snub nose in the folds of my skirt. “My mama cried on the phone.”

  “And did you really hear her voice? On that broken phone?”

  “It wasn’t broken. It just crackled a lot.”

  I sit on the bench and wait. The others are back in their houses, though noses are pressed against windows and eyes peek through the holes in fences. Only Petrow sways in his hammock as if even the end of the world wouldn’t disturb him. I would like to tell him not to worry. Nobody will incriminate him.

  You can hear them from far off, and it’s obvious that it’s more than one vehicle. Soon we see them, and it’s three. Out front is a tall black vehicle with thick tires. Behind are two cars belonging to the military police. They stop in a cloud of dust on the main road.

  Glascha placidly licks clean her bowl of mush. The driver’s-side door of the black vehicle is the first to open. It’s the type of car that a man should step out of, not a blonde woman in pants like a man and shoes with high heels. Her hair sticks to her head and her mascara is running.

  “Where is she?” she calls heartbreakingly. “Where have you hidden her, you vulture?”

  “Glascha,” I whisper. “She’s crazy, don’t look.”

  “That’s my mama.” Glascha puts the spoon down on the bench and runs off. The woman falls to her knees, opens her arms, and whimpers like she’s been shot. The aluminum foil flutters. The girl hangs on the neck of the woman and I get tears in my eyes.

  “What have they done to you?” Glascha’s mama begins to rip away the foil.

  “Dooooon’t,” Glascha shrieks, sending chills down my spine. “Don’t take it off. Or else I’ll drop dead.”

  Everything blends together. The air shimmers. The soldiers surround the mother and child as if they need to protect them from attack. The woman screams unintelligibly. And she pulls a protective suit out of the trunk of the car and tries to force Glascha into it. I wonder why she herself isn’t wearing one if she thinks they work. Intermittently she yells “Germann, Germann, you won’t get away with this!”

  Germann is not her dog, I assume, it’s her husband, who is lying beneath Gavrilow’s tarp. And on whom the flies are gathering.

  I stand up. My ribs make their presence felt again, a miserable groan sneaks out of me. Very slowly I approach the group. The soldiers look at me. The woman presses Glascha to her chest. Glascha turns and beams at me.

  “Drive away, daughter,” I say to the woman in pants. “Take your child to safety.”

  The madness seeps from her eyes and it becomes clear that she is a woman like any other, and you can talk to her normally.

  “You mean,” she peers into my eyes as if she hopes to find the answers to all her questions there, “You mean it’s not too late?”

  “It’s never too late,” I lie. Why does she have to ask me, of all people?

  “You are Baba Dunja, aren’t you?”

  I nod. She sniffles like a little girl, wipes her face, and pulls something small and rectangular out of her pocket. “May I?” she asks, and before I can answer she presses her cheek to mine and takes a photo of us with her portable telephone. Then she takes Glascha by the hand and goes to the car.

  The soldiers call to her and ask what to do about serving the criminal complaint. She waves her hand dismissively. She doesn’t ask about her husband. If she wanted to see him I would have a problem. But she has her child back and just wants to leave. I can only welcome this decision. Glascha puts on her seatbelt in the backseat and looks at me as I lean against a tree because my legs have gotten weak. I try to return her smile.

  “Let the woman drive off, comrade soldier,” I say quietly. “But you, please remain here.”

  Only later do I realize what a colossal mistake I’ve made. We should have taken care of the man ourselves. If a dozen lame and infirm people join together, they’d have no trouble making a corpse disappear.

  I do my citizenly duty and take the military police to the garden. I stand aside while they lift the tarp. I can see the balefulness in their faces. They would also have preferred it if I had not enlightened them. There are too many of them for us to strike a deal that they didn’t see anything.

  “Who is the mother of the girl anyway?” I quietly ask the youngest of them, a wispy fellow who fidgets with the fluff on his upper lip.

  “You do not want to know,” he answers just as quietly. “But believe me, she will not grieve.”

  That is obvious to me. The ones with grieving looks on their faces are the soldiers. One of them takes photos. Another wraps his arms around himself as if he were freezing. A third shakes his portable phone.

  “There’s no network here. We have to make a call. Where was the mother called from?”

  I take them to Sidorow’s house. They enter without knocking. I wouldn’t do such a thing and I’m practically his fiancee. Sidorow takes no notice of them; he’s snoring on his worn-out ottoman like a sheik. A cable runs from a wall socket to the formerly orange phone, which is sitting on the floor.

  The youngest policeman lifts the device and picks up the handset. He holds it to his ear and then passes it on. Presumably his superior, who looks at me furiously.

  “Are you tryin
g to yank my chain, old woman?”

  He is livid and it looks as if he’s going to strike me. But he doesn’t after all. Perhaps the soldiers today are different than those in the past, or perhaps he has an old mother or grandmother at home. The young soldier turns the rotary dial, fascinated.

  “I would be very grateful, captain, if you would take the dead man with you. The temperature is high and the vermin are multiplying quickly. We don’t want disease to break out here.”

  “As if you were in a sanatorium here. I don’t drive a hearse, old woman, in case you haven’t noticed. We are going back to Malyschi now.” He smiles. “Expect a visit from our colleagues.”

  It is this smile that sends me back to a time when my heart seldom beat slower than a hundred beats per minute. I’m not a cold-blooded person, never have been. Basically I’ve always just tried to get by. At times like this I forget that I’m old and no longer need to go anywhere.

  It is like I am thirty again and must do everything by myself. Wake up at five in the morning, milk the cows, set a chicken soup to boil, then gruel, put both under a fur coat to stay warm. Collect the eggs in the chicken coop and hard-boil a few for the lunch break. Wake up Irina, she yawns and whines. Wake up Alexej, which is quick and easy, he hops around the house like a rabbit and can only be corralled with great effort. I put their spoons in front of them and check to make sure they eat all their gruel. I don’t check their school satchels, there’s not enough time. I give them the exact number of coins for school lunch and tell Irina that she should warm up the chicken soup for them later. I don’t even have a second to spare to watch them walk down the street.