by Ellen Litman
Margo, in turn, will say she’s not surprised, some people don’t appreciate their country’s spirit of inclusiveness. Some people (namely Jews) make a lot of fuss about being persecuted, whereas in reality it’s simply not the case. And maybe if they contributed more to society, instead of trying to slander it every step of the way, others would have more respect for them.
Margo is unhappy because the drama club is back in session. A waste of resources, she calls it. She says it has gotten too easy to criticize the past, and it’s people like Kat’s parents, the ungrateful, unpatriotic kind, who’ve been too eager to exploit the fad for glasnost. Why must they focus on controversies? Why not celebrate successes instead? Whenever the drama club meets, Margo tries to come up with competing activities, or else she tells the gaggle the drama club thinks them unworthy.
She needn’t bother: the gaggle has no desire to join the drama club, and as for Kat, she’s been a lost cause from the start. Tonight, Margo reminds her, they have a class hour scheduled. They’ll be discussing how to apply to Komsomol. Kat tells her she can’t stay, she’s got a previous engagement. Margo squints at her as if to warn her, as if to say, “You’ll only have yourself to blame.” She doesn’t actually say it, though—just folds her arms and walks away.
Kat leaves ahead of supper and asks Jules to save her some food: a slice of cheese with bread, a pastry wrapped in napkins. She’s excited, impatient, but also sheepish about leaving Jules, who’ll have to endure the class hour on her own. “You’re sure you don’t want to join me?”
“And miss Margosha’s pearls of wisdom?” Jules snickers and pats Kat on the back. She seems unconcerned, but Kat still feels like she’s betraying her.
Jules settles on her cot, cross-legged, and opens a packet of potato chips. “Don’t worry, thespian,” she says. “Go and be daring.”
THE DRAMA ROOM is small. They really could use a bigger room, something more centrally located; but given how the old guard feels about Anechka and Misha’s undertakings, they are lucky to have a room at all. The two canteen tables are pushed together in the center. Those who got to rehearsal early are huddled close to the tables, close to Misha, who’s shuffling through the mess of his typewritten pages, and Anechka, who’s knitting, a little distanced but engaged.
The new play is about Pushkin, and Misha has written it himself. There is no Pushkin in the play—which is a shame, Anechka says, because Misha would make a perfect Pushkin. Instead there are Pushkin’s contemporaries: his enemies, his loves, his friends. Sveta Vlasenko is playing Pushkin’s wife. Asya Matusova from 10A, nicknamed Medusa, is cast to play her sister. Vlad Borisov is Baron d’Anthès, who is destined to end Pushkin’s life. Nikita is a secret police spy. Alex Goldin, who finished school last year, will play the tsar. Even Ritka Mavrina, who always insists she’s not an actress, has scored the small part of the postmaster’s wife.
Kat’s character is nameless, identified only as Society Lady #2. In her first scene she comes to Pushkin’s house for a visit. She is greeted by Medusa, Pushkin’s sister-in-law. In the back, by the mantelpiece clock, posing as a servant, stands Nikita. The two ladies share a few lines of gossip; then, using a tome of Pushkin’s verses, they play a fortune-telling game. Kat names the page and line, and Medusa divines Pushkin’s future:
I’ve learned the voice of other longings
And sorrow I’ve relearned anew.
The former brings me no atonement.
Nikita completes the quatrain from the back of the stage:
Old sorrow, I am mourning you.
For now, there’s no mantelpiece or stage; they are clustered around these old canteen tables, under a single bare light, Kat and Medusa next to each other, Nikita across from them. They haven’t memorized their parts yet, so their eyes are mostly on the pages. They look up only occasionally, and sometimes both Kat and Nikita look up at the same time. He smiles. She flushes, painfully.
Some girls, she knows, find Nikita too rough-hewn and menacing. His shoulders roll forward; his hair falls over his brow—he jerks his head backward to throw it out of his eyes. He looks mature, manly, and also his voice is kind of gruff. You get all sorts of wrong ideas when you meet him, but if you wait, the outer shell will crack and you’ll see the real Nikita—a little shy, obliging, tender.
If only this brief hour could last forever and they could stay like this, in the small, square room with its poor, hard chairs, all fifteen or twenty of them. The drama kids. They live for the sound of prose, verse, and music, for the beauty that can turn your soul upside down. Catharsis, Misha calls it, that moment when art brings you to tears. They live for the theater also, though few of them think of it as something they’ll do in the future. It’s more of a place, an escape. They can enter the drama room, or the assembly hall when they rehearse in earnest, and discover a world that is perfect and glorious, where there are no nagging matrons or grouchy night nurses or mandatory evening walks, a world where none of them is sick, where Ritka’s hips are not askew and Nikita’s back isn’t bowed because of his kyphosis. In this world they are counts and princesses; they converse in a language that is respectful and old-fashioned, share books, exchange clever remarks. Here they can be themselves, they can be individuals and intellectuals.
No one else at the school is like them. The rest of the students are land-bound, practical, more than content to act en masse. They worship cheap pop music, yearn for trendy clothes, keep photos of their hackneyed idols, long-haired heartthrobs with guitars or the most recent crop of doe-eyed foreign actors. That doesn’t mean they are wrong or immoral, Anechka always clarifies. In fact, it’s an easy existence for them. You’ll find that they’re mostly happy and more than pleased with their uncomplicated lives, their souls impoverished, their hearts perfectly empty.
Right now, Anechka says nothing, even though Kat’s scene has just finished and she thinks she’s delivered her lines rather well. But no, not a word from Anechka. She’s just knitting, knitting endlessly, and it’s as though the pink ball of yarn in her lap is the only thing worthy of her attention. She started knitting back in May, and since then she’s turned out three baby caps and two pairs of booties. She knits everywhere and openly, in classes, at meetings, and doesn’t bother with excuses that she’s doing it for a relative or friend. It’s easy to see what she’s making, and it gives people ideas. “Is your mother expecting?” some teachers have asked Kat. They look at Kat with pity, even those who don’t know of Anechka’s miscarriages.
“Good work tonight,” says Misha. “Good work, ladies and gentlemen.” Rehearsal has ended; it’s now ten past nine. The usual gang congregates around Anechka and Misha: Vlad and Nikita, Sveta and Ritka. Alex Goldin and some other kids who have graduated. Medusa, whom no one actually likes. Sveta leans over and whispers something in Anechka’s ear, something that makes Anechka smile. Ritka Mavrina whines, “Darlings, I’m dying for a cigarette.” In a moment the whole gang will go outside. They’ll stand behind the big canteen, where no one can see them from the windows, laughing and smoking in a knowing, world-weary way, the girls complaining of the autumn cold, the boys being gallant and giving up their jackets. Anechka and Misha will linger among them, acting cool and informal, impressively young. They won’t be like teachers, won’t even mind the smoking. The gang will walk them to the edge of the campus. Those who have already graduated will say goodbye as well. The rest will slink back into the dorms. None of them ever gets caught. Maybe they’re lucky, or maybe it’s because they’re older. Whereas Kat is probably in trouble already, late for dorm check-in and all.
Anechka says, “Are you still here? I don’t need another earful from Margo.”
“Chin up,” Sveta Vlasenko says, in her heartfelt and trilling manner, which Kat has never learned to trust. “You’ll be a hit this season, Kitten. I can feel it.”
BUT IT’S not so easy to be a star, a hit, to outdo someone like Sveta—Sveta who is beautiful and perfect and never had to wear a brace at all. There are oth
ers at the school like her, and you take one look at them and wonder whether they even have scoliosis. What they have, you realize, is parents with connections and resources, who have managed to propel their progeny beyond every medical council and lengthy waiting list. Where else can you find a boarding school like this, with a rigorous curriculum and swimming lessons three times a week? There are no boarding schools for healthy kids, not anywhere in Moscow.
Kat tries not to be envious of Sveta. At least she’s at the school due to her illness and not because her parents just wanted to get rid of her. But it’s tough to keep things in perspective, especially on weekends, when she leaves the protective school gates and every gawking passerby reminds her she’s defective.
For exactly this reason, Jules refuses to wear her brace on weekends. Kat, though, thinks that’s unwise. It’s the pivotal year for most of them in seventh grade. They are going through puberty, the peak of their development, their bodies shooting upward like stray grass. The problem is, it puts too much strain on their musculoskeletal system, which is already compromised. Their curvatures might worsen overnight, by as much as twenty degrees on the Cobb scale. Once puberty is over, the bones ossify, and then there’s nothing to do but to accept whatever you’ve been left with.
Every Sunday, Kat stands naked before her wardrobe mirror. The slope of her left hip is slighter than the right one, as if cast by a negligent sculptor, and when she turns sideways she can see a protrusion around her right shoulder blade. It gets a little worse each year—she knows this because of her X-rays—despite the almost maniacal discipline with which she follows her regimen. “Your back!” Anechka snaps whenever Kat forgets to pay attention, when she’s doing homework on Sunday at the kitchen table or slumps on the sofa while watching TV. “Your back!” Anechka’s voice rings with frustration. “For God’s sake, mind your back.” She turns away as if it pains her.
“Are you ready?” Misha calls from the kitchen, and Kat pulls on her brace and her clothes, hiding the head-holder with a scarf. Every Sunday they go to visit Zoya Moiseevna. Every week they do this, like clockwork, while Anechka stays at home, sometimes cooking, but lately mostly resting on the sofa, working or reading or taking long naps.
Kat’s often tempted to stay with her, but deep down she knows it’s useless. She has tried to relate to her like Sveta and the others do. She told her what Shrew said about Kat being a Jew and what Margo said about the drama club being decadent, and when that didn’t work she tried to talk about books.
Anechka said there wasn’t anything to be done about Shrew and Margo. A stronger person might be able to stand up to them, but Kat wasn’t strong, she was soft, and it was better if she just kept quiet, better for everyone involved. And as for the books, was it not enough that Anechka talked books all day at school? She had a headache now. She was tired. Or else she resorted to nagging, and when that happened anything would do: a mistake Kat made in last week’s dictation, a poor mark in algebra, a missing button or a new tear from her brace. “I’m just a chore to you,” Kat said to her.
“Cut your mother some slack,” Misha asked her. “She’s struggling. She’s not herself.”
“Is she pregnant again?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “She’s unhappy and searching for something. The doctors say it’s her thyroid or hormones, but I think it’s deeper than that.”
Kat saw he was upset and dropped the subject. Illness scared him. It had taken his father away back when he was a boy, and now it was everywhere around him.
AT FIRST they thought nothing of it when, three years ago, Zoya Moiseevna started to get forgetful. It was normal, they figured, a natural sign of her age. She was, after all, nearing seventy. But her confusion grew and they became alarmed at the worsening state of her health, especially after she fell in the stairwell. Misha would go over to her apartment and there would be something rotting on the kitchen counter, maybe a plate of chicken bones left sitting for a few days; or he would find a kettle on the stove with all the water boiled away. Some days she might forget to flush the toilet, and other times she’d simply stay in bed.
Misha goes to check on her every few days, and he pays a neighbor to look in on her between visits. What they really ought to do is swap their two apartments for a bigger one, but no one’s got the time to organize the swap. It can take years, anyway, years of going across town to the housing bureau, years of making phone calls, collecting documents, stringing together a long chain of interested parties, and even then the swap might fall through in the end.
Kat tries to help whenever she can, during school breaks and every Sunday, though not because she’s fond of her grandmother. She’s grown to crave these afternoons with Misha, the hours spent on the train, their heart-to-heart talks, and most of all his gratitude. “Where would I be without you?” he says, and she knows he means it. He relies on her, leaving the nastiest tasks till the end of the week.
As they ride on the train, they talk about theater and acting: affective memory and Stanislavsky, how one can perfect one’s technique, and whether Misha ever wished to be an actor. He says no, not really (he’s always been more drawn to writing), though Anechka once did. She almost quit their teaching institute.
“Why didn’t she?” Kat says.
“It’s not that simple, Button. For a Jewish person in this country to make it as an actress, you have to be obscenely talented, not moderately gifted or well trained.”
“Like who, for example? You think we have someone at school who’s that talented?”
“It’s too soon to tell,” Misha says, and Kat doesn’t press him, though she hoped for a different answer.
For the rest of the trip they talk about Zoya Moiseevna, and how she’s deteriorating and can’t continue to live by herself.
“I bet it’s not so bad,” Kat says.
But you know it’s bad the instant you step inside Zoya Moiseevna’s apartment. There’s the smell, for one thing. The sweet, dirty, rotten-fruit smell.
“When did you wash last?” Misha asks.
“Yesterday,” says Zoya Moiseevna. She has a dumb smirk on her face, and it’s impossible to tell whether she actually believes it or if she’s just pulling his leg. She sticks out her tongue at them.
There’s a racket out on the landing, the clank of a lock and chain. Of course, Kat thinks, the neighbor. She’s calling out for them: “Yoo-hoo? Anyone there? I saw the door ajar, so I thought I better check.” At least she’s paying attention.
The neighbor’s pretty old herself; they can’t expect much from her, apart from looking in on Zoya Moiseevna and making sure she is safe. If only she could help her bathe once in a while. But Misha, ill at ease around the domestic stuff, has never specified his demands, and now it’s too late. The neighbor is angling for more money. She’s saying how hard it is these days to survive on one pension, how things aren’t as they used to be, how in the past the country cared for its elderly but now no one gives a damn. “I switch on the news at nine o’clock, and it might as well be in Chinese for all I get from it.”
Misha hands her a ten-ruble note and she goes away.
Once she is gone, they start setting the place in order. It’s unbelievable how much dirt one person can accumulate. There’s dust on top of everything, dust underneath the furniture, and behind Zoya Moiseevna’s sofa they find some slices of stale bread. They take out the garbage, collect up her soiled clothes. “You think we maybe ought to wash the windows?” says Misha.
Kat tells him, “It’s three o’clock, Dad.”
They know exactly what’s left to do.
“Oh hell,” Misha says, and goes off to run a bath. “Sometimes I wish I had a sister.”
“Or maybe Mom could help?”
“Very funny,” he calls through the noise of running water.
It takes Kat much cajoling to get Zoya Moiseevna out of her housecoat. “What are you doing with my clothes?” her grandmother demands.
“I’m stealing them,” Kat says.
“I’m going to sell them.”
Her grandmother grabs for her rags, and her long, hardened nails dig into Kat’s forearm.
“Let go,” Kat yells. “I’m going to wash them, you moron.”
She lets her keep her slip and underpants.
“I’ve only just washed,” Zoya Moiseevna protests, as Kat guides her toward the bathroom.
They get her in the tub and Misha lathers up her hair; she coughs dramatically as he sluices the soap off her head. She’s acting like a frantic cat, thrashing all over the place, scratching, and splashing water. She tries to take the loofah away from Kat. Her slip comes off, and then her panties, and Misha steps away, leaving Kat to take care of the delicate bits.
The key is not to think about it. Kat finds she mostly doesn’t mind giving her grandmother a bath, except for the scratches that cover her forearms and wrists. They take a while to heal, these scratches. On the way home, she’ll show them to Misha and watch his eyes turn watery and sad. “I’m sorry,” he’ll tell her. “You’re shouldering more than your share. It must be terribly upsetting to see your grandmother like this. But you, you’re so kind and patient and never seem to get upset.”
“I’m just a good actress,” she’ll tell him.
9
“THERE ARE NO SMALL PARTS, ONLY SMALL ACTORS.” This becomes Kat’s mantra for the next several weeks. At home on weekends, she locks herself in the bathroom and tries to convey complex feelings while remaining entirely still. Because, even motionless, the actor must be able to captivate the audience. Hers is a small, composite character, and she goes to a great deal of trouble to invent her backstory. What is actually known about Society Lady #2? Is she young, is she rich, for example? Does she live with an elderly aunt?
In her most significant scene, Kat dances at a ball, and later she pleads with the tsar to pardon Pushkin: “Don’t punish him, Your Royal Highness, and spare him your wrath.” She tries to put all of her ardor into her words and even wrings her hands to telegraph her desperation. Though sometimes, to her dismay, her awareness lapses and suddenly she can’t remember what she’s begging for. Has anyone noticed? She checks Misha’s and Anechka’s reaction. Anechka is knitting and Misha’s making notes. They neither commend nor correct her performance—probably because her part is so small.