The Singing Forest

by Judith McCormack

  There is nothing to undo, says Drozd bitterly. You have no idea what it was like, what it took to survive.

  Go away.

  If undoing is not possible, if history cannot be turned inside out, an apology might still be useful, might still be a form of consolation. Although her own apology would be merely a gesture, a means to an end, something to pacify Louis.

  I’m sorry, she says, studying her face, ensuring that she looks solemn, that no flicker of her eyes, no quiver of her mouth betrays her.

  I apologize. I was wrong. It won’t happen again. You can trust me. Your wish will be my command. Anything you say, goes. You two-faced autocrat.

  No, no, I mean, I’m sorry. I apologize. You —

  Just get it over with, says Nate.

  ···

  The mortgages clear their throats.

  ···

  Two women at a cafe, one with a pear and ice, the other with a ginger beer float. The woman with the float drinks some of it, but when she pours more ginger beer over the ice cream, a dead snail spills out of the bottle. She claims damages for gastroenteritis and shock. She wins in the lower court, loses on appeal, then wins again finally on appeal. The court rules that the ginger beer manufacturer owed a duty of care to the ultimate consumer. I do not think so ill of our jurisprudence as to suppose that its principles are remote from the claims of a civilized society upon its members, says Lord Atkin.

  ···

  Not now, says Rudy.

  He is brushing the dog, her tawny coat. He pulls the hair out of the brush, rolls it into a ball, then pushes the reluctant dog around so that he can do the other side, her toenails scratching the floor.

  Now, says Leah.

  It’s nothing.

  Now.

  Just my arteries. Just a little problem with my arteries.

  And? she says.

  Clogged, they’re clogged. And the cholesterol, the blood pressure — too high. Could have a stroke. Or a heart attack. Have to take some pills, watch the fat. Maybe take a few walks.

  A stroke. Or a heart attack. She feels an unpleasant shift at the base of her spine.

  It’s nothing, he says again.

  This from the man who takes gingko, she says half-heartedly.

  Rudy, aging furtively — afraid that any admission, any recognition of it will make it more real, more concrete. Or will hasten its progress. There has been no hint of mortality before this, though, no sense of anything serious. Yes, he is passionate about his herbs, each one imbued with benefits, curative powers that he believes in utterly for a while, until his zeal begins to slowly deflate, until it collapses altogether, and he shifts his attention to some other remedy. But these remedies are for minor things — to lubricate his joints, to enrich his bloodstream, to cleanse his glands.

  Maybe take a few walks. He is a driver, a driver’s driver, someone who can devoutly summon up statistics on mileage, horsepower, torque, acceleration. He drives everywhere, even to the park several blocks away, letting the dog run around barking at sparrows until she is tired and then driving her home. The dark blue car is as old as the dog, shock absorbers worn out, metal body rusted through in spots. He sands the holes, fills them with putty and paints them, mixing the paint to match the colour exactly — camouflage — only to have the putty fall out again a month later. Often they have to jump-start it, she and Gus pushing it down a slope in the street while Rudy steers, the car stuttering over and over until the engine coughs and catches — each time a moment of small triumph.

  All of this is not because he is particularly fond of the old machine, they owe each other nothing at this point. If he had any money, he would buy something newer, sleeker. He does the bodywork because he is afraid of being pulled over and sent for a vehicle inspection, an inspection the car will surely fail.

  She watches him now, making quick, nervous strokes with the brush over the flaps of the dog’s ears, her feathered legs, her golden flanks. Even in her old age, this dog is gravely beautiful, in the animal-like way denied to people. Rudy is brushing too hard, though, and she twists and turns to get away, and then lies down in silent resistance, one paw over her white muzzle while he concentrates fiercely on her plumed tail.

  Suddenly, she has the urge to touch Rudy’s arm, to reassure him. But she knows this would be a mistake — he would flinch irritably, and move out of reach.

  ···

  Keep an eye on him, she says to Malcolm. Let me know if you see a problem, if you see anything different.

  She is worried about Rudy, worried that something might happen to him while she is out of the house, that his heart might seize up, that he might be staggering around, dizzy, nauseated, while she is off buying eggplants or looking for grout. Or going to work — soon, she hopes.

  Malcolm snorts.

  I mean it, she says.

  Why me?

  Because you live here.

  Gus lives here, too.

  She doesn’t say: but you don’t care enough to lie to me.

  ···

  One, two, three, says her mother, pointing to each candle flickering on the cake.

  One, two, three, says the girl, kneeling on her chair.

  She watches the candles for a few seconds — they are beginning to melt, small beads of wax running down to the icing.

  Don’t wait too long, says her father.

  She puffs up her cheeks, her chin determined, then blows, the flames wavering under her breath.

  Presents, says her father.

  From her mother: a simple game, fingerpaints, gumdrops.

  From her father: a clutch of helium balloons, hovering under the ceiling, trailing ribbons.

  She is timid, reverent among these riches.

  Come outside, he says.

  He shows her how to take a balloon, to hold it by the curling ribbon, to make a wish.

  A wish? What is a wish?

  Something you want.

  But at this moment, this instant, she has everything she can possibly imagine.

  I’ll wish, then, says her father. Now let it go.

  They watch the balloon soar up into the atmosphere, shimmering in the sun until it becomes a tiny dot in the sky. Now she is amazed, her eyes round, hands outstretched for another balloon.

  Her mother raises her camera.

  ···

  Mint is growing wild in the garden, tiny blue spikes filling up empty spaces, strangling the other plants. Good for headaches, says Rudy. And memory. And digestion.

  She is drying some for him now — for lack of anything better to do — spreading it out on shallow pans, setting them in the oven at a low heat. Two hours, it will take.

  An hour in, she checks to make sure that the herbs are not turning into charred twigs. No, they are still surprisingly green — and the oven is surprisingly cool. A low heat, but this low? She touches the side of the stove absently, and then realizes that it has stopped heating up entirely, that it is cooling down.

  This old oven — there is a reason she usually avoids it, only Rudy knows its whims, its moods. She opens the door, peers into its black depths, and spots something. The blue gas flame has gone out. How long has it been? This is the problem.

  Simple enough. All she has to do is relight the pilot light. Even she knows that.

  What? says Rudy, aghast. No, no, no.

  But he is not there. He is taking a walk.

  She strikes the match, pulls open the door again, and reaches in to touch the flame to the pilot line.

  A flash, a boom so loud it is almost soundless.

  Then she is huddled on the ground, on the other side of the room, her hand, her arm blistered, her shirt half-melted. Shaking so hard her teeth are chattering. The room around her is silent, a deep, thick silence. And everything in it has slowed down — when she raises her hand, it moves sluggishly, l
eaving trails in the air. This is not her hand, not anymore, it is someone else’s hand, suspended in the silence — the skin tight, shiny, red.

  Gus is there now, saying something. Crouching next to her, his mouth, his lips are slowly moving.

  Speak louder, she thinks. I can’t hear you.

  His lips move some more.

  Speak louder.

  ···

  Sometimes people have to invent their own fates, she thinks, long, looping lines of events. The traditional Fates — the ancient women creating the stuff of destiny — must be growing tired, they are neglecting their work. Clotho, who spins the thread of life; Lachesis, who measures it; Atropos, who cuts it. Yes, they are the daughters of Themis, the goddess of divine law — they should know better for that reason alone. But they are too careless, too treacherous — only a fool would allow them to have their own way.

  Six

  Gratitude is an illness suffered by dogs.

  Josef Stalin

  Wide cobblestone streets, lime and chestnut trees, car horns. Wrought iron balconies, the smell of petrol, red and yellow trams screeching along rails. Linen factories, tinsmiths, exhaust fumes, a clock tower. Minsk, 1938. Nothing like he has imagined, nothing like he could possibly have imagined; he has no store of pictures in his mind for this place, these crowds of people.

  Women in shin-length dresses fitted to their bodies, a few with red lips, furs around their shoulders. Some of the men with polished shoes instead of boots, here and there a fedora. Walking singly, in couples, groups, some of them striding, some of them strolling. The hubbub, the foreign smells, the sheer busyness are overwhelming — it is all he can do to keep from gaping. That this had been going on, that these people had been lining up for kvass from barrels on wheels, that they had been buying malt dough or sour apple pies at the very moment he had been spreading muck on the fields or wrestling with the plow is unfathomable.

  But he is here now, in this place free of the stench of rotting potatoes, and he can already see small possibilities hidden in this landscape. The curve of a woman’s hip, the smoky aroma of grilled meat drifting into the street, a man putting on his hat in the sun, his fingers placed around the furrow in the crown. Glimpses of a new existence, already drawing him in.

  He sells the horse and cart quickly, buys some used trousers, a shirt, a comb, a razor, scouring the shops for them — supplies of almost everything are short. He rents a corner in a weekly room — illegally — three other men in it, mildewed wallpaper curling up at the seams. An electric bulb hanging from the ceiling — a revelation, but only until six o’clock, when the power often goes off.

  The next day, he begins searching and asking, applying and offering. Everywhere — a tannery, a distillery, an iron foundry, a machining shop. Look, how strong I am, how quickly I learn. But they are not hiring, or they are not hiring him — some of them skeptical about his claim to be sixteen, or sizing him up as a farm boy, too callow.

  He is startled and angered by these rebuffs. They have no idea what a hard worker he is, how fast he is, how long he has been waiting for this, how much he has earned it. He keeps on going, plodding from place to place, attempting to conceal his resentment. Come back next week, we might have something then. But his supply of kopecks is already running low, and he is becoming more desperate. He cuts back on food — he is used to this, but it seems more painful now, after days in which he tore into loaves of bread, or wolfed down dumplings with bacon, letting loose his hunger. Another few days and he will lose his corner of the room as well, he will have to sleep out by the river. And the weather is becoming colder, trees littering the ground with chestnuts, the wind poking and prodding him through his thin clothes. Now he tries the shops, going from store to store, asking if they need someone to do anything, anything at all. I learn quickly, I can read letters and numbers. No work, they say, not bothering to tell him that if they did need someone, it would be someone with more manners, who could lure in customers, cajole them to buy. Not someone who hammers out questions, and then grunts his answers.

  A sign overhanging the sidewalk — a spool of thread, a needle dancing beside it. A small shop, the place where he bought his shirt and trousers when he first arrived.

  The smell of cedar greets him — to keep the moths away, says the tailor, to keep them from eating holes in the bolts of cloth. A thin man, wire eyeglasses hooked behind his ears, his fingers long and fine.

  No, no work, he says. He tries to keep his face straight at the thought of this young man threading a needle, sewing a seam. A small girl — three? four? — sidles out of a backroom and slips her hand into his.

  He looks the young man up and down sharply.

  At least I can give you something to eat.

  The backroom is lined with shelves, pieces cut to patterns stacked on some of them, chalk marks showing. Linen, twill, broadcloth. Spools of thread in every possible shade take up another shelf. Several irons of different sizes sit beside a tailor’s form, a form with a half-sewn vest on it bristling with pins. The black treadle sewing machine is under the small window, the words Kompaniya Singer across the top in gold writing, partly rubbed away.

  The man clears a place, moving aside baskets of needles and bobbins, basting thread, long scissors, a jar of white sizing. Then he ladles out a bowl of garlic and barley soup from a pot on the wood stove, cuts off a chunk of rye bread.

  Soup mit nisht, we call it, he says. Soup with nothing.

  The little girl curls up on the man’s lap, wide-eyed as the young man gulps it down. She begins chattering in a small, piping voice, making quicksilver movements with her hands.

  Do you like buttons I can draw pictures I have a velvet hair ribbon how old are you?

  The young man looks at her dumbly.

  Pay no attention, says the man. Her mother died a few months ago. The blood-spitting disease.

  He says this in a way that suggests the words are unfamiliar, that they are strangers in his mouth.

  When the bowl is empty, he begins rummaging through one of the shelves, pulling out an old jacket, a rip in the side sewn up in precise stitching.

  The owner left it two years ago. I doubt he’ll be back for it now, he says dryly.

  He holds the jacket for him to put on, as if he were a customer, then straightens it, pinching the material over the shoulders.

  Good fit, he says. Then he pushes him out the door.

  Place to place, a cabinetmaker collective, a shoe factory, a slaughterhouse. Most are brusque, dismissive.

  Eventually he finds himself beside the river, the Svislach, and he sits down to rest for a moment, tired. The stone embankments are patched with yellow lichens, a twisted willow hanging over the water. One of its branches is so heavy that it has split the trunk, a gash of white wood showing. A bowlegged man is poling a boat, leaning into the pole silently, lifting it and then sinking it down again.

  Any work? he calls out to him.

  The man shakes his head, leaning into the pole again, sending the boat gliding underneath the bridge, the green water swirling around him.

  Nothing for him here. He stands up and turns back towards the main streets.

  Then.

  Only a week.

  A small glassworks, sweeping the floor, moving pallets, stoking furnaces for a few kopecks, next to nothing. But enough to keep his corner of the room for the moment, for a few meals of lard and kasha.

  And the place is warm, too warm, the furnaces stoked to small infernos. He sweeps up the scrap glass, the cullet, washes it, spreads it out to dry. By the second week, he is feeding it into the clay crucibles. How long does it take to melt, to go from solid to molten, from cold to hot, to two thousand degrees? Hours before it is hot enough, before the glassblowers can gather the melted glass on their pontil rods. This means there are always crucibles in rotation, the furnaces roaring and wheezing all night.

&nbs
p; Be careful, says one of the men. Even a drop on the skin can burn down to the bone in a second.

  Sometimes he stops for a minute to watch them — the head glassblower, a fish-eyed man, morose, but a master of breath and shape. He picks up a glowing blob, rolling the pontil back and forth on the bench, cradling the hot glass in a hollowed block of applewood. Then he lengthens it by swinging the rod around in a circle, picks up more glass, rolls, swings and begins the first blowing, the red-hot glass blooming out. More rolling, swinging, heating, cradling, a ceaseless effort to keep the fiery bubble from dropping off the rod. In a moment he inserts the shape into a hinged mould, and when he blows this time, the glass inside expands into the shape of another green wine bottle.

  The man straightens up, wipes the sweat off his forehead with the inside crook of his elbow, his eyes bulging a little. A minute later, the bottle comes out of the mould, and he cracks it off the rod, smoothing the edges, the neck, the lip. After that, it goes into the annealer to cool down slowly, gradually. If it cools too fast, it shatters. And then on to the next bottle and the next.

  Crates of bottles, jugs, jars, flasks — the glassblowers are swift workers. Several times a week, he sweeps out the van, unloads the empty crates, loads the full ones, rides along to help with the deliveries, to drop off the bottles at their destinations. All over Minsk, across the river, along the banks, into the low hills, the smell of the spruce trees, the red-barked pine trees in the air. From time to time, they go to nearby towns as well, Barysaw, Kojdanau, Nesvizh.

  Another month, says the manager. But I make no promises after that.

  Three months, he says, a few weeks later.

  The young man is fascinated by the van, how the driver handles the wheel, the gears, the pedals, how he controls this large machine so nonchalantly. The driver, who would rather be sleeping in the back, notices his interest, and shows him what to do. A few weeks later, he pulls over to the side of the road on the way to Stowbtsy and they change places so the younger man can drive. His hands on the wheel, all that power sitting on the axles, even the rough sound of the engine are gratifying, and slowly, over the next several months, he becomes determined to hold on to this, to get it for himself. The man is lazy, shiftless, this should be mine. Once he is driving most of the time, even in the crowded streets of Minsk, he tells the manager. The next day, the sleeper is fired. Then the young man asks for his job as well as his own.