Before we walked on, Christina took my arm and turned me towards the sun. ‘One, two and three – who can look at the sun the longest?’ she said breathlessly. ‘Do it. Even if it scorches your eyelids! Between the spots that dance in front of your eyes, you’ll see the man you’re going to marry.’
How eager we were to know him then: at midnight, we’d light three precious candles around a bowl of water and surround them with a circle of coals; we’d stare and stare, but the surface of the water never reflected any faces but our own. No midsummer ever went by without us plucking seven types of wildflowers and placing the spray beneath our pillows to lure our future husbands to our dreams. I felt the afternoon sun warm on my face and spots danced senselessly golden on the inside of my eyelids. I kissed Christina on the cheek. ‘Let’s go,’ I said, longing for the warm rocks on the bank. ‘I want to dry off when we finish bathing.’
In the fields souls were bent double at their work and I spotted my father among them. Only part of the land was cultivated in spring, for the first harvest. In summer, turnips, beets and cabbage were planted in the second part; all crops that could be harvested even in winter, when the earth was frozen solid. The last third of the ground lay fallow until the following year when the crops were rotated. The time we had to make provision for the rest of the year was short and a few squandered days now could mean famine later. In August my father might easily spend eighteen hours a day in the fields. No, we didn’t love the earth that fed us: she was a merciless mistress, punishing us for the slightest mistake. Six days of the week belonged to the monastery, the seventh to us. But our obligation to God allowed no rest to us souls. The monks walked back and forth between the workers in their long, dark robes, keeping a sharp eye on their property, both the land and the people working it.
‘What do you think is underneath a monk’s robes?’ Christina asked me now, saucily.
I shrugged. ‘Can’t be much, or you’d see it through the cloth.’
‘Especially when they see you,’ she answered.
Her words reminded me of Tanya’s insults. ‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked tersely.
‘Aren’t you meant to be older than me, Marta?’ she cried. ‘Don’t say you haven’t noticed the way men look at you. They’ll all want to dance with you at the fair and no one will pay me any attention.’
‘Nonsense! You look like an angel. An angel in dire need of a bath. Come on!’
Down by the river we settled at the shallow spot we’d found the previous year. A little path wound down through a birch grove and some low bushes. Early buds were on all the twigs; wild iris and bedstraw would bloom here soon. On the riverbank I sorted the laundry, putting all the men’s good linen shirts and breeches on one side and the sarafan dresses and linen tunics we women wore on feast days on the other. We had spent many a long winter evening embroidering colourful floral motifs on the flat collars. Perhaps we could swap some of Father’s woodcarvings – small pipes, bowls, spoons and cups – for new thread at the fair tomorrow. I wound my hair into a loose knot so it wouldn’t dangle in the dirty foam, and folded my faded headscarf to shield me from the sun. Then I knotted my sarafan’s wide skirt around my knees, though the fabric was lined and quilted aganist the cold, and tugged at the long strings threaded through the seams of my sleeves, gathering the cloth into countless pleats. From afar I must have looked like a cloud on long, bare legs.
‘Let’s begin.’ I reached out for the first of the linen and Christina handed me the precious soap. I dipped the washboard in the clear water and painstakingly rubbed the soap over its sharp ribs until they were thickly coated with a slippery layer. Making soap was hard work; your whole body ached afterwards. Mostly Tanya gave me this task in autumn, when the monks had been slaughtering to pickle, smoke and salt meat for the winter larder and had bones to spare, or in spring, using ashes gathered throughout the winter. All the women would help mix rainwater and ash with pork or beef lard and ground animal bones to make a caustic lye, which they boiled for hours in great cauldrons. The grey, slimy brew – its big, hot bubbles bursting on the surface with loud splashes – thickened slowly from one hour to the next. We had to stir it constantly until it felt as if our arms were about to fall off. In the evening we poured the liquid soap into wooden moulds. If we could afford to add salt to it, we ended up with a solid lump. But mostly we needed the salt for the animals, or to pickle meat and cabbage for the winter, so our soap was more of a slime that you added to the washing water.
The river glittered and Christina and I worked fast: the prospect of bathing spurred us on, as we dipped the clothes in the water, scrubbed them hard, beat them on the flat stones – ‘Imagine it’s the Abbot,’ I goaded Christina so that she would beat them harder. She threw back her head and laughed, her blonde hair slipping free from its bun. We wrung out the garments and hung them to dry on low-hanging branches along the shore. ‘On your marks, get set, go!’ Christina shouted, as I was still straightening and smoothing the last of the shirts. She undid the knot of her belt, pulling the simple sarafan and rough tunic over her head as she ran, and stood naked in the spring sunshine. How different she looked from me. Christina’s skin was as pale as skimmed milk, her body slim, with narrow hips and high budding breasts that looked as if they’d fit just so in the hollow of her hand. Her nipples were like little raspberries. She was already able to bear a child: her blood had started to flow the previous year. I, on the other hand – well, Tanya was probably right about me looking like my mother. My hair was thick and black, and my skin the colour of wild honey – or dried snot, as Tanya used to say. My hips were wide, my legs long and strong, my bosom large and firm.
Christina was splashing about in the shallow stream close to the bank. Her head bobbed up and down between the rocks where water gathered in pools. The sand of the riverbed shone white between her feet when she rose. ‘Come on, what are you waiting for?’ she laughed, then dived headfirst into the waves, allowing the current to sweep her off into the deep. I undressed as fast as I could, loosened my hair and hurried after her. We splashed and dived and – deliciously forbidden! – scrubbed our bodies with the precious soap; I opened my eyes underwater, grabbed at water snails, broke off sharp reeds from the riverbank to try to spear an eel and tweaked Christina’s toes, pretending to be a fish – anything to have a laugh after the dreary winter months!
The water was still icy. I was the first to get out, goose-bumps instantly rising on my skin. I shook my hair and flying drops of water sparkled in the sun before I wound it into a bun. ‘Better than the bathhouse,’ gurgled Christina, still drifting in the shallows. ‘At least you don’t get whipped with twigs here till you’re all sore and almost bleeding.’
‘Oh, I can see to that,’ I said, snapping a switch off a bush. Christina squealed and ducked underwater. Just then we both heard sounds: horses neighing, stones crunching under cartwheels, men’s voices. ‘Stay in the water,’ I ordered her, and looked up the road. Three riders surrounded a cart covered over with pale canvas. The man in the driver’s seat had pulled the horses to a halt in their traces. In spite of the distance between us, I felt him scrutinising me and desperately wished I could reach my long sarafan.
‘Who is it?’ Christina whispered, drifting back and forth in the shallow water.
‘Shh! I don’t know. Stay where you are!’
To my alarm I saw the man get down from the cart, throwing the reins to one of the other riders. I counted three armed men while he turned down the little path towards our stretch of riverbank. I ran to the bush where my clean sarafan was drying. It was still damp, but I slipped it on nonetheless. I had just managed to pull it down over my thighs when the man appeared before me.
He must have been the same age as my father, but had certainly never worked as hard. His long Russian coat had a dark fur collar and his breeches were cut from soft leather and held up by a richly embroidered belt. His high boots were spattered with mud and dirt. I shielded my eyes with my hand. Sweat gli
stened on his forehead, although his face was shaded by a flat beaver-fur hat. He had a full beard, as all Russians did in those days. He looked me up and down, then took off his gloves. He wore several rings with bright stones on his short, thick fingers. I’d never seen anything like it: not even the Abbot wore this much jewellery. I took a step back. To my dread, he followed me.
‘Can you tell me the way to the monastery, girl?’ he asked in harsh German. He still had all his teeth, but his gums were stained dark red from chewing tobacco and he smelt of sweat from the long ride. It would have been rude of me to make a face and offend a travelling stranger, though, so I stood there uneasily while he looked me and up and down. I sensed that the outline of my breasts was visible beneath the thin, wet linen. Feeling my hair slipping from its knot, I instinctively reached up to tighten it, and the dress slipped, baring my shoulder.
His tongue darted across his lips, which made me think of the snake my brother Fyodor and I had spotted the previous summer in the undergrowth of our vegetable patch. It was pale green and we could almost see its intestines shining dark beneath the taut skin. It had slithered towards us, slowly at first. Although he was smaller, Fyodor pushed me behind him. The reptile looked deadly, but my brother bent down and picked up a heavy stone. At the very moment the snake darted forward, jaws agape, he smashed its head in. The nerves in the beast’s dead body made it go on twitching and wriggling for some time afterwards.
The man took another step towards me, and Christina screamed: ‘Marta, watch out!’ from the water.
He turned his head and I bent to grab a mossy stone. I might have been a virgin, but I knew all too well what he wanted. We had a cock and hens in the back yard, after all; and my father had to hold the mares for the stallions in the monastery stables. Besides, in the izby, where families all slept together on the flat oven, bodies and breaths mingling, there was little room for secrets. I knew what he wanted and I wasn’t going to let him have it.
‘The monastery’s straight ahead, just down the road. You’ll be there soon if you hurry!’ I said curtly, even though my shaking voice gave me away.
He didn’t respond but took another step towards me. ‘Your eyes are the same colour as the river. What else is there to discover about you?’ he asked. There was little more than a breath separating us.
I stood firm and hissed, ‘If you come any closer, I’ll smash your skull in and bake a pie with your brains. Get back to your cart and go to the damned monks.’ I weighed the stone threateningly in my hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his three companions dismounting, shaking out their limbs after the long ride and allowing their horses to graze. I bit my lip. One skull I could smash, but we didn’t stand a chance against four men. My heart pounded in my breast as I tried not to give in to the fear of what might happen. The first of the men seemed about to head down the path. The stranger smirked, sure of an easy victory. Christina sobbed in the water and the sound made me furious: anger laced with strength and courage. ‘Get out of here, Russian!’ I snarled at him and he hesitated; then, all of a sudden, he held up his hand, stopping the other man in his tracks. The traveller smirked at me.
‘By God, girl, you amuse me. We’ll see each other again, and then you’ll be kinder to me.’ He stretched out his hand as if to touch my hair. Christina screamed. I spat at his feet. His face grew hard. ‘Just you wait,’ he threatened. ‘Marta, eh? That’s what she called you, the little minx in the water?’
I was mute with fear as he turned and walked back up the embankment. Only when he had urged on his horses with a flick of his whip, and the clopping of hooves and the clattering of wheels had died away, did I breathe again and let the stone slip from my sweaty, sticky fingers. My knees buckled and I dropped onto the rough grey sand, shivering. Christina waded out of the water; she wrapped her arms around me and we held each other tight, until I was only shaking with cold and not fear anymore. She stroked my hair and whispered: ‘Marta, you’re so brave. I’d never have dared to threaten him with a silly little stone.’ I glanced down at the stone at my feet. It really did look silly and little.
‘Do you think we’ll see him again?’ she asked, while I struggled to my feet. I bit my lip in worry. He’d asked the way to the monastery to which all of us belonged – our izba, our land, the dress on my back, we ourselves. I chased away the thought.
‘Nonsense,’ I said, hoping I sounded surer than I felt. ‘We’ll never see that tub of lard again. Let’s hope he falls off his cart and breaks his neck.’
I tried to laugh but couldn’t. Christina didn’t look convinced either. Clouds covered the sun, veiling the daylight with the first blue of dusk. I was shivering in my damp dress, which was covered in dirt again. What a nuisance: I would have to wash it tomorrow, early in the morning before the feast. I brushed sand and pebbles off my shins. ‘Let’s go.’ Silently, we slipped into our old clothes and gathered up the still-damp washing to hang it over the flat oven at home to dry. It made the air in the hut even more humid and worsened my brother Fyodor’s cough.
‘Let’s not tell anyone, shall we?’ I said to Christina, hoping I could pretend to myself the encounter by the river had never happened. But in my heart I knew this wouldn’t be the end of it. Nothing in this world happens without a reason. That afternoon my life changed course, like the weathervane on the monastery roof spinning in the first blast of a sudden storm.
2
It rained the night before the fair. The monks didn’t make nemtsy like me attend their church on Sunday as the other souls did: I had been baptised Catholic, but to me faith was just mumbled prayers and a constant crossing of yourself with three fingers. On the day of our death, this – or so we hoped – was supposed to gain us entry to the freeborns’ Heaven.
Walking to the fairground by the monastery, our feet sank into the warm mud of the road, a soft sucking sound accompanying each step. We carried our sandals of wood and raffia in our hands so as not to ruin them. My younger sister Maggie, who was only four, could barely keep up with us, so I took her hand and slowed my steps to match her scuttle. The morning had been damp but this afternoon was sunny, the sky big and blue. At the village green, men were still levelling the ground for the evening’s dancing, and some women were stretching ropes between high birch trees for children to swing on. Others were standing around in groups in their long, bright dresses, laughing, talking, singing songs and clapping along. The fairground was already a lively hubbub as people from all over the province had come for the market.
A bear was tethered to a post outside the first tent I passed, his pelt dirty and dishevelled, and the teeth in his jaws as well as his claws filed down. Still, better he was kept away from the captive animals: their angry, unpredictable natures were merely slumbering, unconfined by their chains. In winter, the travelling merchants who kept them often froze to death by the roadside; the bears would rip their chains from the dead men’s hands when hunger drove them to the nearest houses and farms. So Maggie and I gave Master Bruin a wide berth as he uselessly whetted his claws on his post. Maggie glanced round quickly for her mother but Tanya was at a stall, looking at necklaces and bracelets. Putting her finger to her lips, the little girl curiously lifted the flap of a tent, its cloth mended and darned with colourful patches.
‘Maggie!’ I was about to tell her off, when she gasped and shrank back in dread. I took her place and peered inside: a gruesome creature with two heads, four arms and two legs was tied up in the middle of the tent. I suppressed a cry as one head turned to look at us, while the other hung helplessly to one side. Saliva dribbled from one slack mouth, while something like a smile spread across the other sad, slightly crooked face. A hand stirred; fingers reached out to me. I counted them: there were six! I stepped back. It was horrid, but I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Maggie squeezed in again beside me. At that moment a voice boomed behind us: ‘Aha, young ladies, so curious already about my Tent of Wonders?’
We were so startled, we almost tumbled right into the tent
. Behind us, a man held on to a dwarf by a short chain wrapped around his neck. To his other side stood a girl in a dress of bright green and blue patches with a rope about her waist; her hair was wrapped in a torn fishing net. I had not seen make-up before and she looked frightful to me: her face seemed to have been pressed in lumpy flour, two garish red patches were painted on her cheeks, and she had outlined her eyes and eyebrows with a lump of coal.
The man bowed. ‘I am Master Lampert, bringing the wonders of the world right here to your sorry little village.’ I frowned: only we were allowed to badmouth the mir, not some random stranger! Master Lampert now kicked the dwarf in the side, whereupon he did a somersault and the bells and dull coins sewn on his jacket clinked cheerfully. ‘No one else has dwarves, mermaids and ghastly creatures like mine. Come to my show this evening, ladies!’
Ladies? Maggie and I giggled. No one had ever called us that. Master Lampert ignored our foolishness and carried on, ‘There’s a fun competition planned, throwing rotten fruit at my monster. Whoever hits it bang, smack in the face, wins.’ He pointed at the miserable being in the middle of the tent. Timidly, I glanced at it again. Both its heads were hanging once more, and its arms dangled uselessly. The ‘mermaid’ – whatever that was supposed to mean – smiled at me, revealing black gaps between her teeth. Dear God, I was glad when at that very moment an angry Tanya dragged Maggie and me out into the open.
‘What are you doing, loitering with the travelling folk? Are you one of them?’ she snapped at me. ‘Come, Christina and I are watching the fire-eater.’ In spite of the harshness of her tone, she pressed a few honey-roasted nuts into my hand. God knows how she’d smuggled the money for them past Father who’d surely feel we’d deprived him of a drink or a plug of chewing tobacco. This was a proper feast day and no mistake.
Tsarina Page 3