Anna, Like Thunder

“Anna. Anna.” Kotelnikov flinches when he hears Yakov. The name sounds unnatural and disrespectful coming from this Aleut.

“Ahda,” says the Tsar. Then I hear others repeat it. “Ahda. Ahda.” I feel my face redden. The woman with the silver comb in her hair smiles at me.

Yakov then lays his hand on his chest and says, “Yakov. Yakov.”

“Hálas ‘Ya op?’”[18] says a woman. Muffled laughter spreads through the house. “Ishkida! Bayílo ťísik^wo.”[19]

The koliuzhi laugh loudly. Kotelnikov hesitates for a moment, then a smile spreads across his face and he joins in. He points at the old Aleut and says, “Yah-kop. Yah-kop. May I introduce Monsieur Yah-kop?” He has no idea what he’s saying; only that it amuses the koliuzhi and annoys Yakov.

Yakov doesn’t wait for the laughter to die down completely. As soon as he can be heard, he points to chubby Kotelnikov’s stomach and says, “Kotel.”

The koliuzhi stop and look disbelieving. The Tsar is wide-eyed. Then the koliuzhi screech with laughter that’s magnitudes greater than how they laughed at Yakov’s name.

A laugh dies on Kotelnikov’s lips and his face twists with anger. “No!” He straightens and thumps his sturdy chest. “Kotelnikov! Kotel-NIKOV! Don’t forget the Nikov part.”

It’s too late. The koliuzhi repeat, “K^wόx^wal. K^wόx^wal.”[20] And with each repetition, the laughter grows.

I have no great affinity for Kotelnikov, and I share my husband’s belief that his impatience and ambition cloud his judgment. But I try not to laugh because he’s so offended and no one will listen to him. The koliuzhi cannot possibly know they have called him a cooking pot, a name that cruelly draws attention to his stoutness, and yet they’ve made sense of his name, sense that they find amusing. Many koliuzhi wipe tears from their eyes, they laugh so hard.

It’s impossible to resist. His overreaction is as funny as his new name. I give in and laugh, too.

“Listen! Kotelnikov! It’s Kotel-NIKOV!” He stomps around, gestures wildly, and looks for anybody who’ll listen.

He circles back and turns on Yakov. “Tell them! Tell them my proper name!”

“You tell them yourself,” Yakov says dismissively and frowns. He turns away from the apprentice and smiles slyly. The laughter explodes anew.

Then Kotelnikov grabs Yakov’s arm, and pulls so hard that Yakov, caught off guard, falls.

He lands hard, cries out, and reaches for his knee. “What are you doing?” he shouts at Kotelnikov. “Stop it!”

Kotelnikov kicks Yakov’s backside.

The laughter dissolves. The koliuzhi descend. Several men pull Kotelnikov away from Yakov. They lift Kotelnikov onto their shoulders. They struggle a bit with his girth. They carry him toward the door while the singer with the staff helps Yakov up.

“Where are they taking him?” I ask Maria.

“I don’t know,” says Maria. “Come on.”

Kotelnikov jerks with all his strength, but outside there’s more room, causing other men to join the effort. They hold him high as they head toward the river. They immobilize his kicking legs and swinging arms. “Put me down, you savages!” cries Kotelnikov.

When they get to the river’s edge, they launch Kotelnikov like he’s a sack being thrown from the deck of a ship.

His body lifts. His arms and legs thrash. Then he changes direction and plummets. The river cracks when he hits the surface and swallows him whole. Huge waves ripple out.

The river’s not very deep, and he’s up in a second. He stands. Water streams down his body.

“I’m going to kill you all!” Except for Maria and I, no one understands him, but translation isn’t necessary. He spits out a string of curses, most of which I’ve never heard.

“That fucking goat will pay for this! He’s going to regret what he did! You tell him,” he cries when he notices Maria and me, “Filip Kotelnikov is going to get even.”

Many of the koliuzhi walk away. Surprisingly, two men don’t. They enter the river and wait at its edge. Perhaps they want to make sure he neither hurts anybody else nor escapes.

“Let’s go see how Yakov is doing,” Maria says, and we head back to the house, followed closely by the watchmen.

CHAPTER NINE

In the misty afternoon, the Murzik follows me when I venture out to relieve myself. Before we reach a secluded spot, he shows me a startlingly white handkerchief.

“Where did you get that?” My voice squeaks, raspy as a rusty gate. I reach for it.

The Murzik grows uneasy and pulls the handkerchief closer. Its folds lie stark against his dark, worn hands. He starts to crumple it into his fingers.

“Let me see. Please.” Before he can put it away completely, I snatch it.

He protests, but I turn my back on him and examine it against my apron front. This cheap Russian trading handkerchief, fresh and undamaged, is white as new snow against my filthy clothing. However the Murzik managed to get it, it hasn’t been with him long.

He snatches it back.

“No,” I cry. “Give it back. Just for a moment. I promise I’ll return it. Please.” I hold out my hands. “Wacush. Korolki. Lamestin. Please.” He laughs. Then he dangles the handkerchief before me, flicking it beyond reach. After a minute he releases it and the tiny white scrap flutters back into my hands.

I pull it to my nose. It reeks of smoke and fish. “How did you get this?”

“Híli hílils kíwa kiyáli ti’l x^wa hόtsk^wať,” he says. “Óas x^woό yix ichaa^wόwa.”[21]

He points and gestures, but I understand nothing. Has he stolen it? Killed somebody and taken it? Has he been given it? His story is long, and he mimes many things—one moment, he’s carrying something burdensome, the next, it’s vanished, then he’s embracing himself and rocking back and forth. Sometimes he laughs. Other times he frowns as if annoyed.

“Kiyáli x^wa hόtsk^wať ‘at hidáťot histáalach i icháat,”[22] he says.

“Come,” I say, and I turn back toward the house. He reaches for the handkerchief. “No,” I say. “Come with me.” I crumple the handkerchief in one hand and gesture with the other to urge him along.

The crows lift from the grey-brown mound on the opposite side of the river as we run past, cawing their annoyance at the disruption. When I enter the house, I find Maria and Yakov. There’s no sign of Kotelnikov.

“Look!” I cry. “The Murzik has a handkerchief.”

Yakov takes the crumpled handkerchief and inspects it.

“How did he get it?” asks Maria.

“I don’t know,” I say.

Yakov ponders. Of the many ways that this handkerchief might have come to the Murzik, some are frightening, while others bring hope.

“He’s stolen it,” says Maria, eyeing the Murzik suspiciously.

“Maybe,” says Yakov. “Perhaps it was given to him.”

18

Did he say, “Feel the urge to fuck?”

19

Ha! Crazy name!

20

Scrawny. Scrawny.

21

I helped the white men. This is my own cloth.

22

I helped them, and my father said that I could have this for my own.