“And you would value mine less than four muskets?” He seems to have forgotten the botched rescue on the riverbank, the intractability of the crew, and his own failure to take command.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve betrayed not only me but the entire empire. We’re doomed because of you.”
But he’s wrong. We were doomed from the moment the Sviatoi Nikolai ran aground. Good fortune has allowed us to make it this far, and now there’s a way out. Why can’t my husband see the truth?
“Kolya, please stop quarreling. It gets us nowhere. We have to be strong and stay together.” I lift my hand and though he flinches, he lets me touch his face. With my thumb, I caress his cheek, what little of it shows through the even wilder tangle of his overgrown beard.
His eyes grow wide. I understand his apprehension. But when he gives Makee a chance, he’ll see. Nikolai Isaakovich is an enlightened man, capable of acting practically and decisively. He will see the sense of our surrender.
Suddenly, he grabs my hand. He squeezes hard.
“Anya,” he murmurs. The sharp odour of sweat wafts out from his armpit. He kisses the tips of my fingers. “I’ve missed you. You don’t know.”
“No, Kolya.” Even though the mats are up and the fire burns low, there’s enough light to put us on display. “We can’t. Not here.”
“If not here—then where? I can’t live without you anymore.” He slides closer and brings his lips to mine.
I turn my head. “But everyone will hear.”
“We’ll be quiet.” He slides his lips down to my throat. The sound of the kiss he places there fills this quieted house.
I refused him that night in the tent in the forest, and I was successful only because he fell asleep. What’s to be done this time?
“Kolya—I love you—but—”
He lays his fingers on my lips, then brings his mouth to my ear and moans softly. “I love you, too, Annichka, you can’t imagine—”
He wraps his arm around my hips jerking me to his groin like I’m nothing more than a feather pillow.
“Please. I’m too tired,” I whisper. “Tomorrow.”
“No—today—right now—”
I could push him away now my hands are free. But I don’t. Instead, I wrap my arms around him and hold on. I hold on not because my heart is in it. I hold on and pray that God may help him to lower his voice and that I’ll have the strength to show my face in this house tomorrow morning. I hold on because if this passion is the form his forgiveness has taken, then it would be a mistake to push him away.
It hurts when he enters me. But not as much as it would hurt if I had to tolerate more of his punishing silence.
In the morning, Inessa comes to the edge of our cedar mat and stands a respectable distance away. A basket dangles from her shoulder, but I don’t want to go. I look away. Inessa hovers in silence.
“I’ll come back soon,” I finally say to Nikolai Isaakovich. He grunts. Last night has, I hope, brought us closer to a resolution of our differences.
Outside, Inessa gives me the basket. I follow her, and she stops at another house where she gets her own basket, and, for the first time, another girl joins us. She’s no older than me or Inessa. Her cedar bark dress has long fringes that reach just below her knees. She tilts her head as she looks at me, then says something to Inessa, who responds briefly.
Then we head down the trail that leads to the sea.
All the way along the path, the girls talk and laugh. I don’t know what they’re saying but I think the new girl is teasing Inessa. She says something, Inessa cries out in horror, and the new girl shrieks with laughter and runs away. Inessa chases her, waving her basket high and wide as though she intends to hit her. I follow them but, since I soon lose sight of them, I don’t know how their joking ends.
The path turns, and around the corner I see them again. They’ve stopped next to a tree trunk. They’re picking off the gum, putting it in their mouths and chewing. When I draw close, Inessa says, “ku·, ya
i
i·k a
itbis.”[39]
She offers me a golden dollop. Gum is already smeared over her knuckles and the little scar on her hand.
I take it from her. It’s very sticky and covered with bits of bark and a fly. She says something and gestures for me to put it in my mouth. I dig out the fly and flick it away, but I can’t do anything about the bits of bark.
The gum tastes like the smell of the tree itself, like medicine, like a certain tea one of my mother’s elderly friends used to drink in the winter. It’s all crumbly but after only a moment, it turns soft and starts to stick to my teeth. I poke it with my tongue and suck using my cheeks. Inessa and the other woman laugh at the funny expressions I’m making.
But they’re no different. They open their mouths to show each other, and then urge me to open mine. The gum is stuck to all our teeth. I laugh, too. With our mouths gaping open, we look like a nest of baby birds.
We take our baskets and continue down the trail, each of us sucking at our teeth.
We go much farther than I’ve ever been along this trail and finally take an abrupt turn and emerge from the trees onto a shoreline I’ve never seen before. It’s rugged here, and much wilder than the coast near our houses. Tangled ropes of kelp are strewn about the slender beach that’s covered with small stones the size of quail eggs. At one end, there’s a reddish-brown headland with the sea churning at its base. At the other end, there’s a smooth rock that bulges up out of the beach.
The girls throw their baskets down and run along the shore, kicking water at each other. Their shrieks rise over the sound of the sea. Seabirds float nervously offshore and watch them. Then, as abruptly as it began, their game ends. Panting and smiling, they lead me to the end of the beach where the bulging rock lies. A gull, startled by our approach, takes flight and disappears into the grey. The girls remove tools from the bottom of their baskets—some sharp, others blunt—and then they point. We’re here for mussels.
cries the girl and waves her hand across the rocks.
“Kluchab,” I repeat their word for mussels. They both laugh and Inessa nudges the girl with her shoulder. The girl beams. “Kluchab!” I cry and nod my head. They look pleased with me.
We clamber over and around the rock, collecting some large mussels, some small ones, but never stripping a patch bare. I watch them. They mostly don’t use the tools. There’s a way of twisting the shells that makes them snap right off, and I try it too.
After managing a few mussels, I cut myself. Despite all the work I’ve done with Inessa, my hands are still too soft.
What have I done with my hands all my life? There were the years of writing and reading at my father’s side. The telescopes and the infinitesimally small moves needed to focus them. There was the needlework. Washing and beautifying myself. Eating. I’d held hands in a dance. Rubbed balm into them to keep them soft. I’d cut my fingers from time to time on sharp edges and thorns I didn’t expect to encounter. My hands could tell a story of a life filled with pleasure and indulgence.
The white scar on Inessa’s hand has stood out for me ever since the first time I met her. I’d felt sorry for her, as I knew how carefully all girls try to maintain a flawless appearance. But perhaps her scar, that perfectly shaped crescent moon, as pale against her skin as the real moon is in the night sky, might be an indication of her physical strength and evidence of all the things she’s done with her hands during her lifetime. Perhaps her scar is precious to her. Perhaps she pities me my hands and the small, cramped life they reveal.