Along a drier section of the path, I come across a big patch of chabas. The shoots, lush and pale, are everywhere. I can’t believe we missed it on our way out.
“Chabas,” I cry out and point. “Chabas.”
The other girl smiles at me, then says something. Inessa agrees. I expect us to pick these shoots—surely we could squeeze a few more into the baskets—but the girls carry on.
In Russia, everyone believes the wilderness is free and open to all. The bounty of the land goes to the first man clever enough to find it and he’ll take it all before anybody else can get it. The koliuzhi don’t live the same way. Either we have enough already, or they want to save what’s here for another time. In any case, they’re not afraid somebody else will take it, which, in Russia, is how most people would feel before harvesting every shoot in sight before the sun had the chance to set.
We eat the shoots that night. The cooks steam them in shallow pits, similar to how we steamed the mussels. They’re served with grease and a flaky white seafish that tastes of cedar and the smokehouse. They slide down my throat easily, but I think I preferred them peeled and raw on the side of the trail.
“My shirt was torn today,” my husband says through a mouthful.
“Where?”
He twists away from me and with greasy fingers, points. There’s a tear running along the shoulder seam, then down, forming a triangular flap of fabric. “It was caught on a branch.”
“I can fix it,” I say. I’ll get Inessa to give me a needle and thread.
“Would you? While you’re at it, some stitching is loose at the bottom.”
I lean over and look more closely. “Tomorrow morning,” I say. “There’ll be more light, and I’ll be able to see properly.”
He runs his fingers around his bowl, scooping up a last shoot, and nods as he slips it into his mouth.
“Why does she come for you every day?” my husband grumbles.
Inessa’s waiting with a basket, just as she does every morning. It’s raining, but it’s so light, barely a mist, it won’t keep us from our work outdoors.
I start to rise. “I’ll be back soon.”
“No,” my husband says. He grabs my arm and holds firmly. I can’t stand. I’m hunched over, waiting. “You’re supposed to fix my shirt this morning.”
“I’ll fix it when I come back.” I struggle to keep my balance.
Inessa shifts uneasily and my husband glares. “There are other people here. Somebody else can go with her.”
“I will make your shirt as good as new when I get back. I promise. I won’t be long.”
He pulls on me, but I resist. I refuse to sit. “Tell her you can’t go.”
I laugh. “How? I don’t know her language.”
“Stay here.”
“You’re making a scene. Let me go.”
“If you won’t tell her, I will.” Nikolai Isaakovich thrusts me away. I stumble backward. He leaps up and grabs Inessa. “No. Go away,” he shouts into her face. “She’s my wife. She has work to do here. Leave us alone.”
Inessa recoils. Despite telling her to go, he won’t let her. She twists and tries to free herself, but he holds on. Her hair falls and covers her face. He screams. “She’s not going. Do you hear me?” Inessa throws her head back, and her hair parts like a curtain. Her anguish drives me forward.
I thrust my body between them and try to force them apart. He smells of sweat and grease from his breakfast. She smells of smoke and cedar. “Stop, Kolya, leave her alone. It’s not her fault.” Inessa’s head hits mine and she cries out. Everything goes white for an instant.
My husband tries to shove me aside, but I won’t let go. “She’s my wife. Don’t you understand?”
Then the man with the scar on his chest is on us. His voice is like a blow. “hiyu·
a
!”[40] Strong arms do what I could not—he forces himself between Inessa and Nikolai Isaakovich and pulls them apart. The scarred man holds my husband’s arms behind his back. Inessa pauses an instant, gasping, her face a mask of disbelief, and runs outside. Her basket, one side caved in, rocks back and forth on the floor where she dropped it.
“Don’t come looking for her again,” my husband shouts.
“She’s never going with you.” He twists against the scarred man who finally lets him go and runs after Inessa.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I snap. “You hurt her.”
“I did not. Didn’t you see the way she ran out of here? There’s nothing wrong with her.”
“You can’t do that to people here,” I say. “Nobody acts like that. They’re not used to it. And now Makee’s going to think we’re causing trouble.”
“All you care about is what that Poppy Seed thinks.” His expression of disapproval makes him look like a toad.
“I’m going to work now. I’ll fix your shirt later.” I storm out of the house. There’s no sign of Inessa, and without her, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing.
I walk away from the houses to the edge of the forest and stand beneath the shelter of the boughs. They’re enough to keep me dry. The misty rain falls, but the sky is light, and I think it won’t be long before it stops. Down on the beach, some men have gathered beside the canoes.
The scent of smoke in the air makes me want to go back to the house, where it’s warm and dry. But I can’t face the mess my husband’s created. Let him deal with the Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts. Let him explain to Makee. I should find Inessa, but I haven’t any idea where to go look for her.
Somebody steps outside Makee’s house. For an instant, I think it’s my husband, but then I see it’s Timofei Osipovich. He looks around and when he sees me in the shelter of the trees, he comes to me.
“You don’t need to stand out here in the rain. Come inside.”
“No,” I say. “Please leave me be.” I have no patience for him today.
He turns and watches the men on the beach, but he doesn’t go. A gust of wind blows, and heavy drops of water fall from the boughs. One lands on my head and trickles down my face. It’s cold.
The men on the beach have turned one of the canoes over. They’re running their hands along the keel, deep in discussion.
“There’s nothing you can do about it out here. Come back.”
“Everything was fine,” I blurt. “Things were finally working out for us.” Tears press against my eyes, but I won’t give in to them. “I thought he understood. He’s been working hard, hasn’t he? Just like Makee wanted?”
Timofei Osipovich peers at me, in disbelief, then laughs. “Yes, he’s been working hard.”
“Then why this outburst?”
He sighs. “Madame Bulygina, I must show you something. Come.”
We go into the forest and follow the trail that leads toward the headland. We veer away from the sea and climb, then descend on the other side. It’s the same trail I took with the girls to collect mussels.
When we’ve passed the headland, we turn off the trail and head toward the beach. Before we step out of the trees, he stops and points.
A huge patch of soil has been disturbed. All the shrubs have been torn out. Boughs have been collected and propped up against one another. We go closer. It’s a hole in the ground that’s covered with branches. There’s a tiny opening with steps cut into the earth leading into the darkness. “What is this?”
“A house. A place to live.”
“Who made it?”