I smiled. How did he see me? I’d taken great care with my appearance. Inessa and the other girl had let me know I was pretty in my new dress. But what did my husband think?
After a long, fearful moment, his lips pressed together in an uncertain smile. I rushed to his side and threw open my arms. He embraced me. He brushed his lips against my hair, and lowered his mouth to my ear. “My God, Anya, what happened to your dress?”
I hid my face against his chest.
The evening is filled with songs and stories and dancing. Though I’m tired from the journey, I can’t look away. I press myself into the side of Nikolai Isaakovich and soak in the grand spectacle. The colourful masks. The regal clothes—sea otter capes over the shoulders of many men, and jewellery such as I’ve not yet seen anywhere. The drumming that shakes the walls. The smoke that, on a whim, conceals or reveals. The voices that soar into the rafters and plummet back down and squirm into our ears. I think our breathing has been harmonized, and our breaths together are part of the songs and stories. But not exactly a part—it’s more like they’re the canvas on which the songs and stories are embroidered. I try holding my breath to see what will happen, but as soon as I start breathing again, I follow the same rhythm as everyone else. To do otherwise would be like sailing against the wind and current.
At the end of one dance, two men begin to banter alongside a small fire. One of them is the groom—the eyebrow man. As they tease one another, women thrust kindling into that fire. It crackles and smokes for a bit, but then the wood catches and the fire flares, throwing light and shadows on everyone’s faces.
Each man is given a dish—the dishes used to serve grease. The first man raises his dish to his lips and takes a sip. The groom does the same. Afterward, both have broad smiles and glossy lips and teeth—they were drinking grease. I look at my husband, but he’s wide-eyed, watching the drama in disbelief.
The first man takes another drink—a longer, deeper mouthful. He swallows. And again, the groom does the same. The people in the house are calling out and laughing. In response, both men again drink—downing even bigger portions of grease.
“What on earth is this about?” my husband says.
They keep drinking from their dishes, back and forth, two gulps of grease, then three. Finally, the first man tilts his dish to the ceiling and drinks until the grease is drained. He tears the dish away and spits into the fire.
The fire unrolls toward the ceiling with a whoomp. Somebody screams. The faces of the nearest people are lit up like on a hot summer day. Many jump back. Everyone cheers. When the flame dies down, black smoke fills the house.
“That’s madness,” my husband says.
The groom tips his dish back and drains it, too. And then, with his head tilted right back, he gestures frantically until a woman gives him another grease dish. He drinks from it, too, the grease running down the sides of his mouth and neck, and all over his new red shirt.
He throws his head forward and spits into the fire.
The flames roar and touch the ceiling. I scream. And then it ends. The fire dies down, black smoke clouds the room—and the people cheer for the groom who has won the competition.
Glistening with grease, the groom calls out and circles the house. People laugh. Some brush him away. But one man raises his arm and steps forward. He’s young—barely sprouting facial hair—but he’s brimming with a combination of masculine confidence and bashfulness. The people cheer for him.
Two ropes that I hadn’t noticed hanging from the rafters are released from hooks on the wall. They sway until they come to rest. They glisten. They’re coated with grease.
A man starts to beat on a drum and when he stops, he calls out.
The young man and the groom run, jump, and throw themselves onto the ropes. The ropes swing. They start to climb.
Everyone shouts.
The ropes are impossible to climb. Neither man can get higher than one length of his arm before he comes sliding down to the bottom. But they keep trying. The groom wipes his hands on his shirt, but it’s even greasier than the rope.
Their arms bulge as they squeeze and hold on. They twist the rope around their feet. Their toes grip like birds’ talons. Still, they slide down more than they climb up.
Finally, when the groom’s slid down once again, he lets go of the rope. He bends to the floor. He slaps his hands against the earth and something from there must stick. Because when he grabs the rope again, he climbs not one length of his arm, not two, not three. Something propels him right up to the rafters. He hooks one arm around the wood and hoists himself up. He waves in triumph.
The young man below just laughs and waves his hand dismissively. He knows, as does everyone in this room, that the winner of every contest tonight will be the groom, the eyebrow man.
I squeeze Kolya’s hand. I hold on.
When it’s time to eat, serving dishes the size of the skiff are brought into the house. They’re carved into koliuzhi creatures and painted: big heads with tongues that loll out at one end, and tails at the other. Feet and wings extend from the sides, and what would be their bodies has been hollowed out and filled with food.
Women ladle this food into trays until they’re heaped with fish, clams, steamed roots, and grease, and distributed around the house. I sit between my husband, our arms and legs barely touching, and Maria. The others sprawl out around us, and dig into our food.
Nikolai Isaakovich tears off a fragment of fish and pushes it into his mouth. He chews. Swallows. He takes another piece. I feel these movements against my side.
“I will never understand why the koliuzhi gorge like this—and then have nothing for later. Don’t they know anything about rationing?” Some of the others nod but their mouths are too full to reply. “Days of scarcity are always right around the corner. A wise man must plan—or suffer the consequences.”
No one contradicts him, but he’s wrong. The koliuzhi do prepare. When Makee caught the whale, we feasted, yes, but then we worked, preserving everything that wasn’t eaten, dividing it up and storing it in boxes and bladders. Even after all these weeks, I wouldn’t be surprised to know a few bladders of oil remain.
And it’s not just the whale. Salmon, shellfish, roots, and berries, everything stored in boxes, baskets, and bladders, and buried in holes dug deep to where the air is as cold as an icehouse. They don’t neglect to prepare for lean times. People work long hours at it. I do it, too. The planning Nikolai Isaakovich sees as absent must have been present for generations. Otherwise how would these people have survived?
When Nikolai Isaakovich is away from the houses, what does he think the women do? He’s not here to witness it, but there’s slicing and skinning and deboning and skewering, peeling, hanging, rendering, smoking, and though it’s all fundamental to his survival, he’s oblivious to it.
He’s like the men of Petersburg. All the lotions and creams and washing and brushing and curling, the ironing and pleating and tying—all so we look presentable, and if we are lucky, pretty. No man could possibly realize how much effort is involved.
He says gruffly, “Eat, Anya. Eat all you can. You may as well. Are you not well?”
“I’m fine.” I should eat, but words, stuck in my throat, won’t allow me to swallow.