“I’m sick of these koliuzhi and their ways,” my husband continues. “I’m hunting duck and geese in the rain and wind and cold—it’s so unpleasant, you can’t possibly imagine. And they become quite displeased if I can’t kill the entire flock with a single shot. The toyon here is lazy and demanding and pompous—just like that Poppy Seed.”
“Makee’s friendly,” I say. “And so is this toyon. When we first met, I sat across from him in the tent—”
“You don’t see what’s really going on here, do you?” He shifts his body away and is sullen the rest of the meal.
When the dancers and singers are exhausted and it’s time to retire for the night, we Russians are divided among the houses in this village. My husband, Timofei Osipovich, and many of the rest of the crew are to stay in the toyon’s house—along with Makee. I will go to another house to sleep alongside Maria once again.
While the arrangements are being discussed, I pull Nikolai Isaakovich to me and quickly kiss him. “Good night,” I say.
He looks surprised and confused, but he kisses the back of my hand before I turn away, and before anybody notices.
Maria and I lie next to one another as the night noises of the house begin to unfurl—fires snapping and sighing as the embers die down in the darkness, children settling, hushed conversations, and tonight, the occasional smothered laugh.
I won’t sleep until I know. “Why aren’t Yakov and Kotelnikov here?” I whisper.
Maria says no one has heard from the apprentice since he was taken away—but Maria doesn’t think he reached the Kad’iak. “It’s been so long, he would have returned for us by now if he had,” she adds. She’s heard nothing about Yakov and thinks he’s still with the Tsar’s family.
“We’ll find them,” I say bravely. “They must come home with us.” She says nothing.
“Maria? They will. We wouldn’t leave them here anymore than we’d leave you here.”
Her head, outlined in the dim light, shakes slowly. “I think I’ll live out my days here.”
“No, Maria,” I say. “You don’t have to. You’ll come home—with us. Don’t you want to return?”
“To where?”
“Your home.”
“I haven’t been there in a long time. I don’t even know who’s there anymore. If I have anywhere to live.” She sighs. “I don’t expect you to understand. I know it’s not like that for you.” It’s dark and she can’t see my face flush. “Anyway, this is a good place for an old woman. They’re very kind.”
Long after Maria’s deep and regular breathing indicates she’s asleep, I’m awake mulling this over.
The Enlightenment has shown us the errors of our past when freedom was apportioned to men based on birth and status. The Tsar has set us on a path to eliminate hypocrisy at all levels of society, but my father’s friends agree that we remain far from our destination.
What have the lofty ideas of the Enlightenment done for Maria? For Yakov, the Aleuts—for Timofei Osipovich? If I’ve learned anything from my time with the koliuzhi, it’s that my father’s friends are more right than they realize, as they perch in their comfortable chairs around a table full of food and drink brought to them by house serfs. We’ve fallen short of our ideals. We’ve not yet reached the place where our values and our actions are consistent and honourable.
I wish my father were here. He would understand my doubts. He would encourage me to keep struggling.
This much I do know. There is a truth that we are taught and another truth that we come to see. Though they should be, they are never exactly the same.
The following day, during a lull in the festivities, the old carpenter Kurmachev suggests we walk to a nearby beach. It’s sunny and for the first time, the promise of summer hovers in the air. So Nikolai Isaakovich, Timofei Osipovich, and I accept. We head off following a trail that, contrary to expectations, leads into the forest.
We hike down and along a narrow, muddy path. The wet seeps through my boots reminding me it’s time to apply another layer of grease. We then ascend the other side of this gully, past berry bushes starred with pink blossoms and two moss-covered trees that fell in the shape of an X. When the trail levels out again, it broadens, and I fall back to my husband’s side.
“Do you know the beach we’re heading to?” I ask.
“How could I? They drag me up the river or into the forest every single day. Visiting a beach is a luxury.”
“I’m glad we’ll get to see it for the first time together then.” I shyly slip my arm around his waist and feel his scratchy greatcoat—now missing all its beautiful buttons—against my skin once again.
He leans over and kisses my cheek. His lips linger there, but not long enough.
“Be careful here,” Kurmachev calls from far ahead.
“Where? We can’t keep up—you’re going too fast, old man,” my husband calls back. He gazes at me but says to the carpenter, “Maybe you should go ahead without us. We’ll catch up.”
“No,” calls old Kurmachev. “The trail’s a bit confusing. I’ll wait for you before we go down.”
My husband pulls me close and kisses me on the lips, but I push him away and say, “No. Come on.”
The descent to the beach looks steep. I start walking down on the heels of Kurmachev, who’s surprisingly like a goat on the bumpy trail. My husband is right behind me, his breath in my ears. I cling to branches and place each foot carefully on the overgrown trail. Timofei Osipovich on the other hand releases himself, and with a holler, he hurtles down the hill, half sliding, half bouncing, ignoring the trail altogether. Brush crashes. He’ll be scratched to bits if he doesn’t break a leg first. He shouts when he reaches the bottom, “Hurry up, you feeble old men. You’re taking the long way!”
“Nobody’s feeble up here,” calls Kurmachev, just ahead, and he winks up at me. “This way, Madame Bulygina, only a little farther now.”
His friendly wink gives me confidence. I let the slope pull me down, two quick steps. One more. Then I slip and fall.
I slide through mud and over the rutted surface of a rock. My dress cinches up around my hips. I slip over a steep edge and keep tumbling. I reach for branches, but whatever I grab snaps off or comes out by the roots. The forest rushes by in a blur.
Then the ground levels and I come to a stop.
“Anya?” calls my husband.
“Are you all right, Madame Bulygina?” Kurmachev shouts.
“Yes—yes—I’m fine,” I call back. I scramble to my feet and pull down my dress.
Just ahead, light extends through the underbrush. I part the branches like I’m opening curtains.
The sand shimmers in the sun. The sea’s blue and green, as sparkly as a gemstone. Far to the right is the flat-topped island that dominates the view out to sea at the river’s mouth. The arc of the beach is framed by rocky headlands around which the sea curls luxuriously as the waves are drawn to shore. There are fragments of shells bleached white by the sun, and driftwood bleached grey. Thick strands of bronze kelp lounge along the waterline. Birds drift lazily overhead or bob gently just a little way from shore.
The men emerge from the trail to join me at the lip of the forest.
“Kolya?” I turn to him, my hands clasped. “It’s paradise. I fell down a hill and landed in paradise.” I laugh. He smiles in return.
I run a little way toward the water then stop short. Should I take off my boots? I do. I throw them aside and dip my feet into the surf. It’s freezing, and I run back up the beach, away from it.
I throw myself down on the sand and soak up the warmth through my palms. I squeeze the sand in my fist and let it run out like my hand’s a sandglass. I fall back, stretch out, and close my eyes. I’ve been feeling tired the last few days, but it all slips away in the sunshine that laps against my skin and sinks into my cold bones.