Marya frowned. But really, how could she be one of the Yelenas she knew? And whom did she marry? “How long did you live in the collective?”
“All my life.” Yelena shrugged again, her rosy cheeks dimpling.
“Surely you were not born in a women’s collective. Conventional wisdom holds that a male is necessary for that sort of thing,” Ushanka needled.
Yelena’s pretty freckled brow furrowed. She tugged at her curly hair. “I don’t … It’s so hard to remember! I just … always lived there. Always. Until I met my husband. I mean, I’m sure you’re right, Officer—I don’t mean to contradict you. I must have been born somewhere else. But I was little. I don’t remember. Who remembers being born?”
“Not a soul on this earth,” replied Ushanka coldly.
Yelena looked as though she might cry, her big brown eyes full of confusion.
“I don’t want to offend! Please, take some meat and enjoy the sunshine. If you want something other than the rib eye, you’ll have to see my husband, though. Times are tight.”
“Tight as a coat; tight as a glove; tight as a shoe,” whispered the staff sergeant, her face closed up, unreadable. Marya Morevna cleared her throat. They were getting nowhere.
“I think my comrade is suffering in the close air of your shop,” she said. What could be the officer’s trouble? “Tell us where to find your husband and we’ll leave you.”
“I’m sure he’s with Auntie about now.” She smiled. “That’s his sister. We all call her Auntie. She runs the canteen down the road. The most amazing soups, I swear! Like gold on a spoon. You really must try her ukha. I promise, you’ve never tasted the like.”
Marya thanked her. This is Buyan, she thought. I know it is. I can smell it. The yarn stopped here. What has happened? I am human; my memory got old and needs a cane. But them? They should know me. Why do they not know me?
“Tell me,” said Marya Morevna, her hand on the door, the rusted bell caught half-ring. “What is your husband’s name?”
“Koschei Bessmertny,” she said with the pride of a nesting hen. “He’ll be so pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”
30
The Country of Death
They strode down a long, thin road which must be Skorohodnaya Road, which could not be other than Skorohodnaya Road—yet Marya was sure that if they could ask it, if they could whip it and curse it into sitting up and opening a dusty, stony mouth, it would profess no memory of ever having been called such a thing. The eternal twilight of summer nights in the north country splashed gold and rose onto the street.
“Sergeant, what is wrong with you?” Marya asked. She wished the wretched woman would vanish. Everyone else had—why was she stuck with the one soul who refused to do her the courtesy? Ushanka kicked the dirt.
“I thought you were meant to be some brilliant soldier. I thought you would have figured it out. I’m bored with walking between shitty buildings while you nosh at this town like an imbecile cow! I was told you were brilliant. I demand that you be brilliant!”
Marya rubbed her temples, a place she had given over to Ushanka, the place that hurt whenever she talked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Ushanka stopped in the middle of the road. The sun blazed on her brass buttons, her brass medals. She took off her cap and hooked one long finger into the side of her mouth. The staff sergeant yanked hard, and Marya winced at the vicious ripping sound of her skin splitting. But Ushanka was laughing, laughing while she tore her face open, all her teeth suddenly white and bare. No blood flew or dripped or seeped. Instead, threads popped open, stitches burst, a seam in her face split, and the linens of her cheeks hung down in tatters.
“Not a soul on this earth remembers being born.” Ushanka grinned. “But I remember coming to Leningrad for you. It took me so long to get over the mountains, but I did it. To watch you. To question you. I remember losing you when you went into the damned egg, and finding you half-dead on the barricades—not so lucky as me, no, but with your blood all coming out like stuffing. I remember you in the sniper corps, and how they never guessed, not once, that you were anything but a poor starving Leningrader like all the other poor, starving Leningraders. I got myself assigned to your detail, and I’ve done so well, so well for a suit of clothes stitched by a damned Yelena! I’ve done as I was told. I watched you, and I brought you back here. It took me longer than I thought to make you miserable enough to use that yarn. That butcher’s bitch—or one of her sisters, makes no difference—made me. Made me for you.”
Marya had known, but she had not known. She had known Ushanka was wrong, was broken—but what human was whole? “Why didn’t you tell me, that day in the parlor? We could have been friends. We could have been a comfort.”
Ushanka shrugged. “They didn’t tell me to comfort you.” She started walking again, towards the canteen. “Do you know what he did when you left? He stopped the Yelena mill. He pulled them all out and made them sit in a room in the Chernosvyat, all in rows like students, and he dragged Likho out from wherever she liked to slink before she died, and made her teach them. Like a skinny old black-wool-and-chalk schoolmistress. And do you know what he wanted taught? How to turn a Yelena into a Marya. He made them read that awful black book you had, and make friends with leshiyi and vintovniki and vilas, and shoot firebirds. Everything you ever did, he made them repeat, hoping one would show promise, be his star pupil. But they couldn’t stop their weaving as easy as winking, and all the while they just kept moving their hands like they were still working at the looms. Eventually, he gave up. That, quite frankly, is practically the worst thing I’ve ever heard of a husband doing, but it only goes to show what the flesh will do when it’s grieving. Better to have organdy and linen and silk, if you ask me. Silk doesn’t love; linen doesn’t mourn.”
Ushanka banged open the door of the canteen and dropped herself insolently into a chair by a little table with one leg shorter than the others. She let her face hang open, as though it didn’t trouble her a bit. Marya wanted to strangle her until she told her everything she’d ever known. No one came to ask them what they wanted to drink, to eat, anything. They were alone with the sunlight pouring in like the light after an air raid.
Marya hissed at her comrade, “Why are you so angry? It’s me that’s come home to find all my dead friends don’t know who I am, and nothing as I wanted it.”
“Who cares how you wanted it? I’m a golem, Marya Morevna. A golem with no masters left. What am I to do now? My mission is over, and all I’ve got to show for it is a dolt of a mother in a butcher shop who can’t even remember that she is my mother.”
Marya snatched Ushanka’s hand and dug in her nails, though it couldn’t hurt her, not really, unless organdy could suffer. “Where are we?” she hissed. “It’s not Buyan, but it is.” And then she knew. She understood. The revelation moved in her like death. But it was too big; she could not hold it. She let go of the sergeant’s linen hand.
“This is Viy’s country, isn’t it?” she whispered, afraid to say it and make it so. “And the war is over. We lost. In the end, between Germany and the wizard with the mustache in Moscow, the one I told them about all those years ago—the two of them ate us alive. The dead overwhelmed us. While we were counting our ration cards, Buyan and Leningrad and Moscow and everything was shriveling and blowing away.” And her heart recited from the black book as she had once recited from Pushkin as a girclass="underline" Viy made his country as like the living world as he could, even to building film houses where silvery images of the war showed, so that the dead might be grateful, and not wish to return to life.