“It’s all right, Leonid,” said Mykola. “We don’t visit him for a reason. I’ll wait outside.”
He stepped backward out of the doorway. Kasha yipped.
“And an animal! I’d hoped he would train you all better than this. Bringing that man and an animal to my house. Of all the absurdities. He probably has you eating with your bare hands. That…” Tsiolkovski spoke a name Leonid had never heard before.
“Who are you talking about?” asked Leonid.
“Surely he’s still Chief Designer. He was a good man. He could never go into space, of course, what with his balding. He was balding even then.”
Leonid felt embarrassed that he had never stopped to consider that the Chief Designer might have a name.
“Cosmonauts can’t be bald?” asked Leonid. Tsiolkovski’s hair clung to his liver-spotted scalp only in wisps.
“There can be no genetic inferiority in space. When we colonize Mars, only the fittest can go. You and Nadya, you’d be fine breeding stock. As much as the process of breeding is repulsive, it’s necessary for now. Until we can find another way. Imagine the children you two would have! Leonid, you were my first choice. I don’t know why the Chief Designer saved you until last. You’re not balding, are you?”
“Not that I know of.” Leonid’s anger ebbed. This man was but a cracked shell of the old Tsiolkovski. He was like a child. A bitter one lacking innocence, but a child nonetheless.
“Good, good. Then you should have been first. I trust the Chief Designer, but he was always bad at prioritizing. What was last was always first and what was first always last. That’s another reason he can never go to space. He lacks faith. How can one conquer heaven without believing in it? Not the tripe from the church, but there’s definitely something up there. It’s the only thing that makes sense. There’s no heaven at the moment, of course. It’s our duty to create it. We must create the angels that will live there. And those angels must be perfect. But I’m afraid you can’t take your dog. No animals in heaven. They’re lesser, and only the superior are allowed. Imagine how great it will be surrounded by only the superior. Villages like this one won’t even exist. We’ll leave villages like this behind forever.”
Tsiolkovski clacked the hollow horn down on the table.
“Where’s my lunch,” he demanded.
“You just ate it,” said Varvara.
“What?”
She leaned toward his ear. “You already ate.”
Tsiolkovski patted his belly, such as it was. Age had sucked his innards into themselves. His chest continued straight to his stomach without the interruption of even a bump. How old was the man? Leonid could not remember, but surely at least a hundred. After a certain point, all ages looked the same.
“So I did,” said Tsiolkovski. “What about tea?”
“There’s a cup right in front of you,” said Varvara.
He patted at the table until his hand found it. He snaked one knuckly finger through the handle and held the cup in front of him without drinking from it. A picture of Nadya was printed on the side. With his other hand, Tsiolkovski returned the hollow horn to his ear.
“Is your brother with you?” asked Tsiolkovski.
“He’s gone. Dead.” The bitter taste returned to Leonid’s mouth.
“Nonsense.”
“He went to space.”
“I know that, of course.”
“He died there.” Leonid’s voice cracked.
“Nonsense. I spoke to him just yesterday.” Tsiolkovski gestured to the far corner of the cottage with the teacup, sloshing tea over his hand and onto the table.
In the corner, an old radio, components stacked a meter high, dominated the space that had once contained Grandmother’s dresser. The shiny metal surfaces, silver knobs, and glass-covered meters looked entirely out of place. Like Sputnik in a medieval painting. Like Leonid felt now sitting in his own home.
“I believe you’re mistaken,” said Nadya.
“Where’s my tea?” asked Tsiolkovski.
“In your hand,” said Varvara.
“You’re mistaken,” repeated Nadya.
“Who’s that?” asked Tsiolkovski.
“Our guests were just leaving.”
“Good riddance. You tell those inbred villagers to stay away from me. God knows what germs they carry.”
“I’ll tell them.”
Varvara led Nadya and Leonid from the table and outside. Leonid looked back. He had a view of the radio through the crack in the door until it closed completely.
“I apologize for my husband,” said Varvara.
Looking at her, Leonid saw that she was much younger than Tsiolkovski, maybe by decades. How could she tolerate sharing space with the man’s ramblings? He remembered the patience of Grandmother, the wisdom that led villagers to seek her out when they needed advice.
“He must be old now,” said Leonid. He prodded a mound of black dirt with his foot, uncovering the wet muck underneath.
“One hundred and eight. I think there’s something about this cottage that lends the men who live here long life.”
“It didn’t work for my brother.”
“You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Your brother’s alive. Even now, he orbits the planet. My husband might be senile, but he’s not wrong about that. I’ve listened to their conversations. Every few days, my husband turns on the radio and speaks to him.” She pointed up at the trees. “There’s an antenna run throughout the woods, and a transmitter farther along. I wasn’t convinced that it was really Leonid he was talking to, not until now. You and your brother have the same voice.”
Mykola and Kasha were up the hill, playing together as if the years had not passed, as if Mykola were still a child and this Kasha were her mother. But back then, they did not play together like this. Mykola had been too fatigued by hunger. He played now the way he probably wished he could have played as a child, reclaiming some missed part of his youth.
“That’s impossible.” Sweat slicked Leonid’s palms. His mind raced through all the statistics he knew of Vostok. The exact numbers escaped him, but the amount of air in the tanks was measured in days, not months. Water would have lasted a week, and food less than that, even if his brother rationed it.
“There must be some mistake,” said Nadya. “They’re all dead. Every one of them.” She placed her hand on Leonid’s shoulder and squeezed so hard it hurt.
“All but one, it seems,” said Varvara.
Leonid backed one step at a time from the cottage, pulling free of Nadya’s grip. The land sloped away, threatening to topple him. He had not openly grieved his brother, but now realized that he had processed through grief the same as anyone. Maybe it was that the news came in this place, his and his brother’s home. He had come here perhaps for closure, but instead found the feeble sutures that held the wound shut ripped open to reveal his fresh red interior. He tried to speak, but he was panting.
“You two, the Leonids,” said Varvara, “it’s not surprising that one of you would survive against the odds. You survived this place, the famine and the purges. Konstantin, he wanted you to go first, but the Chief Designer saved you until the end. I think the Chief Designer knew that with time his capsule would improve, and combined with your perseverance, one of you would have the best chance to make it through the harsh reality of space. He held off on his best chance of success, denying himself heaven until he knew he had equipment worthy of his conqueror. But it never was worthy, was it? Or was it that we were not worthy to go there? At least not to go there and return.”
It was all too much. Leonid planted his feet and balled his fists. “There’s no such place as heaven. My brother escaped the hell of this valley only to be sent somewhere worse. Now you tell me he’s alive, when that clearly can’t be true. To hell with your husband, and with you, too, for playing along. Though I suppose you’re already there.”