At breakfast Mother looked concerned—Grandfather wouldn’t eat again. Uncle Borya whistled, breaking the shell of his egg with a spoon, and watching the boys—looking for something to pick on. Lenechka spilled the milk and Uncle Borya was glad—an excuse to nag. But Lenechka was totally indifferent to his uncle’s lectures: he was still little and his soul was sealed like a chicken egg; everything just rolled off. If, God forbid, he fell into the water, he wouldn’t drown—he’d turn into a fish, a big-browed striped perch. Lenechka finished his milk and, without listening to the end of the lecture, ran out to the sand box: the sand had dried in the morning sun and his towers must have fallen apart. Petya remembered.
“Mama, did that girl drown a long time ago?”
“What girl?” his mother asked with a start.
“You know. The daughter of that old lady who always asks what time it is?”
“She never had any daughter. What nonsense. She has two grown sons. Who told you that?”
Petya said nothing. Mother looked at Uncle Borya, who laughed with glee.
“Drunken delirium of our shaggy friend! Eh? A girl, eh?”
“What friend?”
“Oh, nothing… Neither fish nor fowl.”
Petya went out on the porch. Uncle Borya wanted to dirty everything. He wanted to grill the silver girl-fish and crunch her up with his wolf teeth. It won’t work, Uncle Borya. The egg of the transparent morning bird Alkonost is glowing under my pillow.
Uncle Borya flung open the window and shouted into the dewy garden: “You should drink less!”
Petya stood by the gate and dug his nail into the ancient gray wood. The day was just beginning.
Grandfather wouldn’t eat in the evening, either. Petya sat on the edge of the crumpled bed and patted his grandfather’s wrinkled hand. His grandfather was looking out the window, his head turned. The wind had risen, the treetops were swaying, and Mama took down the laundry—it was flapping like The Flying Dutchman’s white sails. Glass jangled. The dark garden rose and fell like the ocean. The wind chased the Sirin bird from the branches; flapping its mildewed wings, it flew to the house and sniffed around, moving its triangular face with shut eyes: is there a crack? Mama sent Petya away and made her bed in Grandfather’s room.
There was a storm that night. The trees rioted. Lenechka woke up and cried. Morning was gray, sorrowful, windy. The rain knocked Sirin to the ground, and Grandfather sat up in bed and was fed broth. Petya hovered in the doorway, glad to see his grandfather, and looked out the window—the flowers drooped under the rain, and it smelled of autumn. They lit the stove; wearing hooded jackets, they carried wood from the shed. There was nothing to do outside. Lenechka sat down to draw, Uncle Borya paced, hands behind his back, and whistled.
The day was boring: they waited for lunch and then waited for dinner. Grandfather ate a hard-boiled egg. It rained again at night.
That night Petya wandered around underground passages, staircases, in subway tunnels; he couldn’t find the exit, kept changing trains: the trains traveled on ladders with the doors wide open and they passed through strange rooms filled with furniture; Petya had to get out, get outside, get up to where Lenechka and Grandfather were in danger: they forgot to shut the door, it was wide open, and the Sirin bird was walking up the creaking steps, its eyes shut; Petya’s schoolbag was in the way, but he needed it. How to get out? Where was the exit? How do I get upstairs? “You need a bill.” Of course, a bill to get out. There was the booth. Give me a bill. A treasury bill? Yes, yes, please! “Forging state treasury bills is punishable by law.” There they were, the bills: long, black sheets of paper. Wait, they have holes in them. That’s punishable by law. Give me some more. I don’t want to! The schoolbag opens, and long black bills, holes all over, fall out. Hurry, pick them up, quick, I’m being persecuted, they’ll catch me. They scatter all over the floor, Petya picks them up, stuffing them in any which way; the crowd separates, someone is being led through… He can’t get out of the way, so many bills, oh there it is, the horrible thing: they’re leading it by the arms, huge, howling like a siren, its purple gaping face upraised; it’s neither-fish-nor-fowl, it’s the end!
Petya jumped up with a pounding heart; it wasn’t light yet. Lenechka slept peacefully. He crept barefoot to Grandfather’s room, pushed the door—silence. The night light was on. The black oxygen pillows were in the corner. Grandfather lay with open eyes, hands clutching the blanket. He went over, feeling cold; guessing, he touched Grandfather’s hand and recoiled. Mama!
No, Mama will scream and be scared. Maybe it can still be fixed. Maybe Tamila can help?
Petya rushed to the exit—the door was wide open. He stuck his bare feet into rubber boots, put a hood over his head, and rattled down the steps. The rain had ended, but it still dripped from the trees. The sky was turning gray. He ran on legs that buckled and slipped in the mud. He pushed the veranda door. There was a strong waft of cold, stale smoke. Petya bumped into a small table: a jangle and rolling sound. He bent down, felt around, and froze: the ring with the toad, Tamila’s protection, was on the floor. There was noise in the bedroom. Petya flung open the door. There were two silhouettes in the dim light in the bed: Tamila’s tangled black hair on the pillow, her black robe on the chair; she turned and moaned. Uncle Borya sat up in bed, his beard up, his hair disheveled. Tossing the blanket over Tamila’s leg and covering his own legs, he blustered and shouted, peering into the dark: “Eh? Who is it? What is it? Eh!”
Petya started crying and shouted, trembling in horrible understanding, “Grandfather’s dead! Grandfather’s dead! Grandfather’s dead!”
Uncle Borya threw back the blanket and spat out horrible, snaking, inhuman words; Petya shuddered in sobs, and ran out blindly: boots in the flowerbeds; his soul was boiled like egg white hanging in clumps on the trees rushing toward him; sour sorrow filled his mouth and he reached the lake and fell down under the wet tree oozing rain; screeching, kicking his feet, he chased Uncle Borya’s horrible words, Uncle Borya’s horrible legs, from his mind.
He got used to it, quieted down, lay there. Drops fell on him from above. The dead lake, the dead forest: birds fell from the trees and lay feet up; the dead empty world was filled with gray thick oozing depression. Everything was a lie.
He felt something hard in his hand and unclenched his fist. The squashed silver guard toad popped its eyes at him.
The match box, radiating eternal longing, lay in his pocket.
The Sirin bird had suffocated Grandfather.
No one can escape his fate. It’s all true, child. That’s how it is.
He lay there a bit longer, wiped his face, and headed for the house.
SWEET DREAMS, SON
In 1948 Sergei’s mother-in-law’s karakul fur coat was swiped.
The fur coat, of course, was marvelous—curly, warm, with a rare lining: lilies of the valley embroidered in purple. You could stay in a coat like that forever: shoes on your feet, a muff on your hands, and just go, go, go! And the way they swiped it— brazenly, boorishly, crudely—just snatched it out from under her nose! His mother-in-law—a gorgeous creature, plucked eyebrows, heels clicking—went off to the flea market taking the cleaning woman Panya with her—you don’t remember her, Lenochka. No, Lenochka did remember her vaguely. Don’t be silly, weren’t you born in 1950? You’re confusing her with Klava, remember Klava, she had that pink comb and she was so round, remember? She kept saying, “My sins are great, my sins are great,” and kept worrying she’d burn in hell. But what a cook, and she taught me. And we used to give her our old shoes for her grandchildren in the village. Now no one takes old shoes, you don’t know what to do with them.