Baba Dunja's Last Love (10 page)

 

 

“Tell me what I should do,” Petrow demands, jarring me from my reverie. “I'm full of nervous energy.” As proof he hoists his scrawny little arms and balls his bony fists. “Shall we burn him like the Indians do?”

“Where do you get such garbage in your head?” He has succeeded in perking me up, but I don't show it. “Nobody will come to get him. We have to dig him a grave.”

“We're not qualified. But I'm with you.” He wanders off and returns with a shovel that looks suspiciously like one that belongs to the Gavrilows.

We wait until the sun isn't beating down and then get started. Or rather, Petrow does, beginning to dig. He has overestimated himself. After every scoop he has to catch his breath for a few seconds, and after five he has to take a break for a few minutes. But he keeps going. He is a man, so I can't say anything. I bring him hot water with mint.

“I'd rather have a cola with ice cubes,” he groans, propping himself up on the shovel.

“Cold chemicals in the heat will kill you,” I say.

Every now and again he sets himself down in the grass, at which point I pick up the shovel and ignore the pain in my ribs. I'm surprised how difficult it is. The fact that I'm apparently weaker than the infirm Petrow frightens me, but I don't think about it for long. The rich, reddish-brown dirt piles up in puny molehills.

“You are not allowed to say that we cannot do it. You have to believe in us,” says Petrow, but I ignore his nonsense.

Flies buzz above the tarp. Time is working against us. Sweat runs down our faces, but the molehills barely get bigger. I sit down next to Petrow and close my eyes.

When I open them again I see Marja shoveling.

I have to say, she is of a completely different caliber. I've never seen her work before, and I didn't know what I was missing. Her huge white body proves strong. She shovels like a backhoe and is barely breathing hard. It must be all the pills she gulps down daily, or her iron constitution that even the pills can't weaken.

Petrow and I watch speechlessly. Marja doesn't look at us. She concentrates on shoveling. The dirt flies into our faces. She pauses only to wipe her brow. Her round cheeks have reddened and her braids are coming undone. She could be the featured soloist in a folk-dancing troupe.

Maybe she once was, who knows.

When she takes a break on the grass next to us, Petrow tries to stand up again. He can't. He makes a few jokes about it, that we might as well dig a grave for him while we're at it, but Marja ignores him. She reaches out for some juicy burdock leaves, rips a few off with a precise motion, and puts one on her forehead and two smaller ones on her cheeks.

Soon Sidorow takes up the shovel. He looks over at me proudly but a moment later nearly falls into the hole. Marja takes the shovel from him. He props himself up on his cane and watches her with a look that betrays the fact that he hasn't given up on finding a good match.

Marja takes off her wool jacket. Her upper arms are round and quiver like jelly. The flesh is so pink that you want to bite into it. Mr. Gavrilow comes and watches silently. Marja indulges him. At some point she takes off her kneesocks and puts her shoes back on. Sidorow wipes his face. Gavrilow gulps loudly. Only Petrow keeps his eyes closed.

Marja shovels with a victorious smile on her face. She is now standing in a knee-deep pit. She shakes her head like a wild horse and then hands the shovel to Gavrilow.

Mr. Gavrilow, whom I have never seen doing anything that doesn't directly and exclusively benefit him, takes the shovel. His hand brushes Marja's. She shows her teeth, her laugh sounds fake in my ears. The fact that she's younger than I am does not make her a spring chicken. Gavrilow doesn't seem to notice. Under Marja's watchful eye, he begins to dig wildly, furiously, like an anteater.

His rhythmic grunts spur Mrs. Gavrilow into action. I fear that he's earned himself a smack on the head later. But for now, Gavrilow is king of the pit and we are his audience. We breathe in unison. The mounds of earth grow.

Jegor comes, too. I want to deflect his attention toward Marja—he always knew when there was something about a woman to look at—but he fixates on me the way a cat fixates on a bottle of valerian. Other dead gather as well. Glascha's father isn't one of them; I'm happy about that. His body lies under the tarp and his blood has seeped into our earth.

It is getting dark by the time Gavrilow retrieves from his house a tattered bedsheet splattered with pale stains. I pull the tarp away. A swarm of flies rises. Marja turns away and throws up in the raspberries.

Pooling our strength we wrap Glascha's father in the sheet, tie it head and foot, and pull him into the grave. We all push and pull together. Our hands brush one another in the silence that is broken only by the scraping sound and our breathing. The body lands with a thump in its new bed.

Filling the hole back in goes more quickly, even though we are tired. When everyone has left, I stomp the soil smooth on top. My bones feel hollow from fatigue.

 

 

Nothing in the world is as horrible as being young. It's okay as a child. If you're lucky there are people to look after you. But from sixteen on it gets harsh. You're really still a child, but everyone just sees you as an adult who is easier to step on than one who is older and more experienced. Nobody wants to protect you anymore. New responsibilities are constantly foisted upon you. Nobody asks you whether you understand the latest thing you are supposed to do.

It really gets bad after marriage. Suddenly you are responsible not only for yourself but for others, and there are always more and more who wish to ride on your back. In your heart, though, you are still the child you always were and will remain for a long time. If you are lucky you'll be half-mature by the time you get old. Only then are you in a position to be able feel sympathy for those who are young. Until then you begrudge them for whatever reason.

Those are the things that go through my head when I think about Irina and Laura.

I want to send Irina a letter. She complains that I don't write often enough. I know that in reality she doesn't sit around waiting for my letters. But she wants me to think that she cares about me. She's also afraid that I'm bored, and writing a long letter is a peaceful and sensible activity. She doesn't believe me when I say that I don't even know what it means to be bored. She is a good daughter and wants confirmation from me that she is paying sufficient attention to me. Since Alexej took off to the other side of the globe, she's my closest kin, geographically speaking as well. She must live with a permanently bad conscience.

So I sit down at the kitchen table, grab my school-style graph-paper notebook and a pen, and start to write. I don't touch the new pink paper, that's for Laura. Irina doesn't care for pink.

My dear daughter Irina
, I write,
my dear son-in-law Robert, and my beloved only grandchild, Laura. Baba Dunja greets you warmly from the village of Tschernowo by Malyschi. How are you all? I am well, even though I can tell I'm no longer 82 anymore. But for my advanced age, I am very content. I am particularly pleased with the hiking sandals that you, Irina, sent me from Germany. You are always so good at picking out the right size for me. Since I've been wearing them my feet hurt much less.

I went to Malyschi this week and retrieved the new letters and packages. Much gratitude to you all. I particularly appreciate the vanilla sugar, which I use sparingly, and the reading lens. Though actually I'm still quite satisfied with my eyes. When I was your age, Irina, I thought I would soon go blind. It still hasn't happened.

The weather is summery, early in the morning it's 60 degrees or so, and by noontime the thermometer pushes toward 90. It's not always easy to bear, especially when evening temperatures only cool down to the mid-70s and, as I mentioned, don't reach the 60s, which I find most comfortable, until the early morning.

The mood here in Tschernowo is very good. I often have my neighbor Marja over for coffee, which you, Irina, sent. I've told you about her. She's not too clever but she's good-natured. She's younger than I am.

I lean back and think. I feel obligated to tell Irina something about yesterday, but carefully, so she doesn't get upset.

This week something unusual took place. We gained two new residents, but they were unable to stay. Life in Tschernowo is very nice, but it's not suitable for everyone
.

I want to say something to Robert, too. I've never seen Irina's husband, but I want to demonstrate my respect for him.

I know that you have a lot to do as a family. Laura will graduate soon and will turn eighteen, and you, Irina and Robert, work so much at the hospital. I am sure that you do a lot for people through your work and that they are thankful to have you
.

Irina has never told me much about Robert. The last time she sent me a photo with him in it was probably ten years ago. He was balding and had a big nose. But a husband needn't be handsome. Jegor was, but what good was it to me?

Irina, I think often about your father. He had his failings, but he was a good man.

I know that you sometimes worry about me. You needn't. I am getting by very well, and I feel very much at ease. I hope that you are taking good care of yourselves
.

I turn the page over. My pen marks have pressed through the back of the paper. I've already written a lot. Irina will be comforted.

I've written so much already. Please forgive me for taking so much of your time.

Fond greetings from Tschernowo, your Baba Dunja
.

 

 

The letter needs to be mailed. But I won't make it to Malyschi in the next few days. I need to rest, for at least two weeks. If it were me, I wouldn't return to Malyschi for the rest of the summer. I'd like to sit on the bench and stare at the clouds and once in a while exchange a word with Marja.

In reality I rarely sit on the bench. And most times when I do I get up almost immediately to go sweep the floor, beat the rugs, clean the pots with sand, or scrape the rust off the teakettle. Weeds are sprouting green and luscious, I rip them out, and when I straighten up again I see black. It doesn't make me afraid, I just wait for my vision to clear.

The haze before my eyes dissipates, and I see the face of a serious little girl with pale blonde hair. My beloved granddaughter Laura, whom I have never met and who has written me a letter that I can't read.

For a moment I feel a sense of horror. I think that Laura has come to Tschernowo as a ghost. But it's just the heat and my old veins. Laura is at home in Germany. She is safe. I didn't mention in my letter to Irina that Laura wrote me. I don't actually know anything about Laura. The things that Irina writes about her don't give a clue about what Laura is like as a person. Laura is in first grade, Laura transferred into fifth grade, Laura will graduate this year. It doesn't tell you anything.