A Russian Sister

by Caroline Adderson

  “Thank you,” Natalia said. “But it will upset Mother if she hears you. She’ll feel she has to comfort you, when she needs comforting herself.”

  He lifted his face then and thrust a shaking hand into his breast pocket for a handkerchief. Honked and wiped the moustache. “I apologize,” he told the hat. Breathing noisily in and out, he mastered himself.

  What Natalia did next surprised Masha. She took Smagin’s hands again and shook them until he met her eye.

  “It’s all right, Aleksander. You are a good friend to us. Will you warm yourself with tea before we set off?”

  He nodded. Natalia reached toward the samovar, but he wouldn’t let go of her other hand. She stretched for a glass, wriggled her fingers for it. Smagin held on.

  Natalia’s teasing had been a game. Smagin, so big and awkward, was made for jest. If he’d been an actor, he would be cast in comic roles. Natalia had never mentioned how dear a friend he was.

  Unlike her brother, Masha could be moved by an emotional scene. Blinking back her own tears, she filled Smagin’s glass.

  THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO VISIT THREE ESTATES, BUT only managed two that day. Both landowners knew that Smagin was coming with a prospective buyer, a famous writer, yet when they saw his proxy, they didn’t bother disguising what they felt. Natalia was bid to warm up in the parlour. Best if Masha stayed there too.

  “But, Peter,” Smagin reasoned. “She’s here to see the estate. You must let her look around.”

  The affronted landowner then switched to Ukrainian. After much gesticulation, a smile appeared under Smagin’s moustache.

  “After you, Miss C.” He swept his arm gallantly.

  Now when he failed to meet Masha’s eye, she assumed that he was embarrassed, which he ought to have been. Every question she asked—How old was the roof? Which crops grew the best?—was answered to Smagin, as though she were an imbecile. They inspected the house, then tramped along the waist-deep paths to the barn, bathhouse and privy. Hard to imagine what things looked like when not blanketed by snow. Back to the house before they froze. As soon as Masha mentioned money, the sensitive landowner would take Smagin’s arm and pull him into another room for a round of fierce whispering.

  Fuming, Masha joined Natalia in the parlour. By then she’d drunk the samovar dry. Eventually, Smagin came to fetch them.

  “He was damnably rude,” he said the first time. And the second.

  Then the wind came up, strong and biting, driving sheets of snow across the road. Smagin’s moustache, completely frozen, turned from black to white.

  “Miss C., Natalia? Perhaps we should put off the last stop. I’m having difficulty seeing.” They nodded. Smagin flicked the reins. “Aleksander! Xenia! Olga! Go!”

  When they arrived, Smagin apologized for the modesty of his home. The lacy trim on the eaves vied prettily with the icicles, but the house was clearly in poor shape, crooked inside the way a building gets when it wearies of its foundation. The door wouldn’t properly close; after they entered, the maid pushed a table against it. She was dressed in a traditional blouse, which Natalia complimented her on.

  “The samovar?” Smagin asked.

  “Boiled to a sparkle, sir, with joy that you’ve safely arrived, thanks be to God. We were worried you’d be caught in the storm.”

  “I’ll tell Kalina to bring it and see how long till supper. Please. Ladies. The parlour’s the warmest room this time of year.”

  Natalia knew the way. More crookedness—in the stove tiles squeezing each other out like bad teeth, the stacks of teetering catalogues and correspondence that confirmed Smagin’s bachelor status. Like Antosha, he probably gave orders that nothing be touched, though Antosha was fanatically neat. He didn’t want the inkwell moved from its logical place. Smagin had no logic, or it was hidden in his personal chaos.

  The door flew open. Smagin led in the cook, also in native dress, grinning widely and carrying the samovar on a tray. He hastened to clear space on the table by transferring some ledgers to a chair. The cook returned with glasses and a plate of fried and sugared delicacies.

  “Oh, khrustyky!” Natalia said, rushing for them. “Try one, Masha. You’ll die.”

  “To tide you over till supper,” the cook said, curtsying.

  Smagin, the lingering cook, Natalia—they all watched as Masha bit into a cookie. The part in her mouth melted while the rest crumbled down her front.

  “Good,” she told the cook.

  “Ah,” Smagin said with relief. “We didn’t kill you.”

  THE NEXT DAY, A FULL BLIZZARD DESCENDED, AND THEY were stuck. While Smagin went about his farm business, Masha made notes on the two estates they’d visited. She’d looked at Smagin’s pictures the day before, photographs of his rigidly posed family and paintings of horses, all askew on the wall. Natalia snooped in the bookcases, took out a small balalaika painted with flowers, and strummed.

  “Shall we ask him to play? He’s quite terrible.” She put it back and read the spines of the books. “Finally! Something not about animal husbandry.” She held out Antosha’s Motley Tales.

  Smagin joined them for lunch, smelling of manure and leather. The meal was as generous as the night before. Soup, dumplings, cutlets, more sweets.

  Masha ate just as much again, and afterward asked, “Mr. Smagin? Do you play whist?”

  “I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I can’t learn. Is it difficult?”

  “Not at all. We’ll need a fourth, though.”

  He enlisted the excited maid. Smagin easily picked up the rules and seemed to enjoy the game. Every time he fanned out his cards and held them to his face, the ends of his moustache showed on either side, and Natalia kicked Masha under the table.

  The first night, Natalia had crawled into bed with Masha and cried herself to sleep. Masha hadn’t minded; the stove was no match for the cold in the room. As soon as Natalia began to snore, though, Masha sent her staggering across the chilly gap to her own bed.

  The second night, with the wind hurling handfuls of sleet at the windows, the Ukrainiac made her move again.

  “Stay where you are,” Masha told her. “You snore, and there’s no room.”

  “Even less for Mr. Smagin, after you marry him. Are you going to marry him, Masha?”

  She’d been expecting this conversation. “Certainly not.”

  Natalia propped herself up on one elbow, her braid hanging almost to the floor. Masha waited for her to hum “The Nightingale.”

  Instead she asked, “Why not?”

  “For one, he hasn’t asked.”

  “He will. Don’t think his servants normally look this pretty. He’s got them gussied up for you. They know what’s going on too. It’s like a livestock market the way they keep showing you their teeth. I do get the sense you’re starting to like him.”

  This was true. “I don’t love him.”

  “Hard to love that moustache. You could dissuade him from it and anything else that isn’t to your taste. The same way you’ve got him imagining he likes whist.”

  “He breathes like his horses. Could I dissuade him from breathing?”

  She heard herself—so petty! Smagin was decent and kind. For some women that would be enough. Every day ursine men with too-close eyes and ridiculous moustaches lay down with wives who found them physically repellent. Wives they had to tear into. What did the wives do? Clench the pillow in their teeth?

  “I gather love is a thing that grows,” Natalia offered.

  “If you’re so fond of him, you should marry him yourself.”

  “He doesn’t want to marry me. He wants to marry you.”

  “But why?” An open invitation for a ribbing, but Masha was genuinely curious what Smagin saw in her.

  She received an unflatteringly honest answer. “Who knows? Why do people fall in love? I’ve friends who’ve lost their heads over utter nincompoops. When the delirium passes, they’re as baffled as I was. Sometimes it’s too late, they’ve already tied the knot. Georgi doesn’t have a
nything to do with how you feel, does he?”

  Masha looked across. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Mother told me, Masha. I’d already guessed it from your foul mood in Yalta.”

  “Told you what?”

  “So he’s not the reason you’re cold on Smagin?”

  “I’m not cold on Smagin! I just don’t want to marry him. Or Georgi, for that matter. Why should I get married at all? I’m perfectly happy. Antosha depends on me.” She paused to steady her voice. “As your family depends on you.”

  Natalia studied her for a moment before replying. “Forgive me for saying this, Masha, but you don’t seem happy.”

  Masha rolled over, showing her back. “Good night!”

  Natalia sighed and snuffed the lamp. Within minutes Masha heard her breathing deepen.

  So she didn’t seem happy. She should grin her head off dealing with these imbecile farmers? Laugh when she was worried about Antosha’s health again? And marrying Smagin would make her happy? She imagined the mattress sinking next to her. Louder breaths than Natalia’s. A heavy fumbling hand. That?

  She shivered. The wind was still howling, but it was either diminishing or the snow had entirely encased the house.

  AT FIRST LIGHT SHE WOKE IN SUCH A TEMPER THAT SHE couldn’t wait for Natalia to stir.

  “Did you talk to Georgi about me?”

  Natalia groaned but didn’t seem to wake.

  Masha stepped down onto the icy floor and used the pot. Urine streamed angrily against the copper. Smagin had kindly provided slippers, which she put on before going to the window and drawing back the curtain. Some Ukrainian frost fairy had embroidered the pane too thickly to see out.

  “When you’re really asleep, you breathe like Smagin. So I know you talked about me to Georgi.”

  Natalia laughed under the covers, then threw them off. “I wanted to make sure that he didn’t lead you on. Though I knew he wouldn’t. Georgi’s indifferent to women.”

  “What did he say about me?”

  “Nothing. Just that he was innocent.”

  Nothing. There was nothing to say about her. Masha sat before the mirror and looked at this nothing. Mother’s nose and curls and broad face. Except for that anomaly Kolia, her brothers looked like Father, who was actually handsome, though it was hard to see it beyond his personality.

  “I think you’re pretty, Masha,” Natalia said. “And so does Aleksander.”

  What could they do about the weather? Smagin decided it had calmed enough for them to carry on with the viewing in spite of the continuing wind. Natalia bowed out, so Masha and Smagin set out alone, heading for the estate they’d previously missed. When he invited her to sit up front with him, she agreed. She’d freeze to death if she refused.

  The same sort of boor greeted them each time, and Masha found herself wishing that she’d come with Olga instead. Olga would have put these farmers in their place the way Smagin couldn’t, not if he wanted to maintain good relations. And what would Olga say about Smagin laying his big arm along Masha’s shoulders to shield her from an icy blast? Get off her, you bear! She thought of Lika too, beating off those awful clerks. Masha made herself rigid and wondered if Smagin had arranged the weather for just this purpose.

  After dinner that night, Natalia excused herself again. She wanted Kalina to show her how she made those delicious fried cookies that, no doubt, the Lintvariovs’ own Ukrainian cook knew how to make. Smagin smoked and paced the parlour in his loud boots. Not only was his tread heavy, but the leather spoke.

  Masha could taste her dread. She didn’t want to hurt him—for both their sakes. As soon as she refused him, she’d feel guilty. Things would become even more awkward. And wouldn’t he resent her? As well as all this, there was the honest fact that Masha enjoyed being admired, even by Smagin. She thought of Lika again, how admiration showered down on her every time she left the house, yet she was blind to it. Perhaps it was like being blind to the air.

  Heavy boots, heavy nervous breath. Masha looked up.

  “Should I read to you, Mr. Smagin? I found one of my brother’s books on your shelf.” She had it in her lap.

  He seemed not to hear, was looking across the jumbled room to the icon corner, possibly praying for courage.

  “Motley Stories is so funny. Now he’s such a serious writer. Did you like it?”

  Smagin turned, squinting through his own smoke. “Where did you find that?”

  “On your shelf.”

  He looked as if she’d discovered something entirely incongruous, a ladies’ shoe or a human skull. Then he remembered.

  “Yes, your brother gave it to me. I don’t actually read.” Some tic gave her away, for he quickly sensed her disapproval. “I can! Quite obviously.” He gestured around at the chimneys of ledgers and catalogues. “But stories? No time, I’m afraid. Here’s my poetry. He picked up a random volume, The Book of the Farm, Volume 3, and waved it at her. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

  It still worked, her cracked heart. She felt it quiver.

  Smagin inhaled noisily again, and dropped the book in a new place. “How did you find the Lintvariovs? I haven’t visited since Zinaida’s fortieth day ceremony. I’d hoped they were faring better by now.”

  “They’re shattered. Natalia puts on a brave face, but she’s crying a lot.”

  “And Georgi?”

  “He cancelled his concerts.”

  Nodding, Smagin drew on his cigarette. “Did you have enough tea?”

  “My tears are brown. I wonder where Natalia is.”

  He checked that the moustache still hung on his face, patting both sides. “So Georgi cancelled.”

  With this second mention of Georgi, Masha wondered if he was hinting at something. Red blotches appeared on his face, and likely hers. He glanced at the icons again.

  “The last time I saw you, Mrs. Lintvariova discouraged me from visiting again.”

  “Because of Georgi?” She threw up her hands. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Really? I should have returned?”

  She wanted the record set straight regarding her infatuation with Georgi. “You should do what you want. Not listen to people like Mrs. Lintvariova who actually know nothing.”

  The red blotches joined together on Smagin’s face in a joyful blush. “I will, then.” He strode over to the table to snuff his cigarette. The whole room trembled. “I’ll do what I want.”

  Masha shrank in her chair.

  “What I want, Miss C. What I really want? Why do you look at me like that?”

  He was torturing her, dragging it out like this.

  “Like what?” she whispered.

  “You’re cowering. I’m not going to hit you. I just want permission to call you by your first name.”

  Masha released the armrests she’d been gripping. “Please do, Mr. Smagin!”

  “And I want you to call me Aleksander.”

  “I will!”

  He took several more unquiet breaths, then backed toward the door, keeping his eyes on her. “Well—Maria. That’s enough happiness for today. I wouldn’t want to get too used to it. I’m going to check the horses.” He bowed. “Good night.”

  “Good night. Aleksander.”

  After he left, Masha sat a moment staring at Antosha’s book in her lap. Then she smacked herself on the head with it.

  Natalia she found in the kitchen watching over a pot of hot oil. She and aproned Kalina gave her a questioning look, which Masha ignored. She sampled one of the cookies cooling on a plate and promptly burnt her tongue. Kalina rushed outside for a handful of snow.

  “Did he propose?” Natalia hurried to ask.

  “No!”

  Kalina returned and tied the snow up in a napkin for Masha. Natalia gave her a not-too-subtle head shake, which caused the cook’s shoulders to slump.

  “Would you please just keep out of my business, Natalia?” Masha said, before showing the two of them her back.

  In the parlour, sh
e irritably laid out a game of patience with one hand. She’d barely started playing when the door opened. Assuming it was Natalia, she refused to look up.

  “Maria?”

  Smagin again, snow dropping off his boots, his furred bulk filling the whole frame. “Would you consider marrying me?”

  This was the third proposal of her life. The other two had caught her equally off guard. She was holding a snowball. Her tongue burnt, then frozen. He just stood there. She couldn’t refuse outright. It would be too cruel.

  “I have my family to think of, Mr.— Aleksander. I couldn’t make a decision without consulting them.”

  “I see. But your family will be close by when Anton buys his estate. And I would welcome your parents here. I’ve met them and esteem them.”

  “But what about Antosha? He’d be alone.”

  “He’ll get married himself.”

  “He’s married to his work.”

  “That’s only what he says, Miss— Maria, while he looks for a wife.”

  “Really? I think you don’t know my brother well.”

  “Perhaps not. In any case, he’d be close by. With his work.”

  She could pass this burden off to Antosha. She’d discuss with him how to word the rejection, but he would send it.

  “Would you write to him, Aleksander? Write my brother, not my father. I wouldn’t go against Antosha’s advice.”

  Like a bear that swallowed a woodsman—that was how happy Smagin looked.

  “I will! I have great hopes, now, Maria. Thank you. Anton asked me to help him secure an estate. He obviously trusts and respects me.”

  “Obviously,” Masha said.

  “I’m going back out. Thank you for considering me. Good night, again.”

  He closed the door behind him. Masha stared at it, a brief moment of blankness before the ambush of guilt.

  THE NEXT DAY, THE FOUL WEATHER CLEARED. NATURE, embarrassed by her recent tantrum, put on all her charms, casting sequins on the new snow, welcoming the birds. Ice tasselled all the telegraph lines.

  Smagin drove them to the station shielding his eyes. His horses flicked their happy tails. He insisted on waiting with them. When the train pulled in, Masha thrust her hand out to bid him goodbye first, in case he tried to kiss her.