As the train neared Moscow, Lika said one more thing. “If he did write about me? With a heart, I mean. The way he wrote about that little dog Kashtanka, or even Dr. Dymov? Then I would be happy. I could read it over and over and at least imagine that he had some feeling for me.”
2
THE NEXT WEEKEND AT MELIKHOVO, WHILE THE three siblings lingered at the breakfast table, Masha learned of the repercussions of “The Grasshopper.” Along with the general furor, Isaac was threatening to challenge Antosha to a duel.
“So he’s not actually challenged you?” Masha hastened to clarify. “He’s just threatening to?”
Mother, who happened to be passing in the hall, stopped in the doorway, ashen-faced from what she’d overheard. “Antosha! I thought you said Isaac would put his gun away. Why is he challenging you?”
“It’s nothing, Mamasha,” Antosha told her. Indeed, he was taking it all lightly, smiling his demi-smile, while Masha listened to Misha’s report. “I wrote something Isaac didn’t like. He’ll get over it.”
“What did you write?” Mother’s voice quavered, as though she too feared his pen.
“Life can imitate art just as art imitates life. Do you remember I put Dr. Wagner in that story?”
“Which story?”
“It was called ‘The Duel.’”
“That’s what gave Isaac the idea?” Mother said.
“It must be. You saw the state he was in.”
Appeased, Mother carried on her way. Misha stood up from the table and tapped Antosha on the head.
“Quick thinking. Let me just say I’m glad I’m your brother, not your friend. Family’s off limits, isn’t it?” He smiled unpleasantly.
After Misha left, Masha said, “Antosha, just apologize.”
“To whom?”
“Isaac.”
There was no trace of defensiveness in his reply, unlike at Epiphany, when he’d been so angry over Isaac’s letter.
“Apologize for what? For depicting life as it is? He can’t go bellowing that that’s the sole purpose of art, then object when others do it.”
“Brother, he’s ill.”
A peculiar expression settled on his face. In it she read, So am I, and dropped her gaze.
“When Isaac was visiting,” Antosha went on, “he took his sketchbook out. If he goes back to his studio and paints Melikhovo’s broken fences and sagging porch, should I take offence? I wouldn’t, because that’s how it is.”
“You conflated Lika with Sophia. She isn’t like Sophia at all.”
“There you’re wrong. She’s like her when she keeps company with her. Miss Mizanova is altogether too impressionable. Someone should watch out for her, or she’ll get in with a bad crowd.”
Then he too stood up and left the dining room. That he went without his coffee was the only sign he was bothered after all. When Masha brought it to his study a few minutes later, he seemed grateful to have his routine honoured.
ISAAC HAD CLAIMED THAT MASHA WAS THE ONLY PERSON Antosha would listen to. Though true, he often gave no immediate sign of having heard her. At school, Lika showed Masha his brief letter.
I was sad you left, Lika. Let’s live peacefully. Jot me a few lines.
He had heeded Masha after all. This was as much of an apology as Lika’s “humbled admirer” was constitutionally able to express.
Had he written Isaac too? Masha doubted it. Meanwhile, Lika and Antosha’s flow of bantering letters recommenced. Was it a good thing? For Antosha, yes. But at school, Lika, no longer Jamais, now the more suggestive Cantaloupe, shared some of their teasing contents and her frustration, leaving Masha to wonder if Antosha realized the effect he had. Was he trying to keep her lovelorn? Was Lika’s effect on him all that mattered? Perhaps there was nothing wrong with his heart. Perhaps he was simply a monstrous egoist, like Isaac.
Masha had little time for these games now, and less interest. She was the busy mistress of an estate, fully unthawed now. Their real work had begun. Along with the joy of it came an unexpected side effect: Father reverted to his serf roots. Out of the house all day, no longer underfoot or sharing his ludicrous pensées, he became for the first time in their lives a tolerable presence.
As for Masha, as well as the accounting, she took charge of the vegetable garden and the hens, Antosha the orchard and the flowers. He ran a free clinic too, and, after writing, would see patients, peasants who’d been gathering since dawn along the bench under his window, or squatting on the ground. Many had no shoes, or only bast ones. The whole length of the wall bore the stain of greasy heads and dirty heels.
Masha was sometimes called to help. Then she would have to don her white apron and hold his tray of instruments, while Antosha lanced, extracted, prodded and salved—oblivious to her disgust. Life as it was. Only rarely did he spare her. Once, a man stinking of tobacco came in plucking at his flies. Sores on his face. The French disease. Antosha dismissed her.
“Your kindness will bring the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“May the Life-giving Virgin protect you, Doctor.”
“For your goodness the Kingdom awaits.”
This was his payment for work that would never end, a good word to a God he didn’t believe in. For every patient he saw, three more waited. And his writing waited, as did his duties on the local sanitation council. He was cholera officer too, during the outbreak that summer. Come noon, an exhausted Antosha, ill himself, headed to his room to wash.
“Antonshevu,” Mother would call. “When do you want lunch?”
“Soon. I’m going to write a letter first.”
A half hour later, the family gathered in the dining room. In walked Antosha, looking rested, like he’d dosed himself with some rejuvenating tonic. Restored from writing Lika. Always that half-smile on his lips, like he’d just indulged in something ripe and sweet.
TWO MONTHS LATER, LIKA CAME AGAIN, EN ROUTE TO her aunt’s estate, at the start of summer when Melikhovo’s guests were few. Among the many still angry with Antosha over “The Grasshopper” was Isaac, meaning Antosha had indeed not written him. Isaac was sure not to follow Lika now.
Unfortunately, the blonde who Misha was courting, Klara, was visiting at that time too, butterflying her lashes in Antosha’s direction. So another rivalry unfolded for their summer amusement, this time between two women. Apart from their hair, the visiting blondes were entirely different, Klara with brown eyes so far apart it wore you out to look from one to the other. Her mouth was wide too, as though she’d stretched it with an apple. Mainly Masha disliked Klara for the way she dragged the little brother around by his big ears, and how, every morning when Klara appeared for breakfast, she’d ask, “Any sign of the famous writer yet?” with Misha sitting right there at the table.
Together, Klara and Lika reminded Masha of cats, the one animal Antosha didn’t love. Dogs were his favourite. “They are fine people,” he always said. He even loved mice for their intelligent eyes and frugal ways. When he trapped one, he’d walk far into the woods and release it there. She’d expected two blondes at once would make him feel like a mouse himself, descended upon by rival felines.
She was wrong. Recently he’d bought a sprung carriage to make the trip to collect the post less painful. Off he raced each afternoon, a blonde on either side. If this was revenge on Lika for what she’d put him through at Bogimovo the previous summer, it was indistinguishable from his enjoyment.
During the day, the rising frenzy of Lika and Klara trying to out-laugh and out-mushroom-pick each other drove Masha to the solace of her garden. In the evening she joined the entertainment. Klara played the piano too, though her voice was a squeaking hinge compared to Lika’s. The first night they put on an impromptu concert, which ended with Klara playing the Can-can and commanding Lika to dance.
“Not like that. Kick higher,” she said of Lika’s shy stepping. “You play, then. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
She pranced a circle, flapping her skirt and flashing the lacy edging underneath
. When she turned her back to the men and bowed, it seemed an undisguised excuse to show that she too was in jiggling possession of a pair of cantaloupes. During this orgiastic display, Father glowered briefly in the doorway. Mother looked bewildered, Lika embarrassed.
Antosha, face inscrutable, mock-whispered to the little brother, “How I love immoral women.”
Misha’s expression was as scrutable as Father’s. She’s mine, it said.
The next day Mother relayed Father’s disapproval, and hers, obliging Masha to discourage another concert. She did it over coffee and rolls at breakfast.
Lika suggested they ask Antosha to read instead. “I’d love to hear ‘The Kiss’ in his own voice.”
Misha had thankfully already left for the barn, for Klara replied, “I’d prefer the actual thing to a story about it.”
Masha slapped her hand down on the table, setting their cups chattering in their saucers.
In response to her withering look, Klara said, “What?” as pertly as ever.
Later, Antosha refused Lika’s request. “I can’t think of a duller entertainment.”
“Whist?” Masha said.
“There’s one,” Misha said. “Snore.”
They settled on Post Office, Mother and Father joining them in the parlour. Masha was sentenced to be the postman. She passed around pencils and paper and delivered the anonymous messages.
God our Saviour loves you was the first of hers that she opened. Father, obviously.
Klara opened hers, shrieked, and pressed it to her breast. She refused to share it.
“‘I love your stories. They are so filled with pathos, they make me weep,’” Antosha read out. “It must be for Misha.” He slid it across.
“Very funny,” Misha told him. “I suppose you’re the author of this billet-doux. ‘Meet me behind the outhouse at midnight.’”
Antosha admitted nothing. Instead he observed, “Cantaloupe wears a frown. Someone must have written her an unpleasant truth.”
The frown became a wince. Then her silver eyes shifted briefly toward Klara’s brown ones, widening now with feigned innocence.
MASHA BEGAN AN EXERCISE THAT SUMMER—PAINTING the house from the same angle, but in different light. If it went well, if she didn’t get bored, she planned to continue through the seasons until she had produced a series. She chose a side view that included the fenced pasture for the way the horizontal rails, recently repaired, guided the eye—first across the foreground, then diagonally to their happy house. They’d never lived in one before.
To think that last summer she was running away! What a ninny. Where would she have ended up? With Aleksander’s moody thumb pressing down on her back? In a basement room again, sharing the kitchen with strangers?
The second last day of her visit, Lika sought Masha out while she was painting. “Oh, Masha. How lovely. May I watch?”
Though Masha could have done without an audience, she appreciated the praise and so accepted Lika’s nervous presence. It didn’t take her long to speak.
“Do you remember that girl at the Diary School, Anya? I had her and then you had her?”
“The pretty psychopath?”
“Yes! Klara reminds me of her.”
A cat fight, Masha thought, laying down the first wash of sky. Hisses and clawed swipes. She blotted the page here and there with a balled rag to form the clouds.
“She follows me everywhere in case I get Antosha alone. I only got away now because poor Misha insisted on sitting her down for a talk. You didn’t write, ‘Give up,’ did you? In Post Office, I mean.”
“No. I wrote that you’d look pretty holding a hoe.”
“I’ll help you tomorrow, Masha. I promise. Do you think Klara wrote it, or Antosha? Because, here’s the thing. My father sent me two tickets to the Caucasus. To take a holiday with a friend.”
Masha turned to look at her. “A friend?”
“Did you want to come?” Lika hastily asked.
She wasn’t inviting Masha. “Thank you for your kind invitation, but I’m much too busy for a holiday. As is Antosha, if you’re thinking of inviting him.”
Lika blurted, “He’s taken such a fancy to Klara. Or he pretends to. She’s a great one for innuendo.”
Klara with her lace-edged culottes. Her barefoot rush back to the dining room with her dress open at the back, past Antosha’s room. She’d left something on the table, she claimed. Misha, of course, was completely smitten the way he’d never been, or allowed himself to be, with Lika. He liked Lika, liked being seen with her too, because she was beautiful and associated with Antosha. But there was something missing. Passion, Masha supposed. That shivery thing.
She turned away from Lika without comment and dipped her brush, diluting the red to get the right shade for the house. The shade on Lika’s face.
Oh, Masha thought. A dull feeling settled on her, like after blurting out something stupid. Not passion. Passion was what women felt. This was lust. Her brothers were lusting after Klara. The realization came with that childhood image—the convict dogcatchers in Taganrog on the march with their cudgels and hooks.
Lika seemed to have read her mind. “I’d hoped there was more than that. He seemed above it. Because of the things he writes and all the good he does.”
“Than what?” Masha kept her eyes on the picture.
“That,” Lika said.
Masha muddied the water with the brush. Should she mention the houses in town that Antosha most likely visited every time he went? The actresses whose company he enjoyed. As an only child raised by women, would Lika even know about such things? How to put it so as not to disillusion her completely? Men have physical needs that must be met. Or maybe Lika should be disillusioned.
Before Masha could answer, Lika said, “I think I’m distracting you.” She walked back to the house hugging herself.
THE NEXT TIME MASHA ATTEMPTED THE SCENE WAS dusk the next evening. She struggled more. The light changed from moment to moment. A ripening peach, a fevered cheek. What advice would her teacher give, he who had sat before a thousand twilights? Look. Open your eyes. She kept dropping colour onto the wet page while Isaac’s long finger circled. Where are you, Masha?
Here I am. Finally!
She couldn’t keep up, and before she knew it, darkness had nearly fallen, defeating her. She packed her brushes and paints, folded her stool and headed in, taking the same route as the viewer’s eye, along the fence. All the lamps were lit inside the house. Lika was playing some sugary melody on the piano.
Then, out of the gloom, two light-coloured figures detached from the birch copse ahead. Masha heard, “Just ask your sister.”
It wasn’t Lika playing.
Masha should have signalled her approach, or walked the other way, but she was curious what Lika was saying about her. Neither of them noticed her frozen in place ten yards away.
“Really, I won’t put you under any obligation. You said you love immoral women, so you won’t be bored with me. I have stories too, you know.”
What was the silly girl talking about? Masha could see them standing close, but couldn’t make out their faces.
“Stories?” he asked.
“Yes. True ones,” Lika said. “Are you coming with me?”
“Unlikely. I don’t interfere with the lives of young ladies. It’s a principle.”
Masha almost snorted at this lie.
“Besides,” he went on, “if your father’s paying for these tickets, isn’t he likely to come after me?”
Lika slapped Antosha’s face. Masha’s breath sucked back inside her and she nearly cried out.
“Will you come?” Lika asked again, and at his “no,” she threw herself at him, pounding his chest, aiming for his head too, which he turned away protectively. Eventually she stopped. “Aren’t you going to fight back? I assure you I’d prefer it to this endless stalemate. No? Then I’ll have to thrash you till you agree.” She lifted her arm as though to strike him again.
Antosha seiz
ed her wrist, causing her to shriek. “Now you’ve made me hurt you, when that’s just what I’ve been trying not to do!”
He so rarely raised his voice. It alarmed Masha as much as the scuffle that preceded it. Then he reached for Lika, out of anger or to comfort her. They simply merged into one. All Masha saw of Lika were white hands travelling up and down her brother’s back.
“Will you come?” Lika pulled away to ask.
As Masha walked on, shaken, unseen, she heard her brother lie a second time. He said he would.
How disturbing. Masha went into the house. To get to her room she had to walk through the parlour where Klara was still playing. Klara stopped and stretched her mouth like a frog tsarevna.
“Where did everyone go? I can’t find Antosha anywhere.”
“Where is Misha?” Masha asked.
This was too subtle a rejoinder. Klara shrugged. “Off somewhere sulking.”
Masha went to her room and closed her door.
She blamed this invitation of Lika’s on Klara prancing around the parlour and jiggling her rump. Antosha himself had said Lika was too impressionable. The mores of their set—the arty crowd, Bohemians—were to blame as well. This set that Masha had invited Lika into. She’d invited Lika, but she was herself only an adjunct to it, through her brothers, by choice. Neither of them prohibited her from joining in; rather her sense of self-protection did. But if Masha did join, she would be protected in any case—unlike Lika, who lacked not only brothers but, increasingly it seemed, the sense that her self was worth protecting.
THEY WERE GOING AWAY TO THE CAUCASUS TOGETHER. Lika told Masha this before she left Melikhovo the next morning.
“Tell no one.”
She sounded triumphant but looked battle-weary. No need for Masha to disabuse her, she decided. Antosha was sure to do it.
For the rest of the summer, letters travelled back and forth between Melikhovo and Lika’s aunt’s estate in Tver. Antosha didn’t share them, but Masha could guess their contents. Lika trying to firm up their scandalous plans, Antosha steadfastly non-committal. Had Masha been wrong not to tell Lika it wouldn’t happen? This question now and then burbled up to disturb her present contentment, along with the uncomfortable feeling that she might be guilty of the same maddening reticence as Antosha.
A Russian Sister Page 21
