In a cluster off to one side, there’s Maria. And Ivan Kurmachev, the carpenter. There’s the American, John Williams, so pale and thin now that with his shock of red hair he looks like a candle. Do they see me? I wave. I didn’t realize they’d all be here.
Maria comes to the edge of the water, her eyes all but invisible in their deep creases, her mouth stretched wide. “You said you’d be back, but I didn’t expect it would be so soon.” I take the hand she offers and sink into her arms once again, feeling the frail bones of her back.
Timofei Osipovich is pulled into the centre of the men. They wrap their arms around him and won’t let go. Ovchinnikov and the two Aleuts are also dragged into the wild tangle. They look like a nest of octopuses. My heart swells.
And then I realize.
He’s missing. My husband is not here.
I turn to Maria. I can’t breathe.
“He’s here,” she says. “Don’t worry.”
“Where?”
“Fishing,” she says. “Down the coast.”
“When are they coming back?”
No one knows.
All the men are thinner and more worn down. They’re dirtier and their clothes are even more ragged than the last time I saw them. Still, joy lights up their faces; it eases my worry. We’re far from being the creatures we were when the brig ran aground, but the fondness they exhibit in their smiles and their embraces reminds me of their camaraderie on the ship. It renews my confidence. We will overcome this tragedy.
Maria’s the least changed of all. The most conspicuous difference is a sinew with a beaded pendant she now wears around her neck. The pendant, made of those tubular, white beads and korolki, hangs between her saggy breasts like an artifact from happier times. It’s hard not to look at that female part of her and wonder what kind of a young woman she was and what hopes she’d once nurtured.
When the men draw apart and there’s space between their words, I ask, “Where have you been? What happened?”
They look at one another, and from the fear and pride and uncertainty and confusion in their gazes, I understand, without having heard a word, that much has happened—just as it has to me—and that it’s hard to know where the story begins. The carpenter Kurmachev answers the challenge. “We were determined to stay free men,” he says, “but as you can see, we failed. We planned an escape by sea. The moon was unfriendly that night, peeking through a rent in the clouds as though taunting us. There was so little light for a sea voyage.”
They built a canoe. It capsized in the surf. They scrambled for their lives. They got back to shore. But they lost everything.
“From that moment, there was no choice,” drawls the American. “We surrendered to these koliuzhi.”
“If I’d heeded you, Madame Bulygina, that day on the river,” says Kurmachev, “I’d still have my flask. But to each his lot is given!”
Every man speaks at once. Agreeing, disagreeing, explaining, qualifying, contradicting, exaggerating, and teasing. Multiple truths are set before me, and I’m invited to choose the ones I want. Some mesh with my story and some don’t. Some are spoken quietly, others shouted with passion. I don’t know which is most deserving, or what to believe. But I feel light as a feather, lifted up by the pleasure of hearing their voices once again.
The moustached toyon’s house overflows with guests from the village as well as up and down the coast. Makee’s sister with her silver comb sits with a group of women my mother’s age on a bench near one of the posts. The Murzik has a long conversation with Timofei Osipovich. They’ve met before and I soon deduce that our prikashchik gave him the handkerchief that caused so much trouble with the Chalat Tsar. The injured eyebrow man is also here. Not only is he here but he’s the bridegroom—marrying the moustached toyon’s daughter.
He’s wearing a breechclout, but covering it, and the top half of his legs, is a decorated apron. The queer koliuzhi creatures are woven into it—a big-snouted animal like a bear or a wolf stretched out along the top, and beneath it, a toothy creature with huge eyebrows that mirror his and a checkerboard neck. The apron is big enough to cover his scar. He also wears a new, red shirt that can only have come from us.
Nikolai Isaakovich returned from fishing just after we’d finished warming ourselves before the fire. The chill of the sea voyage had left my body. Timofei Osipovich called out to him as soon as he entered, and he stopped. He smiled, hearing the familiar voice, and when he found the prikashchik’s face, he strode across the house and they embraced, pounding one another on their backs. When my husband pulled away, I had the chance to really see him. His face was ruddy, his hair wet and stringy, and he looked savage in a way that I know would have bothered his sensibilities only a few weeks ago. Timofei Osipovich said something else to him, and he looked up and found me.
I smiled. How did he see me? I’d taken great care with my appearance. Inessa and the other girl had let me know I was pretty in my new dress. But what did my husband think?
After a long, fearful moment, his lips pressed together in an uncertain smile. I rushed to his side and threw open my arms. He embraced me. He brushed his lips against my hair, and lowered his mouth to my ear. “My God, Anya, what happened to your dress?”
I hid my face against his chest.
The evening is filled with songs and stories and dancing. Though I’m tired from the journey, I can’t look away. I press myself into the side of Nikolai Isaakovich and soak in the grand spectacle. The colourful masks. The regal clothes—sea otter capes over the shoulders of many men, and jewellery such as I’ve not yet seen anywhere. The drumming that shakes the walls. The smoke that, on a whim, conceals or reveals. The voices that soar into the rafters and plummet back down and squirm into our ears. I think our breathing has been harmonized, and our breaths together are part of the songs and stories. But not exactly a part—it’s more like they’re the canvas on which the songs and stories are embroidered. I try holding my breath to see what will happen, but as soon as I start breathing again, I follow the same rhythm as everyone else. To do otherwise would be like sailing against the wind and current.
At the end of one dance, two men begin to banter alongside a small fire. One of them is the groom—the eyebrow man. As they tease one another, women thrust kindling into that fire. It crackles and smokes for a bit, but then the wood catches and the fire flares, throwing light and shadows on everyone’s faces.
Each man is given a dish—the dishes used to serve grease. The first man raises his dish to his lips and takes a sip. The groom does the same. Afterward, both have broad smiles and glossy lips and teeth—they were drinking grease. I look at my husband, but he’s wide-eyed, watching the drama in disbelief.
The first man takes another drink—a longer, deeper mouthful. He swallows. And again, the groom does the same. The people in the house are calling out and laughing. In response, both men again drink—downing even bigger portions of grease.
“What on earth is this about?” my husband says.
They keep drinking from their dishes, back and forth, two gulps of grease, then three. Finally, the first man tilts his dish to the ceiling and drinks until the grease is drained. He tears the dish away and spits into the fire.
The fire unrolls toward the ceiling with a whoomp. Somebody screams. The faces of the nearest people are lit up like on a hot summer day. Many jump back. Everyone cheers. When the flame dies down, black smoke fills the house.
“That’s madness,” my husband says.
The groom tips his dish back and drains it, too. And then, with his head tilted right back, he gestures frantically until a woman gives him another grease dish. He drinks from it, too, the grease running down the sides of his mouth and neck, and all over his new red shirt.
He throws his head forward and spits into the fire.
The flames roar and touch the ceiling. I scream. And then it ends. The fire dies down, black smoke clouds the room—and the people cheer for the groom who has won the competition.
&nbs
p; Glistening with grease, the groom calls out and circles the house. People laugh. Some brush him away. But one man raises his arm and steps forward. He’s young—barely sprouting facial hair—but he’s brimming with a combination of masculine confidence and bashfulness. The people cheer for him.
Two ropes that I hadn’t noticed hanging from the rafters are released from hooks on the wall. They sway until they come to rest. They glisten. They’re coated with grease.
A man starts to beat on a drum and when he stops, he calls out.
The young man and the groom run, jump, and throw themselves onto the ropes. The ropes swing. They start to climb.
Everyone shouts.
The ropes are impossible to climb. Neither man can get higher than one length of his arm before he comes sliding down to the bottom. But they keep trying. The groom wipes his hands on his shirt, but it’s even greasier than the rope.
Their arms bulge as they squeeze and hold on. They twist the rope around their feet. Their toes grip like birds’ talons. Still, they slide down more than they climb up.
Finally, when the groom’s slid down once again, he lets go of the rope. He bends to the floor. He slaps his hands against the earth and something from there must stick. Because when he grabs the rope again, he climbs not one length of his arm, not two, not three. Something propels him right up to the rafters. He hooks one arm around the wood and hoists himself up. He waves in triumph.
The young man below just laughs and waves his hand dismissively. He knows, as does everyone in this room, that the winner of every contest tonight will be the groom, the eyebrow man.
I squeeze Kolya’s hand. I hold on.
When it’s time to eat, serving dishes the size of the skiff are brought into the house. They’re carved into koliuzhi creatures and painted: big heads with tongues that loll out at one end, and tails at the other. Feet and wings extend from the sides, and what would be their bodies has been hollowed out and filled with food.
Women ladle this food into trays until they’re heaped with fish, clams, steamed roots, and grease, and distributed around the house. I sit between my husband, our arms and legs barely touching, and Maria. The others sprawl out around us, and dig into our food.
Nikolai Isaakovich tears off a fragment of fish and pushes it into his mouth. He chews. Swallows. He takes another piece. I feel these movements against my side.
“I will never understand why the koliuzhi gorge like this—and then have nothing for later. Don’t they know anything about rationing?” Some of the others nod but their mouths are too full to reply. “Days of scarcity are always right around the corner. A wise man must plan—or suffer the consequences.”
No one contradicts him, but he’s wrong. The koliuzhi do prepare. When Makee caught the whale, we feasted, yes, but then we worked, preserving everything that wasn’t eaten, dividing it up and storing it in boxes and bladders. Even after all these weeks, I wouldn’t be surprised to know a few bladders of oil remain.
And it’s not just the whale. Salmon, shellfish, roots, and berries, everything stored in boxes, baskets, and bladders, and buried in holes dug deep to where the air is as cold as an icehouse. They don’t neglect to prepare for lean times. People work long hours at it. I do it, too. The planning Nikolai Isaakovich sees as absent must have been present for generations. Otherwise how would these people have survived?
When Nikolai Isaakovich is away from the houses, what does he think the women do? He’s not here to witness it, but there’s slicing and skinning and deboning and skewering, peeling, hanging, rendering, smoking, and though it’s all fundamental to his survival, he’s oblivious to it.
He’s like the men of Petersburg. All the lotions and creams and washing and brushing and curling, the ironing and pleating and tying—all so we look presentable, and if we are lucky, pretty. No man could possibly realize how much effort is involved.
He says gruffly, “Eat, Anya. Eat all you can. You may as well. Are you not well?”
“I’m fine.” I should eat, but words, stuck in my throat, won’t allow me to swallow.
“I’m sick of these koliuzhi and their ways,” my husband continues. “I’m hunting duck and geese in the rain and wind and cold—it’s so unpleasant, you can’t possibly imagine. And they become quite displeased if I can’t kill the entire flock with a single shot. The toyon here is lazy and demanding and pompous—just like that Poppy Seed.”
“Makee’s friendly,” I say. “And so is this toyon. When we first met, I sat across from him in the tent—”
“You don’t see what’s really going on here, do you?” He shifts his body away and is sullen the rest of the meal.
When the dancers and singers are exhausted and it’s time to retire for the night, we Russians are divided among the houses in this village. My husband, Timofei Osipovich, and many of the rest of the crew are to stay in the toyon’s house—along with Makee. I will go to another house to sleep alongside Maria once again.
While the arrangements are being discussed, I pull Nikolai Isaakovich to me and quickly kiss him. “Good night,” I say.
He looks surprised and confused, but he kisses the back of my hand before I turn away, and before anybody notices.
Maria and I lie next to one another as the night noises of the house begin to unfurl—fires snapping and sighing as the embers die down in the darkness, children settling, hushed conversations, and tonight, the occasional smothered laugh.
I won’t sleep until I know. “Why aren’t Yakov and Kotelnikov here?” I whisper.
Maria says no one has heard from the apprentice since he was taken away—but Maria doesn’t think he reached the Kad’iak. “It’s been so long, he would have returned for us by now if he had,” she adds. She’s heard nothing about Yakov and thinks he’s still with the Tsar’s family.
“We’ll find them,” I say bravely. “They must come home with us.” She says nothing.
“Maria? They will. We wouldn’t leave them here anymore than we’d leave you here.”
Her head, outlined in the dim light, shakes slowly. “I think I’ll live out my days here.”
“No, Maria,” I say. “You don’t have to. You’ll come home—with us. Don’t you want to return?”
“To where?”
“Your home.”
“I haven’t been there in a long time. I don’t even know who’s there anymore. If I have anywhere to live.” She sighs. “I don’t expect you to understand. I know it’s not like that for you.” It’s dark and she can’t see my face flush. “Anyway, this is a good place for an old woman. They’re very kind.”
Long after Maria’s deep and regular breathing indicates she’s asleep, I’m awake mulling this over.
The Enlightenment has shown us the errors of our past when freedom was apportioned to men based on birth and status. The Tsar has set us on a path to eliminate hypocrisy at all levels of society, but my father’s friends agree that we remain far from our destination.
What have the lofty ideas of the Enlightenment done for Maria? For Yakov, the Aleuts—for Timofei Osipovich? If I’ve learned anything from my time with the koliuzhi, it’s that my father’s friends are more right than they realize, as they perch in their comfortable chairs around a table full of food and drink brought to them by house serfs. We’ve fallen short of our ideals. We’ve not yet reached the place where our values and our actions are consistent and honourable.
I wish my father were here. He would understand my doubts. He would encourage me to keep struggling.
This much I do know. There is a truth that we are taught and another truth that we come to see. Though they should be, they are never exactly the same.
The following day, during a lull in the festivities, the old carpenter Kurmachev suggests we walk to a nearby beach. It’s sunny and for the first time, the promise of summer hovers in the air. So Nikolai Isaakovich, Timofei Osipovich, and I accept. We head off following a trail that, contrary to expectations, leads into the forest.
We hik
e down and along a narrow, muddy path. The wet seeps through my boots reminding me it’s time to apply another layer of grease. We then ascend the other side of this gully, past berry bushes starred with pink blossoms and two moss-covered trees that fell in the shape of an X. When the trail levels out again, it broadens, and I fall back to my husband’s side.
“Do you know the beach we’re heading to?” I ask.
“How could I? They drag me up the river or into the forest every single day. Visiting a beach is a luxury.”
“I’m glad we’ll get to see it for the first time together then.” I shyly slip my arm around his waist and feel his scratchy greatcoat—now missing all its beautiful buttons—against my skin once again.
He leans over and kisses my cheek. His lips linger there, but not long enough.
“Be careful here,” Kurmachev calls from far ahead.
“Where? We can’t keep up—you’re going too fast, old man,” my husband calls back. He gazes at me but says to the carpenter, “Maybe you should go ahead without us. We’ll catch up.”
“No,” calls old Kurmachev. “The trail’s a bit confusing. I’ll wait for you before we go down.”
My husband pulls me close and kisses me on the lips, but I push him away and say, “No. Come on.”
The descent to the beach looks steep. I start walking down on the heels of Kurmachev, who’s surprisingly like a goat on the bumpy trail. My husband is right behind me, his breath in my ears. I cling to branches and place each foot carefully on the overgrown trail. Timofei Osipovich on the other hand releases himself, and with a holler, he hurtles down the hill, half sliding, half bouncing, ignoring the trail altogether. Brush crashes. He’ll be scratched to bits if he doesn’t break a leg first. He shouts when he reaches the bottom, “Hurry up, you feeble old men. You’re taking the long way!”
“Nobody’s feeble up here,” calls Kurmachev, just ahead, and he winks up at me. “This way, Madame Bulygina, only a little farther now.”
His friendly wink gives me confidence. I let the slope pull me down, two quick steps. One more. Then I slip and fall.
Anna, Like Thunder Page 26
