Princess of Passyunk

by Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn

  “Then...you want to get married with Nick and Yevgeny?”

  “That would be wonderful. I would like that very much.”

  “You’re serious. You want me to—to plan our wedding.”

  “Well, I’ll help, too, of course. Goodness, Ganny, you can’t plan our wedding all by yourself.”

  “But...what can you do?”

  “You’d be surprised what I can do.”

  “Then I can tell people we’re getting married?”

  She grinned and tilted her head and his heart reeled dizzily in his chest. “I kind of think you have to. And besides, it sounds as if you’ve already told somebody.”

  Ganady grimaced. “I guess I talk in my sleep. My brother Nick overheard me propose to you. I asked him not to say anything, but he told Da, and Da told Mama, and then he told the rest of the family at breakfast the next morning. I guess Nick can’t keep a secret.”

  “Well, if we’re going to be married, it can’t exactly be too secret.”

  Ganny looked down at the bills he had half-counted. “What about Mr. Joe? Are you going to tell him? Or your Mama?”

  She looked for moment as if she might cry. “I can’t talk to Mr. Joe.”

  “I know he’s mad at you but-”

  “No, Ganny. You don’t understand. And I can’t explain. Not yet. Just tell your parents that I can’t come to dinner on Sunday, but that I’m really looking forward to meeting them.”

  And that was exactly what he told them when he saw them at breakfast the next morning.

  They exchanged glances, then his mother said, “Oh, well then. Tell her the invitation is open. She may come any Sunday.”

  It was not left at that, of course. They asked her address; he told them only that she lived on Thirteenth. They asked where she had gone to school; he said he didn’t know. They asked where he met her and what they did together; he told the story of seeing her in Saint Stan’s, and of going to baseball games, and of ice cream at Izzy’s. Then they asked where she worshipped and he said, “Mikveh Israel.”

  This caused a bit of a sensation. Baba Irina smiled secretly; Vitaly and Rebecca cast each other worried glances; Nikolai and Marija merely wanted to know where Mikveh Israel was.

  “She is Jewish, this girl?” asked Vitaly.

  “Well, her family is Jewish,” Ganny admitted, “but not very observant. At least, not her Da. She says...” He hesitated, unsure whether to repeat Lana’s words about God. In the end, he decided to tell the truth—if it could be called that, considering the source. “She says she doesn’t think God is either Jewish or Catholic. She thinks He’s both. That doesn’t matter, does it—that she’s Jewish?”

  He fixed his parents with a searching gaze and knew that his Baba, who sat in her chair by the hearth pretending to embroider, and his sister, who knelt beside her pretending to learn a new stitch, were watching them as well.

  After a moment of silence, Rebecca Puzdrovsky raised her head, thrust out her chin, and met her son’s eyes. “Of course, it doesn’t matter. After all, I am Jewish.”

  “Rebecca!” exclaimed Da, who never called his wife by her Americanish name.

  She turned her eyes to him. “Well, it is so, yes? I was born Jewish—not only of faith but of blood. My blood has not changed, and my faith in the Fathers has not changed. It is only that I now also believe in the Savior. I think this Svetlana is right: Our God is the God of Abraham and Moses and of the prophets, even if He is also the God of Jesus. Jesus Himself says so. I have read it,” she added when her husband’s mouth popped open to reply.

  Vitaly shrugged and muttered something about asking Father Zembruski, but Ganady did not think he would.

  The Puzdrovsky Patriarch now turned his eyes to his youngest son and said, “It remains that we must meet this girl, Ganady. You cannot marry someone who is a stranger to us, no matter what her faith.”

  After this a stream of invitations flowed forth from the Puzdrovsky household for Svetlana to join them at church, or at shul, or at dinner, or at The Samovaram, or at a baseball game, and Ganady carried every one faithfully. But her answer was always the same: The time was not right.

  Eventually, the Puzdrovsky elders began to murmur among themselves when they thought Ganady was absent or not listening. Conversations that contained Svetlana’s name would die swiftly when he entered a room or turned a sudden corner to become a conversation about something else. And his brother plied him with questions: What color was her hair? And her eyes—had he said they were like the sea or a spring leaf? Was she tall or short? Thin or thick? Had he reported her to say this or that?

  Nor was it just is own family who pressed him. Yevgeny questioned him as well, trying to be casual. And Yevgeny’s mother and father and sister and brother all paid him more than the usual attention when he went to The Samovaram to play.

  It didn’t take long for Ganny to realize they were trying to catch him out, that they supposed Svetlana Gusalev might not be real, after all. And Ganady realized that were they to come out and ask him point-blank—is Svetlana Gusalev real?—he would not know what to answer.

  Seventeen: Hearth Rugs

  Finally, one Friday supper in October, his father spoke from the head of the table, saying: “Mouldar Toschev and I were talking yesterday.”

  Since this was obviously a precursor to some sort of formal pronouncement, all eyes raised, expectant, to Vitaly Puzdrovsky’s face.

  Under the weight of everyone’s gaze, he cleared his throat. “Weddings are doorways to the future,” he said. “But they are also windows to the past.”

  Ganady perked up his ears at this, for it sounded very like what Mr. O had said about time eddies.

  “There are traditions—rich traditions—that follow us from the country of our birth.” Here he nodded at Baba Irina and Rebecca, his wife. “It is of those traditions that Mouldar and I spoke, and of which I wish to speak now.”

  “No one stops you,” observed Baba dryly.

  Her son-in-law afforded her a reproachful glance before continuing. “There is a tradition among Poles of gift-giving before a wedding takes place. From the brides-to-be to the families of the grooms. And these gifts must be fashioned by the bride’s own hands.”

  “This has not been done for decades,” objected Baba. “Centuries.”

  “That does not mean it is not a good and fitting tradition. Mouldar and I mean to revive it. And since this is a wedding of threes—three grooms, three brides, three families—so the gifts shall be three. And the first...” He looked around the table at the faces—expectant, amused, wary. “To symbolize the warmth of the family hearth: a rug.”

  “A rug?” repeated Rebecca.

  “Each bride shall weave with her own hands a hearth rug to warm the parlor of her family-to-be.”

  “But our family has two brides,” said Nikolai.

  “And so?”

  “We have only one hearth.”

  “No matter. Your two girls must weave or sew for us hearth rugs. That is the tradition.” He picked up his knife and fork then, and without further ceremony began to eat his supper.

  The others watched him for a moment, then bent to their own meals, each thinking his or her private thoughts about the new-old tradition of the families Puzdrovsky and Toschev.

  It was sabes. Ganady had some hope he might dream of Svetlana that night. He chafed through Friday night mass, daydreamed through the prayers, fretted through the litany, and forgot the words to the responses he had mumbled since he was a small child.

  Yet, on the way home, he fell behind the others, so deep was he in pondering how he was to put his father’s request to Svetlana. He was scuffing along, trying out different variations on the theme, when he realized someone was keeping step beside him.

  “So now I’ve fallen asleep on my feet?” he asked without looking up.

  “How can you be asleep, silly? You’re walking home from church.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m walking home from
church, too.”

  He looked over at her then. She was wearing the green sweater he’d seen her in before. Her hair was braided, and the gleaming plait fell to her waist. She was wearing a very wide velvet headband that he supposed could be interpreted as a head covering. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “I was sitting in the back.”

  “Is that okay—for you to be in a church?”

  “What you really mean is: is it all right for me to be married in a church?”

  “I guess.”

  “It’s okay with me.”

  “My family will say you should become Catholic.”

  “What else does your family say?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve got something you want to ask me again.”

  By now, Ganny was used to Lana’s prescience—if that’s what it was. He didn’t bother asking how she knew, nor did he pretend not to know what she meant.

  “There’s this...tradition. From the Old Country, Da says. And he says the bride has to give the groom’s family three gifts. And that she has to make them with her own hands.”

  Lana looked at him sideways. “I thought that only happened in fairytales.”

  “Maybe it does.”

  “Okay, so what sort of gifts does your Da want?”

  “Well, he says the first one’s for the warmth of the home. He wants you should weave him a hearthrug.”

  “Okay. That’s it?”

  “Well...for now.” Ganady stopped and turned to look at her. “This is something you can do?”

  “Sure. Why not? Weave a hearth rug.” She shrugged as if it was of no consequence. “Did he say when?”

  “Yeah. The Toschevs are to come to Sunday supper next. He says he wants the rugs should be there.”

  “All right.”

  “Will you bring it?”

  “Check the stoop Sunday night.”

  “The stoop.”

  She smiled and started walking again.

  Ganny turned and fell into step beside her. He noticed, as they passed beneath the streetlights, that she seemed as substantial and real as anything else the lights touched. Between the lights she seemed a wraith, all silver and shadow.

  “Moonlight,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I only see you in the moonlight. The only time I see you in daylight is in my dreams.”

  “You think so?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  They walked in silence for a moment, then Ganady asked: “What about your family? I mean, if we’re really going to be married, shouldn’t we tell them?”

  “I can’t tell them.”

  “Because they’re not speaking to you?”

  “Yes. That’s one reason. And...Da might not believe me.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s a long story.”

  “Is it a story you’re ever going to tell me?”

  “Yes. I promise. When—”

  “—the time is right,” he finished. “What if I tell your Da?”

  She reached out and took his hand, turning him about. Her face was earnest, her eyes silver and gold in the moonlight. Her hand was solid and warm. “No, Ganady, you can’t tell my Da. If you tell him...it could ruin things.”

  “What does that mean? How—ruin things?”

  She looked suddenly helpless and uncertain. “I can’t explain, Ganny. You just have to trust me. Please, don’t tell Da.”

  Ganady had learned the folly of failing to honor Lana’s requests. If she did not want him to say anything to her father, he would be dumb as a post.

  “I won’t tell him. I promise.”

  Now she smiled, squeezed his hand, and kissed him lightly on the mouth. He felt the soft brush of her lips, the warmth of her breath. She tasted like cinnamon.

  “Ganny!”

  He looked up toward the corner of South Fifth to see his family congregated beneath a streetlamp, waiting for him. Nikolai waved and called to him again.

  He sucked in a breath of crisp October air. “Uh-oh.”

  He heard Svetlana’s soft laughter and turned his head. He was not surprised to see an empty sidewalk where she had been standing. He continued on toward the corner, picking up his pace.

  When he reached the corner, his mother was standing with her hands upon her hips and a matronly fire in her eyes. “And where were you?”

  “I’m sorry. I was just...thinking.”

  “What—you can’t walk and think at the same time?” asked Nikolai, and Marija tittered.

  “You were just standing there, staring at that old grocery,” said Mama. “What were you looking at?”

  “Oh...there was a...a cat on the balcony. A big white cat. I thought it was an owl at first.”

  “An owl in South Philly?” asked Nikolai incredulously.

  Ganny shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”

  He reflected on the truth of those words later as he stood before his dresser and watched The Cockroach wave at him from Saint Mary’s shoulder. She had simply been there when he returned from mass.

  He heard Nick coming up the stairs, bade The Cockroach goodnight, slipped quickly into bed, turned out his lamp, and pretended to be asleep.

  oOo

  The Cockroach was not much in evidence that week, and Ganny did not once dream of Svetlana, not even on the Jewish Sabbath.

  The following Sunday evening, the Toschevs joined the Puzdrovskys for dinner as planned. When the food had been laid out, but not served, Vitaly Puzdrovsky brought a box to the supper table and set it on the corner of the table next to his place. It was the size of a small suitcase and it sat upon the table throughout the meal, during which everyone at table repeatedly glanced at it.

  The box was no mystery to Ganady. He knew what it contained. Two rugs. Two. The third... He took a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. He had come very close to purchasing a small carpet from a store near The Samovaram on Thursday night before work. He had stood in front of the shop for nearly half an hour, staring at the wares, rubbing the bills in his pocket against each other and praying to hear some message in the papery whisper.

  In the end he had come away with nothing. He knew that if he did such a thing, the jig would be up, as they said in the movies. And if he did nothing and no carpet materialized by Sunday supper, still the jig would be up, but he would at least have his money.

  When the last dish had been cleared away, Da set the box before his place at the head of the table. Without further ceremony, he opened the lid and said, “Two of our brides have brought their gifts. Here is the rug Nadia Chernenko has made to warm the Toschev hearth.”

  He reached into the box and lifted out a sturdy-looking little rug made of brightly colored braided rags.

  Mouldar Toschev nodded and said, “That will look nice before the kitchen stove.”

  Everyone at table nodded and agreed that indeed, this was a very serviceable gift, if not quite fine enough for the parlor.

  Again Vitaly Puzdrovksy reached into the box, this time producing a lovely, soft carpet woven of rose silk and edged with burgundy velvet. “This is Antonia Guercino’s gift.”

  “This will be lovely on the hearth, Vitaly!” exclaimed Rebecca Puzdrovsky.

  Everyone was still admiring Antonia’s handiwork, when Ganady felt his father’s eyes upon him.

  “And where is your girl’s gift, Ganady?”

  “Um...she said it would be here this evening. I’ll go see if maybe she had it...sent.”

  Ganny rose and fled to the front stoop, where he found a soft cylindrical package wrapped in a piece of deep green silk and tied with a lacy golden ribbon. A small square of white card stock was slipped under the ribbon. On it, in a fine hand, was written: For the Puzdrovskys. God bless your hearth.

  Bemused and feeling more than a little dizzy, Ganny brought the package in and laid it before his Da.

  Vitaly sat back in his chair and studied the thing as if it might rise up and bite him. Then he pulled the ribbo
n free, unwrapped the package and brought to light Svetlana Gusalev’s hearth rug.

  It was the color of spun gold with the faintest touch of copper. In fact, it looked as if it might have been fashioned of spun gold, were that possible. It was as delicately radiant as sun on dandelion down. It seemed as soft as silk. It was the most beautiful piece of fabric Ganady Puzdrovsky had ever seen, and he could tell by the gasps of amazement and indrawn breaths and wordless sighs around the table that everyone else thought so as well.

  “It’s as light as a feather,” said Da, turning it in his hands.

  Mama reached out to stroke it. “It’s as soft as a cloud.”

  “It glows like sunset,” said Marija.

  “This is too fine for the hearth,” said Da. “This will be the centerpiece of our table at the wedding banquet, eh, Mouldar?”

  And Mouldar Toschev, whatever his thoughts about the relative talents of his daughter-in-law-to-be, could only nod, not once removing his eyes from the glorious little carpet.

  It made the rounds of the table then, with everyone taking a turn holding it, feeling its lightness, stroking its softness, admiring its delicate warp and woof, and inhaling its sweet fragrance.

  “It smells like cinnamon and nutmeg,” exclaimed Marija as she passed it to Ganny.

  It did. And as he held it, he had the strangest feeling about the little carpet. He knew the color, and the feel, and the scent of it. It was like...

  Beside him, Mrs. Toschev tugged on the wonderful bit of cloth and he let it slip from his fingers.

  It was like Svetlana’s hair.

  He shook himself. That was silly. A girl couldn’t cut off her hair and weave it into a rug. Could she?

  When the carpet had returned to Da’s place, the Puzdrovsky patriarch rose and cleared his throat.

  “Sons, thank your brides-to-be for their gifts. Mouldar Toschev will now announce the next gift.”

  Vitaly Puzdrovsky nodded down the length of the table to his counterpart and seated himself; Mouldar Toschev nodded acceptance and stood.

  Ganady wanted, suddenly, to laugh at the absurdity of these two Polish-American businessmen behaving as if they were lords of some Old World kingdom. He caught his Baba Irina’s eye, saw the glint there, and knew that she was having similar thoughts. He hid his laughter in his water glass.