I don’t believe your e-mail is real. Sorry. It’s very convincing, good job, woohoo, but I’m not an idiot, unfortunately. Who is this I’m writing to? Is this Dustin? If this is you Dustin I’m going to kick you really hard in the ass. You stand warned.
You asked me about my life. (Just because I choose to write to you like I believe you doesn’t mean I’m convinced. Like I told you, I’m not an idiot.) I’m fifteen. As you must know. I can’t write to you in Russian because my parents would never speak Russian around me, they wanted me to be a normal Canadian girl and not some crude offspring of noisy Soviet jerks. So I speak just English. I understood when you wrote “voila,” though, so I guess I speak some French too. I’m in the tenth grade. My birthday is in three weeks, so I’m almost sixteen. I guess you know I play the clarinet. I also draw, and write poetry. I think I’ll probably be an English or music teacher when I’m older, but I might also pursue prostitution, because of a little something we learned about in Careers class called “upward mobility.” Prostitutes, if they’re good at their job, have much more upward mobility than teachers do. It’s cool that you’re a doctor (that’s the word, by the way, in English you’re a “doctor”). Seems like you can save a lot of lives while having upward mobility if you’re a doctor.
Other things … I’m actually very shy, even if I don’t write like a shy person. If we met I probably wouldn’t say much, you’d have to do most of the talking. Oh, also, this year apparently I have breasts, and boys want to “jump my bones.” That’s a good English idiom to learn, very useful, useful in almost every situation. And “jump bones” is also a euphemism (which is like an idiom, but lying) for “fuck,” which is usually though not always another way to say “have vaginal intercourse with.” Anyway, the point is I have breasts. I haven’t let anyone jump my bones yet, though, not even Matt, my boyfriend, who can’t stop talking about it. He’s seventeen and plays the baritone saxophone in the band. Frankly, and I can say this if you’re really my sister, I don’t like the way his penis looks and I’m not sure if I want much to do with it. Maybe you just think I’m gross now.
I guess you probably want to know about my parents, who are your parents too if you’re actually my sister though that’s still unproven. They’re fine. They don’t really know I exist. No, they’re not fine, that was a lie. They’re sad. They’re sad people who argue a lot in Russian. Except when my dad is drinking. Then he gets totally silent and locks himself in the study and doesn’t come out even to eat. He drinks cognac. It’s not bad stuff. The scotch I wasn’t such a fan of, too strong for my taste. I’m hoping he’ll switch soon to good French wine, though stealing that might be more obvious. (Don’t think I’m that kind of girl, I’m not, I don’t even do any drugs, regularly, I just don’t believe in closing myself off to experience.) Anyway, our parents are not my best friends but they let me do pretty well whatever I want so it works out okay. Our mother likes to fuss over me and my hair and my dress whenever there’s some school dance or something, but when I come home at three in the morning she doesn’t wait up. What were they like when you knew them?
Hmm. I see I’ve started writing like I believe you. Don’t assume, please. I still want more proof. Until I know for sure that you’re my sister, I have lots of friends I should be messaging instead of you, a complete stranger who wrote me such a bizarro e-mail. Gotta run now.
Fondest regards,
Tasia.
p.s. Write me back soon, okay?
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
January-17-09 1:13:23 PM
To:
[email protected]
My young sister Tasia,
Our mother is having a very large brown skin on her reverse. When she curves down to pick up thing that falls, her shirt comes down at neck and it is possible you see this brown skin appear very little bit. It is looking like a star. Like something has starred her.
Our father has a nose that is not straight. It is very little bent. The special thing about this nose is that it makes him to seem he is a different man if you look to him at right side and then at left. If you want to see if it is your father who comes from mill having the bag on the shoulder, to give exemplary, you must see to him from both the sides or there is danger of wrapping all your arms on a strange man who is not being your father.
Do you like this English very much? I have been getting lesson from other “doctor” (thank you this!) who work here with me and made school in Cambridge, where there are English people who must be very much brilliant speaking because they have invented the language! Yuri tells me tell you that here is bloody cold, also when he read this about your breasts (he help translate your e-mail) he want ask if you would be very happy to come to Russia. Do not have fear, even if he is serious it is serious that is like joking, merely not.
You have ask me how were our mother and father when they were at Russia. The answer is, young. Our father was liking these drinks also then, but he was not becoming this way that you say, very quiet and falling. He was loud then with laughing and singing. The people who are knowing him sometime think he is crazy, but they like him. Our mother very beautiful. (If she is not very beautiful now I am thinking I would like you not to tell me. This is important.) Our father is leader of mill, where they make flowers. Our mother is being with me when I am child, also making many things out of cloth and sticks. Following, my father is lost from job as leader of mill. He is having great fear of future, therefore he commence to be looking for a country where he can to transport us. Our mother is very round with you. I am very before disappearing.
Our parents sound now like falling people. I have confession, I am happy they are falling, because they leave me, but also I am sad because you do not sound happy. I am sorry. Maybe I change them, when I am disappearing. But they leave. Maybe they change their selves. I am sorry still.
It is good you have boyfriend! My boyfriend is making hard work at Moscow for that we buy house together, in place near to Moscow that is full with beauty. My boyfriend also is full with beauty. I will tell you, I am very much liking his penis (this is English word I knew, factually!), but when I am only fifteen years I am with fear about this thing. Also, Yuri does not know what is this word “gross,” yet if it will be making you happy and animated, yes, I think you are gross.
I am hoping now you believe I am your sister, because this is true. Please write and say me all about your friends. Again, I am so glad you exist. Have health.
Love,
Marina
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
January-18-09 2:43:22 AM
To:
[email protected]
Marina,
Let me explain something. I don’t have a sister. I have never had a sister. I have spent fifteen years without a sister. Or parents, really. Or friends. Really. So don’t tell me about how you’re my sister and the spot on my mother’s back and my dad’s nose. You know nothing about it. You know nothing. You’re an idiot. You can’t even spell. It’s flour, not flowers. A mill makes flour. You can’t make flowers. Unless you’re God. Who doesn’t exist. Which means you’re not Him. You don’t know me.
Fuck off, please.
Tasia.
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
January-20-09 1:20:06 AM
To:
[email protected]
Hi Marina,
I’m sorry, I can really be quite a bitch when I want to, I don’t know what I’m doing. Matt broke up with me, he’s sleeping with this girl in my class who’s a big pothead and wears too much makeup, I can’t even look at him, he makes me puke, literally. And I don’t have any friends to talk to because all my so-called friends are interested in is TV, getting drunk with boys, and how they look. I once mentioned Emily Dickinson in front of them and they all gawked at me like I’d started speaking in tongues.
Okay, that’s not
the thing, so I’m going to tell you something, so before Matt broke up with me we were hanging out in his room when his parents weren’t home and he tried to make me sleep with him, I rammed my knee into his crotch but for a moment before that he was inside me. There. I’ve said it. Written it. Now somebody else will know. Good. Great. Fantastic. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fucking shitface fuck. So how can I undo that, Marina? Will you tell me how to undo that please? Why are boys such fucking soulless animals? I hate him, I hate him so much I could choke, I want to kill him, I hate him so much I can’t sleep at night, I’m going to sleep with somebody else just so I can get the guy to beat him to death for me.
You better be my sister. If you’re not I’m never going to get over it. Or probably even if you are. I miss you and I don’t even know you at all.
Tasia.
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
January-21-09 9:35:22 PM
To:
[email protected]
Dear my Tasia,
Thank you for this message. You make me to think of much I have not think of for very long time.
I tell you this story.
I am fifteen years. I am waking in Moscow with the doctors near to me. They are telling me I am discover near to Moscow by man and woman in their car. I am discover at this place where the road become a bridge. Under this bridge there is water that moves and is being the opposite of deep. The man and woman see me flying in the water on my reverse. I am naked. My eyes are close. The doctors tell me this. Dr. Yevgeny Gurtz, he show me a picture of me, but inside. It is a baby who is not yet a baby. Yet I am not round. Therefore, they have kill it. Yes, Jenia Gurtz say, we are killing it because it make danger to you while you sleep. Also, he say, you are killing it by sleeping. I am sad, but I am alive. And therefore I am also knowing what happen to me in the wood near my house that is so full with beauty.
I have been with horror, Tasia. But there is goodness also. Jenia Gurtz visit me every day when I am at the awful house in Moscow. When he touch me, and it is not bad like this, he touch only my head, I am with fear. He do not hate me for this. He treat me like I am his daughter. When I leave the awful house I am staying at his house many days. Following, he give me job to type papers at the hospital. Following, I am going to the university. At this year I meet son of Jenia Gurtz, who is two years more than me, and his heart is large in way that is extremely possible to see. When I am twenty-one years Mitya (this his name) touch me in the first time and I am with fear. He see this and not try to touch more. But that is not what I want. I have pain, and I do not know any things, but I know that I am liking Mitya. He follow very slow and with care. If you not understand this, my boyfriend at Moscow is Mitya. It has taken much time, but I am happy now, or what I mean is I am without horror. If you ask why we not marry, being after nine years, it is because I not have money to do this and same is with Mitya.
I am sorry you are hurt by this boy. However I want you to know that horror goes. If I am convincing you this I am happy. It is one of the only things I know.
Love,
Marina
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
January-31-09 00:02:12 AM
To:
[email protected]
Marina,
Don’t be mad at me.
I showed one of your e-mails to our parents. They were about to turn out the lights in their bedroom and I worked up the nerve and went in and showed them. They read the beginning of it, maybe a line or two. Then he grabbed me. By the shoulders, really hard, and our father has not laid a finger on me in anger or affection since I hit puberty but I thought he was going to hit me, he starts roaring at me in Russian, then in English he goes why did you not show this before! He’s shaking me and I’m sure he’s going to pound me into the floor. But actually he starts crying, just bawling, and he pulls me tight to him and kisses me on the head. Our father had not kissed me since I turned thirteen. My mother’s gripping him so hard her fingers leave red blotches in his arm. He howled, Marina. It was like he was losing you again.
That’s not even the huge part. He’s gone to the bank to cash in a bond or something. He’s buying plane tickets for the three of us. We’re coming to see you. I’m going to meet you! And you’ll be getting e-mails from both of them soon, in Russian so you won’t need to ask your pervert translator friend!
This is the most incredible thing that’s ever happened to me. It was all true. They told me everything. They found your clothes by the river. They searched and searched for you. They were sure you were dead.
I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, Marina. Thank you for writing to me. I can’t wait to see you.
Love,
your sister,
Tasia.
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
February-2-09 1:21:04 PM
To:
[email protected]
Dear Tasia,
Thank you for this e-mail. I am very much with feeling because of it. Also I hope that our father has not got these airplane tickets.
Let me to explain this way I feel. I am not very much unhappy that you show my e-mail to our parents. I think this is okay. But I do not want them to come seeing me. I also do not want you to come seeing me. I know this may make hurt to you. I apologize already. This will be also my last e-mail to you for now.
I have lived here in Russia by alone since I was fifteen years. I have worked by alone, I have studied by alone, even as I have made this piece of family, with Mitya, I have done this by alone. This is not always making me happy, but it is making me with strength. Our mother and our father I am thinking may be very much good people, but what is truth is that they cared more for their selves and you than for me, because if they did not leave Russia so swift they would find me and I would be with them. And with you. And the life would be different.
I am happy if they know that I live, and you also. Let me say this thing about you, I have much feeling of love for you. I have loved writing with you. At some time in future it may be good to meet. But is not possible now. You must give time. Like Mitya gave time, and soon we will marry, you must give time. Someday we will write again, I am certain. My English will be wonderful! I will miss you very much. But I cannot continue like this. I ask forgiveness.
I realize I forget your birthday. Now you are sixteen, my sister. Happy birthday to you. I felt great love for you when you were a roundness in my mother’s middle also. Yes, it is possible to love the thing you do not know.
Marina
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
February-3-09 02:33:14 AM
To:
[email protected]
You bitch. You selfish fucking bitch. How dare you. How DARE you. FUCK you. I hope you die and go to hell.
Your sister,
Tasia.
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
July-5-09 10:21:34 PM
To:
[email protected]
Marina, will you please write to me? Please. I’m sorry, okay? I’m trying to understand how you feel, but this is just cruel. Five months and nothing is just cruel. Maybe you aren’t even at this e-mail address anymore. Where are you?
I’m a counsellor at an arts day camp this summer. I like it a lot. And I’m dating a guy who’s a gentleman. Anyway. Not like you’d care.
I miss you.
Your sister,
Tasia.
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
October-16-09 2:14:57 PM
To:
[email protected]
http://leavesofspring.org/poetry-contest/first-place-TasiaKalnitsky-FirstLightSingsToTheGulag.html
Your sister,
Tasia.
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
January-1-10 11:49:01 AM
To:
[email protected]
Marina,
Here’s to a happy, healthy new year. I hope everything is good with you in Russia. My life is fine here. It’s not long till I’m seventeen. They’re already pressuring us in school to choose a career direction. My science marks are solid and our parents want me to go into medicine, but every day I find myself more drawn to literature and the arts. I’m reading constantly. Your (our) country really ain’t such a slouch in that respect! Have you ever read Dostoevsky or Pushkin in the original? I look forward to talking to you about it someday.
Your sister,
Tasia.
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
April-26-10 08:27:14 AM
To:
[email protected]
CC:
[email protected]
My Tasia,
There is much to tell you, but today I tell only this.
Outside the house of Mitya and me there is a garden. It is small garden, but with enough room for what we plant. The earth is very hard, but somehow much grows. Both Mitya and I enjoy working at our garden. It is relaxing. There is simplicity. And last week something you wrote returned to me. I had wrote you that our father worked at mill where he made flowers, and you wrote and told that it is impossible to make flowers, that I had made mistake. But last week I stood with my husband in this garden, new green in hard black earth, and I thought of what you said and I was puzzled.
It is not impossible, Tasia. Of course it is not impossible.
Your sister,
Marina
Faithful and Other Stories Page 3
