Chapter II : Of women's fate and acorns.
— Polinka, come jump with us!
The yard, bathed in the afternoon sun, rang with shrieks and peals of laughter. Two little girls had a great time running and diving into a massive pile of leaves left by the street sweeper under one of the maples framing the playground. Had the sweeper seen this himself, the girls would have certainly received quite a hiding. But there was no sign of him. Or rather, he was not to be seen in the yard at this hour — everyone knew exactly where to find the men of Vershi after six o’clock — behind the garages, gathered around a table with moonshine and dominoes.
Polina walked toward the giggling girls slowly, almost solemnly, carrying her Barbie. The doll in her hand felt like a nuclear weapon, one that undeniably would bring Polina to the center of everybody's attention. The thought slowed her march even more, postponing the sweet moment of glory when her friends would forget about the leaf pile and start jumping around her instead.
— Come on, why are you so slow? Jump in!
— I can’t. I have a Barbie.
— What?... a Barbie? — The girls climbed down from the leaf pile, their faces stretching in quiet amazement. To Polina's silent joy, a spark of genuine interest appeared through the shadow of doubt in their eyes. — What kind of Barbie?
— A real one. My mom sent her to me. From Moscow.
— Ba-a-arbie, from Mo-o-oscow… — one of the girls mimicked, wrinkling her freckled nose. — So what? Are you going to brag about it till death? I bet she’s not even real, even I didn’t get a real one.
In a panicking gesture Polina spun the doll in front of them.
— And I bet she is real! Look, it says "Barbie" under her hair! She even has a purse! And a hair clip!
The freckled girl didn’t look convinced.
— So what? A Barbie is a Barbie. There are millions of them in stores. But I have something way cooler. One-of-a-kind. And even your mom can’t bring you one of these from Moscow.
Polina was horrified. Not only had her doll failed to win the admiration and respect of her friends, but now she learned there were things even more important than a real Barbie. She felt a lump in her throat and a sudden urge to run home, but gathered the last scraps of courage in an attempt to sound as nonchalant as possible:
— And what could possibly be cooler than my Barbie? Huh?
It came out more hurt than nonchalant. And what Polina was terrified of the most is being labeled a whiny crybaby and losing her friends because of that. But the freckled girl didn’t seem to notice her tone at all.
— Oh, like I’d just tell you. If you want my awesome thing, give the Barbie.
— No!
— Suit yourself. I could trade my thing for ten thousand Barbies, and you’d get it for just one. Your loss. Let’s go, Olesya, — she called to her friend, who had been standing nearby, picking her nose and watching the drama unfold. The girls slowly started walking toward the other end of the street.
In a fit of desperation, Polina cried out, wringing her hands:
— Wait! Don’t go! Please! I’ll give it to you! Just show me the thing!
— That's what I thought, — the freckled girl grinned. — Come with me to the boiler room. But make sure no one sees, it’s a top secret.
...
The sounds of a weary evening street drifted in through the open window : babushkas grumbling on a bench, a neighbor lady beating the dust out of a rug, some dog's desperate barking, a rare car's engine. Varvara Pavlovna (Babushka Varya) just finished making dumplings and was thoroughly cleaning her kitchen, very happy with how her day turned out, while the second husband Komendant was enjoying his tv shows in the living room; all in all, rather an ordinary September evening.
The monotonous ambience was disrupted by Polina who stormed into the apartment, kicking off her boots as she ran.
— Baba! Baba! I have the best thing in the world!
— Oy-y what is this? What happened? Is there a fire somewhere? — Varvara Pavlovna turned off the water and, with a towel in hand, gave her red-cheeked, beaming granddaughter a skeptical once-over. — You must be running around hungry all day.
— No, Baba, I’m not hungry, look!
Polina carefully pulled a one-liter jar of acorns from under her jacket and placed it solemnly on the table. Her Babushka’s face filled with growing bewilderment.
— Okay. And? Are we making soup?
— But it is cool, isn’t it, Baba?
— “Cool,” — her grandmother mimicked, raising a thumbs-up to the ceiling. — Super-duper-cool. What an unpretentious child. Good for the wallet. Who would’ve thought.
The excitement was swept from Polina’s face, like the maple leaves around the yard.
— Baba, what are you saying? I don’t understand! This is the coolest thing!
— Sweetheart, these are acorns.
— Acorns?
— Well, yes, the ones in your jar. Oak seeds. They’re scattered all over the ground under the trees. Who would’ve thought you’d be so taken with acorns? I’ll tell Grandpa Komendant—he can bring you a whole sack of them on his way home from work tomorrow. Or you two can go together, if you want?
Polina didn’t answer. Her rosy cheeks turned pale as if brushed over with white paint. She suddenly twitched, as if about to run somewhere, but instead froze in place, her expression glazing over before she crumpled under the weight of unexpected tears.
Now even Varvara Pavlovna was taken aback.
— What’s wrong, baby? Why are you crying?
— I… the girls… I wanted to show off the Barbie… and they said this was cooler… and now they’re gone forever-aaahhh…
— O-o-oy… — Varvara Pavlovna let out a dramatic sigh, tossing the towel over her shoulder. — Well, well. They swindled you, my dear. Stripped you clean. What a deal of the century, would you look at that.
— Komendant! — Her voice suddenly brightened with amusement. — Tolya, come here, take a look at what a genius of a granddaughter you’ve got! Not a granddaughter—a goldmine! Traded her doll for a jar of acorns!
— Traded it, did she! — Antonina Antipovna hissed through heavy breaths as she pedaled the creaking bicycle with Polina on the back toward Sokolovka that same evening. — Of course she did! It’s all in the genes of that good-for-nothing father of hers, that degenerate, that drunk. What was Irka even thinking, getting pregnant from such an idiot? Now she’s paying the price, running after him all over Moscow wiping his ass, while the poor child is shuffled between grandmothers. Well, never mind, Polya, — the old woman now huffed more gently. — That crooked Barbie wasn’t meant for you anyway. Baba's got chicks, goats, piglets—play with them all you want…
They rode down the bumpy twilight road. Polina stared blankly at the houses crawling past, lulled by the rhythmic duet of Babushka Tonya’s labored breathing and the bicycle seat’s creaking. Her mother’s gift was gone, and there was no one to blame but herself. The grief of loss and the guilt lay burden on her small shoulders. Usually chatty and restless, she now sat meekly in her child’s seat, clutching a bundle of eggs in her hands.
Antonina Antipovna found this to her advantage. Her legs were growing leaden with exhaustion, and her irritation simmered ever stronger. It had not been a good day : sales at the market were scarce, she had to haul most of her potatoes back to Sokolovka, her daughter Irina hadn't given any news in two weeks, and now, to top it all off, she learned that Irina gave a call to that wretched Varvara instead of her own mother. Antonina Antipovna despised her “city-dwelling” in-law, that prissy clean freak who had raised such an infantile oaf of a husband for her daughter, dooming Irina to hardship and suffering.
And yet—how curious—this contempt and the freedom to feel it at her own will, brought Antonina great satisfaction, even a sense of peace. A happy marriage for her daughter would have stung her envious soul, but since Irina suffered along with the other women of Sokolovka, Antonina Antipovna could live in peace. She walked through life convinced that she was doing everything right and, more importantly that there was no other way of living this life, no matter how you twisted things. This belief was reinforced by her daily dose of soap opera and federal news — she loved cracking sunflower seeds in front of the screen, voicing her scorn for the obvious foolishness of the characters, whether it was real-world events or the intrigues of a Turkish sultan’s palace.
— Babushka, did they kill the piglet? — Polina suddenly asked, her voice heavy with resignation.
— What piglet?
— The one you brought to Baba Varya, remember?
— I remember. And what?
— I think Grandpa Komendant killed it. I saw blood on the dolphins in the bathroom.
Antonina Antipovna let out a heavy sigh.
— That rascal, couldn’t even wait until I took the child away. What dolphins, Polya?
— The ones on the wall… Baba, they killed it, didn’t they? — the girl’s voice trembled.
— No, no… it got sick, and they were treating it. Giving it medicine, that’s all.
— Ah… And will they treat me like that too?
— Oh, dear, bite your tongue. God forbid.
Antonina Antipovna spat out a few more unprintable curses about her detested in-law and pressed harder on the pedals, as if trying to leave the entire conversation behind on the darkening road.
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