Chapter V : Moscow.

Mom. She was right there. So fragile, with a guilty smile. And I had completely forgotten how much fun we had together. We recited Chukovsky and Oster by heart, sang silly Arkady Ukupnik songs, and talked about admirers. I told her in secret about Leonardo DiCaprio, and to my surprise, she didn’t laugh. Instead, she promised to introduce me to him, though she said she’d prefer Prince Harry for me.

Moscow took my breath away instantly. Red Square, Baskin Robbins, McDonald’s, Nikulin’s Circus. The New Year’s tree at City Hall, the underground palaces of the metro. Musicians on Arbat Street. Cotton candy at VDNKh, the golden fountain.

Mom tried her best to show me the capital’s wonders, but our everyday reality was her tiny rented room and the grocery store in Lianozovo. Swarthy, greasy loaders she smoked cigarettes with at the back entrance. Deserted, peeling playgrounds with rusty slides and creaky swings. Occasionally, gray, sharp-nosed kids. Crowded buses. Fences scrawled with “DICK,” “Spartak,” or “Lera’s a whore.” Heart-shaped “Special” pastries and Domik v Derevne ryazhenka for lunch.

At the store’s checkout, on the bus, or with the loaders, Mom was a bright source of light and warmth. She wore a short, tousled haircut and red lipstick under faint dark whiskers, smoked a lot, laughed loudly, showing off her beautiful, even teeth, and above all, radiated a wild energy that made everyone fall for her. Because of all those smiles and teeth, we often had to dart through courtyards to dodge admirers waiting for her after her shift. The most persistent were the bald, pot-bellied guys from the nearby amusement park.

“Irka! What time you finishing today?”

“Late, guys, late,” Mom would reply politely, brushing them off. “I’m closing the store.”

“Come on, let us help you close up! We’ll walk you home, keep you safe.”

“No need, thanks, I’m fine. My colleagues will give me a ride.”

“Oh, come off it, where are those swarthy colleagues of yours gonna take you? We’re decent guys, we’ll treat you to a beer.”

“Thanks, guys, but I really can’t. Don’t wait.”

“Yeah, sure, what’s it to us…”

The suitors tried to lure me with free carousel rides and Mom with trips to the park’s shashlik joint, with its plastic white chairs and red Coca-Cola umbrellas. The carousels did sound tempting, but the bald guys stirred a dull unease. Mom, to her credit, resisted with all her might. Once, we even had to climb out through a derelict side window by the warehouse—those desperate suitors, giving up on shashlik dinners, had bought beer and dried fish and camped out right by the entrance, waiting for Mom to finish.

Truth be told, they didn’t look anything like Leonardo DiCaprio or even remotely decent movie actors to deserve Mom’s attention. Besides, it was obvious that Mom was busy fixing her life for Papa’s return, just as planned.

“Mom, does Papa like Korney Chukovsky too?”

“Of course he does, sweetheart.”

“Can I recite ‘Mukha-Tsokotukha’ to him by heart? Or maybe ‘Fedora’?”

“Recite whatever you want, he’ll love it.”

“Can we practice together, and then I’ll put on a concert for him?”

“Go for it, darling.”

“Mom, why are you crying? Are you hurt? Is it your finger?”

…

“Mom, don’t cry, let me kiss it better. Where does it hurt?”

“It’s okay, my little one, it’s not scary… I’m sorry, I’m not crying anymore.”

“No, show me where it hurts, I’m going to fix you now. Then I’ll give you Doctor Mom and a candy.”

“Oh, my baby, I’ll be fine with you…”

Sometimes I woke up alone and found Mom crying in the bathroom. She always said she’d had a bad dream. I thought she was dreaming about us running from those bald guys, never getting away, like in sticky nightmares where no matter how fast you run, you’re still stuck in place…

 

Irina couldn’t admit her marriage had failed. In Sokolovka, like in other nearby villages, marriages weren’t dissolved under any circumstances. A divorce inevitably became public fodder. It meant the neighbors, shouting across their garden plots, would have a new target—a wayward wife who couldn’t keep the hearth warm. A man couldn’t be lost; he was the Grail of a woman’s happiness. Forget divorces! If word got out about trouble in a family, some old woman would show up at your door. Quietly. Bringing lard and vodka, cornering you at the table, interrogating you until you cried, then explaining that you can’t behave like that, my dear. Endure. Marriage is work, not twiddling your thumbs with sparrows. What did you expect? You need to be soft, kind, patient. Make it nice for your husband to come home. The weather in the house matters most. He drinks? Let him drink, as long as he doesn’t hit you. And if he does? Well, you provoked him, pushed him too far. Don’t argue, stay quiet. Cry it out, and it’ll pass. Have a shot of vodka and weed the potatoes—it’ll feel better, and the work’s done. A man—what does he need? To rest and eat well. So don’t get in his way.

Another old woman would corner you in the bread line.

A third in the garden. And so on…

In Sokolovka, everyone cared about your family’s happiness, especially the women. Men didn’t talk much about their heartaches, but their wives… Those wives had an uncanny ability to spread news of someone’s troubles instantly.

Those rolled-up sleeves, greasy fingers, loud soup-slurping, sweaty, red-faced mugs talking with mouths full, licking their fingers:

“Shevchenkos were at it last week, you hear?”

“No way?”

“Lyubanya saw it, they’re headed for divorce… Katya’s gonna lose him, the fish’ll slip the hook, and she’ll be left with nothing.”

“Oh, dear… She’s such a shrill woman, always yelling. Drives the poor guy mad. Can’t live in peace.”

“You’re telling me. The way she screams like a fool in the bread line, bet she screams at her man like that too.”

“Oh, what an idiot. She’d be fine if she just sat quiet with her husband. Why’s she so restless?”

“Of course! He’ll find a younger woman in no time!”

“Mm-hmm. Want more lard?”

The realism of this imagined scene made Irina shudder. She could swear she smelled onions, moonshine, and stale sweat. Soon, oh so soon, the news of her divorce from Kravets would seep through every creaky floorboard and shutter, whispered over every sticky oilcloth table. They’d add, in hushed tones, that Kravets cheated on Irina with her old schoolmate. Blood would boil, eyes would gleam in young and old women finally having something to gossip about besides the weekly Santa Barbara episode, Irina thought bitterly. But since she knew she’d never return to live in Sokolovka, those scenes felt like peering through a foggy shop window—you could wipe the glass with your sleeve and stare, or just walk by. She was untouchable to the village’s biting comments and humiliating judgments.

Yet her heart felt cold and heavy, as if someone had placed an immovable tombstone upon it. And the reason, of course, wasn’t village gossip.

Her daughter’s deep, searching eyes and the silent question frozen in them pierced Irina’s soul like a deadly thorn. Polya, barely four years old, was already consumed with worry about husbands and families, no doubt pickled in the influence of those wretched old women and neighbors. Irina saw this as her own failure—she’d left her daughter behind, run off to fix her marriage, left Polya without a father.

Work at the train station was no longer an option, but Karim, ever-involved with his shady connections, got Irina a job at a grocery store on the northern outskirts. Now, though eaten up by a sense of debt to her benefactor, she could at least avoid leaving Polya alone at night. As a partner, he was no good—his persuasiveness and whatever financial stability he offered couldn’t sway Irina. How could she introduce him to her daughter? “Look, Polya, here’s your new dad—Barbaley?” No way. Better alone.

The ringing loneliness and Polya’s regular questions about her father, like those Colorado beetles on the potatoes, gnawed at Irina’s strength. She clenched her teeth and cried silently in the bathroom at night after putting Polya to bed. Looking in the mirror, Irina didn’t see a pretty woman but a haggard horse, foaming at the mouth, reins pulled tight, eyes doomed. It scared her. How much time did she have before no one, not even a mangy dog, would glance her way? Antonina Antipovna’s voice drilled into her head: “You’re already thirty, who’s gonna take you with that baggage? Kravets ran off to the first woman he met, you think that won’t scare off the rest?” That fear grew. And with it, her resistance to the persistent advances of the local regulars drinking beer in the courtyards weakened. What were they, not human?

One such regular, bald Lyokha, was politer and kinder than the rest. He walked her to the bus stop and sometimes borrowed a car from his equally bald buddy to drive her right to her little room. Didn’t smoke cigarettes. True, he lived with his parents, but in love and respect. And most importantly, in a spacious apartment.

Spring arrived. Lilacs bloomed, and Irina finally gave in to the suitor. They walked together more often, sometimes even taking Polya along, at their own risk.

“Uncle Lyokha, do you have a wife?”

“Sweetie, it’s not polite to ask such questions!”

Lyokha was clearly amused by the child’s directness.

“What do I care about polite? Let the kid ask, I’m a simple guy. No wife.”

“Where is she?”

“There isn’t one! Never was.”

“Never?” Polya recoiled. “But you’re already bald! No wife ever?”

“Never… otherwise I’d probably be out with her!” Lyokha replied, winking conspiratorially at Irina.