Stories (52 page)

“What can I say, we all walk before God … Oh, tush, tush …” said Varvara, and she shook her head. “You ought to give it some thought, Petrovich … What if something bad happens? You’re not a young man. You’ll die, and for all I know they may wrong our grandson. Aie, they’ll do Nikifor wrong, I’m afraid they will! His father can be counted as not there, his mother’s young, foolish … You ought at least to leave that land to him, to the boy, that Butyokino, Petrovich, really! Just think!” Varvara went on persuading him. “A nice little boy, it’s a pity! Go tomorrow and draw up the paper. Why wait?”

“And here I was forgetting about my grandson …” said
Tsybukin. “I must go and say hello. So you say he’s a nice boy? Well, let him grow up. God grant it!”

He opened the door and beckoned to Lipa with a bent finger. She came up to him with the baby in her arms.

“If you need anything, Lipynka, just ask,” he said. “And eat whatever you like, we won’t begrudge it, as long as you’re healthy …” He made a cross over the baby. “And take care of my grandson. The son’s gone, at least the grandson is left.”

Tears ran down his cheeks; he sobbed and turned away. A little later he went to bed and fell fast asleep, after seven sleepless nights.

The old man made a short trip to town. Somebody told Aksinya that he had gone to the notary to write a will, and that he was leaving Butyokino, the same place where she baked bricks, to his grandson Nikifor. She was told of it in the morning, when the old man and Varvara were sitting under the birch tree by the porch drinking tea. She locked up the shop front and back, collected all the keys she had, and flung them down at the old man’s feet.

“I won’t work for you anymore!” she cried loudly, and suddenly began to sob. “It turns out I’m not your daughter-in-law, but a hired worker! Everybody laughs: ‘Look,’ they say, ‘what a worker the Tsybukins found for themselves!’ I’m not your charwoman! I’m not a beggar, not some kind of slut, I’ve got a father and mother.”

Without wiping her tears, she turned her eyes, tear-flooded, spiteful, crossed with anger, on the old man; her face and neck were red and strained, because she was shouting with all her might.

“I don’t want to serve you anymore!” she went on. “I’m worn out! When it’s work, when it’s sitting in the shop day after day, and sneaking out at night to get vodka—then it’s me, but when it’s giving away land—then it’s the convict’s wife with her little devil! S
he’s the mistress, she’s the lady here, and I’m her servant! Give her everything, the jailbird’s wife, let her choke on it, I’m going home! Find yourselves another fool, you cursed Herods!”

Never in his life had the old man scolded or punished his children, and he could not admit even the thought that anyone in the family could say rude words to him or behave disrespectfully; and
now he got very frightened, ran into the house, and hid behind a wardrobe. And Varvara was so taken aback that she could not get up from her place, but only waved both arms as if warding off a bee.

“Ah, saints alive, what is this?” she murmured in horror. “Why is she shouting? Oh, tush, tush … People will hear! Not so loud … Ah, not so loud!”

“You gave Butyokino to the jailbird’s wife,” Aksinya went on shouting, “so give her everything now—I don’t need anything from you! Perish the lot of you! You’re all one gang here! I’ve had enough of looking at you! You’ve robbed everybody walking or riding by, you’ve robbed them old and young! Who sold vodka without a license? And the false money? You’ve stuffed your coffers with false money—now you don’t need me anymore!”

A crowd had already gathered by the open gates and was looking into the yard.

“Let people stare!” Aksinya shouted. “I’ll disgrace you! You’ll burn with shame! You’ll grovel at my feet! Hey, Stepan!” she called the deaf man. “Let’s go home this very minute! Let’s go to my father and mother, I don’t want to live with criminals! Get ready!”

Laundry was hanging on lines stretched across the yard; she tore down her still-wet skirts and blouses and flung them into the deaf man’s arms. Then she rushed furiously about the yard, tearing down all the laundry, hers or not hers, flinging it to the ground and trampling on it.

“Ah, saints alive, calm her down!” Varvara groaned. “What’s the matter with her? Give her Butyokino, give it to her for the sake of Christ in Heaven!”

“Well, some wo-o-oman!” people were saying by the gate. “There’s a wo-o-oman for you! Got herself going—something awful!”

Aksinya ran to the kitchen where the laundry was being done just then. Lipa was doing it alone, while the cook went to the river to do the rinsing. Steam rose from the tub and the cauldron by the stove, and the kitchen was stuffy and dim with mist. There was still a pile of unwashed laundry on the floor, and on the bench beside it, his red legs sticking up, lay Nikifor, so that if he fell, he would not be hurt. Just as Aksinya came in, Lipa took a shift of hers from the pile, put it into the tub, and reached for the big dipper of boiling water that stood on the table …

“Give it here!” said Aksinya, looking at her with hatred and snatching the shift from the tub. “You’ve got no business touching my underwear! You’re a convict’s wife, and you should know your place and what you are!”

Lipa stared at her, bewildered, and did not understand, but suddenly she caught the glance that the woman shot at the baby, and suddenly she understood and went dead all over …

“You took my land, so there’s for you!”

As she said it, Aksinya seized the dipper of boiling water and dashed it over Nikifor.

After that a cry was heard such as had never yet been heard in Ukleyevo, and it was hard to believe that such a small, weak being as Lipa could scream like that. And it suddenly became hushed in the yard. Aksinya went into the house silently, with her former naïve smile … The deaf man kept walking about the yard with the la
undry in his arms, then began to hang it up again, silently, unhurriedly. And until the cook came back from the river, nobody dared go into the kitchen and see what had happened there.

Nikifor was taken to the regional hospital, and towards evening he died there. Lipa did not wait till they came for her, but wrapped the dead boy in a blanket and carried him home.

The hospital, new, built recently, with big windows, stood high on a hill; it was all lit up by the setting sun and looked as if it were burning inside. At the bottom was a village. Lipa descended by the road and, before reaching the village, sat down near a small pond. Some woman brought a horse to water, but the horse would not drink.

“What else do you want?” the woman said softly, in perplexity. “What do you want?”

A boy in a red shirt, sitting right by the water, was washing his father’s boots. And there was not another soul to be seen either in the village or on the hill.

“He won’t drink …” said Lipa, looking at the horse.

But the woman and the boy with the boots left, and now there was no one to be seen. The sun went to sleep, covering itself with purple and gold brocade, and long clouds, crimson and lilac,
watched over its rest, stretching across the sky. Somewhere far away, God knows where, a bittern gave a mournful, muted cry, like a cow locked in a barn. The cry of this mysterious bird was heard every spring, but no one knew what it looked like or where it lived. Up by the hospital, in the bushes just by the pond, beyond the village, and in the surrounding fields, nightingales were pouring out t
heir song. The cuckoo was counting out someone’s years and kept losing count and starting over agai
n. In the pond angry, straining frogs called to each other, and one could even make out the words: “You’re such a one! You’re such a one!” How noisy it was! It seemed that all these creatures were calling and singing on purpose so that no one would sleep on that spring evening, so that all, even the angry frogs, might value and enjoy every minute: for life is given only once!

A silver crescent moon shone in the sky, there were many stars. Lipa could not remember how long she had been sitting by the pond, but when she got up and left, everybody in the village was asleep, and there was not a single light. Home was probably some eight miles away, but she did not have strength enough, she could not figure out how to go; the moon shone now ahead, now to the right, and the same cuckoo kept calling, its voice grown hoarse, laughing, as if mocking her: oh-oh, watch out, you’ll lose your way! Lipa walked quickly, lost the kerchief from her head … She gazed at the sky and t
hought about where the soul of her boy was then: was it following her, or flitting about up there near the stars and no longer thinking of its mother! Oh, how lonely it is in the fields at night, amidst this singing, when you yourself cannot sing, amidst the ceaseless cries of joy, when you yourself cannot be joyful, when the moon looks down from the sky, also lonely, careless whether it is spring now or winter, whether people live or die … When your soul grieves, it is hard to be without people. If only her mother Praskovya was with her, or Crutch, or the cook, or some peasant!

“Boo-o-o!” cried the bittern. “Boo-o-o!”

And suddenly she clearly heard human speech:

“Harness up, Vavila!”

Ahead, just by the road, a campfire was burning; there were no longer any flames, just red embers glowing. She could hear horses munching. Two carts stood out against the darkness—one with a barrel, the other, slightly lower, with sacks—and
two men: one was leading a horse in order to harness up, the other stood motionless
by the fire, his hands behind his back. A dog growled near the cart. The man leading the horse stopped and said:

“Seems like somebody’s coming down the road.”

“Quiet, Sharik!” the other shouted at the dog.

And from his voice it was clear this other was an old man. Lipa stopped and said:

“God be with you!”

The old man approached her and replied after a moment:

“Good evening!”

“Your dog won’t bite, grandpa?”

“Never mind, come on. He won’t touch you.”

“I was at the hospital,” said Lipa, after a pause. “My little son died there. I’m taking him home.”

It must have been unpleasant for the old man to hear that, because he stepped away and said hastily:

“Never mind, dear. It’s God’s will. You’re taking too long, lad!” he said, turning to his companion. “Get a move on!”

“Your yoke’s gone,” said the lad. “I don’t see it.”

“You’re unyoked yourself, Vavila!”

The old man picked up an ember, blew it to flame—lighting up only his eyes and nose—then, when the yoke was found, went over to Lipa with the light and looked at her; his eyes expressed compassion and tenderness.

“You’re a mother,” he said. “Every mother feels sorry for her wee one.”

And with that he sighed and shook his head. Vavila threw something on the fire, trampled on it—and all at once it became very dark; everything vanished, and as before there were only the fields, the sky with its stars, and the birds making noise, keeping each other from sleeping. And a corncrake called, seemingly from the very place where the campfire had been.

But a minute passed, and again the carts, and the old man, and the lanky Vavila could be seen. The carts creaked as they drove out onto the road.

“Are you holy people?” Lipa asked the old man.

“No. We’re from Firsanovo.”

“You looked at me just now and my heart softened. And the lad’s quiet. So I thought: they must be holy people.”

“Are you going far?”

“To Ukleyevo.”

“Get in, we’ll give you a ride to Kuzmenki. From there you go straight and we go left.”

Vavila sat on the cart with the barrel, the old man and Lipa on the other. They went at a walk, Vavila in the lead.

“My little son suffered the whole day,” said Lipa. “He looked with his little eyes and said nothing, he wanted to speak but he couldn’t. Lord God, Queen of Heaven! I just kept falling on the floor from grief. I’d stand up and fall down beside the bed. And tell me, grandpa, why should a little one suffer before death? When a grown man or woman suffers, their sins are forgiven, but why a little one who has no sins? Why?”

“Who knows!” said the old man.

They rode for half an hour in silence.

“You can’t know the why and how of everything,” said the old man. “A bird’s given two wings, not four, because it can fly with two; so a man’s not given to know everything, but only a half or a quarter. As much as he needs to know in order to live, so much he knows.”

“It would be easier for me to walk, grandpa. Now my heart’s all shaky.”

“Never mind. Just sit.”

The old man yawned and made a cross over his mouth.

“Never mind …” he repeated. “Your grief is half a grief. Life is long, there’ll be more of good and bad, there’ll be everything. Mother Russia is vast!” he said, and he looked to both sides. “I’ve been all over Russia and seen all there is in her, and believe what I say, my dear. There will be good and there will be bad. I went on foot to Siberia, I went to the Amur and to the Altai, and I moved to live in Siberia, worked the land there, then I began to miss Mother Russia and came back to my native village. We came back to Russia on foot; and I remember us going on a ferry, and
I was skinny as could be, all tattered, barefoot, chilled, sucking on a crust, and some gentleman traveler was there on the ferry—if he’s dead, God rest his soul—he looked at me pitifully, the tears pouring down. ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘black is your bread, black are your days …’ And when I got home I had neither stick nor stone, as they say; there was a wife, but she stayed in Siberia, buried. So I just live as a hired hand. And so what? I’ll tell you: since then there’s been bad and there’s been good. But I’m not up to dying, my dear, I wouldn’t mind living another twenty years—which means there’s been more
good. And Mother Russia is vast!” he said and again looked to both sides and behind him.

“Grandpa,” asked Lipa, “when a man dies, how many days after does his soul wander the earth?”

“Who knows! Let’s ask Vavila, he went to school. They teach everything now. Vavila!” the old man called.

“Eh!”

“Vavila, after a man dies, how many days does his soul wander the earth?”