The Hottest Dishes of the Tartar Cuisine (15 page)

Sulfia believed me. She was stupid and wanted to stay that way. She believed in good, and with a whole lot of imagination she was able to interpret Dieter’s regular visits as interest in her, Sulfia—as gratitude for her care, as fondness for the entire family, as interest in my marmalade. His interest in my marmalade was genuine, that much was true. In Germany, said Dieter, marmalade was made quickly, with gelling sugar—sugar mixed with pectin—and ended up an acidic, jellyfish-like blob. Me, on the other hand, I peeled apples and cut them in pieces, poured sugar syrup over them and let the mixture soak, cooked that, let it cool again for hours, and then heated and cooled it two more times. The apple pieces took on a translucent beauty, the sun shone through them, and they left the taste of summer in your mouth.

We ate marmalade with tea because we didn’t have any other sweets. After a conversation about the art of cooking Dieter stood up and went, as if coincidentally, to Aminat’s room. He said he could speak Russian particularly well with a child, that he learned things in a completely different way, especially from Aminat. And that she had a pretty voice and he liked to listen to her, but she stopped singing as soon as she noticed. Only someone as blind as Sulfia could fail to see how much Aminat hated his visits.

I had spoken to Aminat about how tough things had gotten. I told her that we all had to clench our teeth and be friendly to people we didn’t particularly like because it might lead to a better life for us.

Aminat listened to me without looking at me. We had yet to patch up our relationship and get close again. But I could count on her understanding. Every once in a while when I was out and about with Aminat, I would take a detour through the gypsy enclave, a few streets of squalor in the middle of our city. Dirty black-haired children played there; in winter they wore layers of wool shawls over their hole-riddled jackets. They screamed hoarsely in an indecipherable language and threw stones at passersby. I knew that for some incomprehensible reason Aminat thought these gypsy children were Tartars and all somehow related to us. This helped my argument. If Aminat conducted herself well, we would end up in Germany; if not, I assured her, we’d end up in the gypsy ghetto.

Aminat smiled for the first and only time in Dieter’s presence when he announced he would be flying home in three days’ time.

“Already?” I asked, wavering between relief and disappointment.

We waited, expecting him to say something more. Nothing happened. He shook each of our hands, as if we were an official delegation. I looked at his outstretched arm, pulled him by his hand to me, and kissed him three times on the cheek. It would have been better if Aminat had done it. But I was afraid she might also then throw up on him.

When Dieter was gone, Aminat ran up and down the hallway singing: “The foreign asshole is gone, hurray! Finally the foreign asshole is gone, hurray!”

Sulfia went without a word into her room and lay down in bed.

“He’ll be back soon,” I said persuasively, though I had doubts.

Life had too often kicked me in the backside—I was no longer sure of anything.

Two weeks later the phone rang, giving us all a start. We hadn’t heard anything from Israel for a long time, and the ringtone signaled an international call. Sulfia whisked the phone to her ear.

As the voice in the phone quacked away, telltale redness spread across Sulfia’s face. She listened with a furrowed brow; she didn’t understanding anything and the red blotches spread as she strained to try. I took the phone from her hand.

It was Dieter, though I barely recognized him. First of all, he was talking very fast and squeaky. Second, it wasn’t clear what language he was using.

Then suddenly I understood a word, one single word, but at least it was an important one: “invitation.”

“Invitation, yes,” I said. “For three: Rosalinda, Sulfia, Aminat.”

The phone went deathly quiet.

“All three or none,” I relayed to the suddenly mute Dieter.

After I had hung up, I turned to Sulfia, who was pressing the palms of her hands against her heated cheeks.

“You see?” I said. “He invited us to Germany.”

Sulfia’s eyes got really big.

“When?”

“Soon,” I said, though I wasn’t feeling particularly cheerful.

We had a long road ahead of us, and the prospect felt like a gallstone.

In order to stoke Dieter’s fire I needed a nice photo of Aminat. I rang the doorbell of a neighbor I’d heard made his living selling photos of women. I had to ring for a long time. He had on only underwear when he opened the door.

“Whatcha want?” he asked looking me over with his open eye. The other was still closed.

“Photos,” I said.

He led me into the foyer and disappeared behind one of the many doors. I looked around. The walls were white, presumably. But they were covered floor to ceiling—practically wallpapered—with black-and-white shots of naked women.

“Did you take these all yourself?” I asked when he reemerged.

He had an open container of milk in his hand and a white trickle was running down his chin. I looked at him and gulped. I would like to have asked him where he was able to get the milk.

When he told me what he charged for photos, I asked him to quit joking—this was a serious matter.

“Then do it yourself,” said the neighbor.

I slammed the door as I walked out.

I could do almost anything. Except take photographs. I didn’t even own a camera. I had a vague memory of how years before Kalganow would hole up in the bathroom with a red light and dunk photo paper in little tubs and the contours of faces would slowly take shape on the paper. But I didn’t trust Kalganow to take a nice photo.

I went to a photo studio on the corner and studied the pictures in the window. All the men looked like mass murderers and all the children seemed to have their eyes crossed. And Aminat wasn’t even photogenic.

Back home I opened my wardrobe. I owned two fur coats, an old one and a newer one that one of my admirers had given me, back when I still had some. I tried the coat on one last time. I hadn’t worn it recently. Hold-ups took place in broad daylight these days; only someone with a death wish would dare to wear something of such value on the street.

I stroked the fur. It was cool and feathery, and caressed my hands, which were cracked and rough from doing lots of dishes. I folded the fur coat and pushed it into a black duffel bag.

The whole way to the consignment shop my heart beat nervously. I put great effort into trying to look scruffy so no robber would think I had such a treasure hidden in my bag. When I arrived, I breathed a sigh of relief. The saleswoman refused to take me and my coat into the back room, so I spread it out in the shop itself and said I’d like to have my money immediately rather than wait until someone bought the fur to get my share. It was obvious that the coat wouldn’t be hanging in the shop for long anyway.

The saleswoman looked at my magnificent piece with a look of slight disgust. I wasn’t going to be fooled by that. I waited as the woman felt the fur with her fingers, turned it over, and pulled on individual hairs. She was still scowling skeptically, and then she said a sum that was half of what I had figured the worst-case scenario might be.

“No,” I said. I knew these lazy tricks. “Either you ask your manager or I’ll take it to another shop.”

The saleswoman shrugged her shoulders, disappeared into the back, and returned with another woman who looked exactly the same, right down to her hairdo. The second woman didn’t even look at me. She immediately started to poke at the fur with her thumb and forefinger. I had the feeling she might hurt my fur. This second woman said an even lower number.

“Wait just a minute,” I said. “Your co-worker . . . ”

The look from her cool, nearly colorless eyes silenced me. I suddenly understood: every word was going to cost me five rubles.

“You can have it,” I said, watching as she carried my coat into the back and returned with a pile of tattered banknotes. My life had just become one prized possession poorer.

Aminat was grimly silent as I washed her hair with the last of the foreign shampoo, dried it with a blow-dryer, and put waves in it with the curling iron. I refrained from using starched bows or other vulgar trinkets, but I did insist Aminat put on the dress I had made her for the New Year’s holiday two years prior. I had wanted Aminat to play the snow princess in the annual school show. It was a major role, one every normal girl wanted. I had given the teachers money and chocolate and made this dress, a pale blue dream made of silk and lace that nonetheless remained unworn: Aminat refused to put on the dress or take the role. After days of fighting, I was forced to write off the gifts as useless investments.

Now Aminat was quiet and obedient like a good little girl. The dress was too small. I fluffed the collar and sleeves and draped Aminat’s black hair—now wavy after much labor—over her shoulders. She looked small and fragile, younger than she actually was, except that the look on her face spoiled it.

“You have to try to look more friendly,” I said once she had taken her place on a tall stool in the apartment of our neighbor.

The photographer stood at the window, smoked, and flicked the ash onto the heads of passersby below. He said there was no point in picking up the camera as long as Aminat insisted on looking like a crocodile.

“I hate kids,” he said, and I couldn’t resist twisting a lock of Aminat’s hair around my finger and yanking it.

“That’s what you do to my nerves all the time,” I hissed as tears welled up in Aminat’s eyes from pain and rage.

At that moment, the neighbor turned around, shouted at me to step aside, and held the camera to his face.

He clicked away for an hour, changing the film multiple times, adjusting the lens, trying shots from the front and the side. I kept running in to poke Aminat in her back with my forefinger to make her sit up straight or to tousle her hair. When it was over, Aminat climbed off the stool and scratched her head. There were beads of sweat on her forehead. Her hair was stuck together. And she looked light-headed from the much-too-small dress.

I didn’t have high hopes when the neighbor knocked on our door and grumpily told me the photos were ready. I went along with him trying to inwardly steel myself to fight over the money. When I caught my first glance at the rectangular photos spread out on his kitchen table, I thought they were shots of someone else. These pictures showed an angel, still very young, with a bottomless sadness in her dark black eyes, with her hair ruffled by a light summer breeze. It wasn’t until I bent down closer to the table to have a closer look at the angel’s divine dress that I realized the shots were of Aminat.

I picked up a photo. It was like magic. Aminat’s otherwise defiant, angular face shone with melancholy. It hit you right in the heart, reminded you of the beauty of creation, and made you want to do something good right on the spot. Without hesitation, I pulled out the envelope with the money I’d gotten for my fur coat and slid it across the table.

“You are a true artist,” I said. “Thank you.”

I told Aminat she should draw a picture for Dieter. She brought me a white piece of paper with a naked tree in the middle. I shouted at her to put more effort into it. Then I had an idea: I looked through our old encyclopedia and found the picture of a Tartar woman in traditional costume. I placed the heavy book, open to that page, in front of Aminat.

“Who goes around looking like that?” asked Aminat.

“Your ancestors,” I said.

Aminat leaned down over the open pages and traced her finger on the colorful figures, the lopsided hats, the corded clothing. The encyclopedia had pictures of all the countless ethnic groups of the Soviet Union in their traditional garb.

“Are those real people?” she asked.

“Draw yourself in that outfit,” I said.

Against all odds, Aminat had fun with this task. She drew careful outlines of the traditional clothes and filled them in with colored markers. Over the collar she drew a red-cheeked face with dark slits for eyes and black hair pulled into two wreathed braids.

“Write your name underneath,” I said. “And on top write ‘for Dieter.’ Wait, write in German—I’ll show you how.”

I put the drawing into an envelope along with one single photo. I hadn’t shown the photos to anyone. I’d hidden them in my wardrobe beneath a pile of laundry. I understood: the pictures were like a drug and needed to be carefully administered in doses.

I wrote Dieter’s address on the envelope and took it to the post office.

It took two weeks. Then the phone rang. My envelope had arrived. Dieter sounded very bashful. He asked me to pass along his thanks to Aminat for the picture she’d drawn. I promised to do so. I waited for him to say something about the photo, but Dieter didn’t mention it. So he had understood everything correctly.

“Invitation,” I repeated in my fluid school German. “Invitation for three.”

A month later a stranger called and said Dieter had given him a package to bring to us. I picked it up. It was a beautiful plastic bag printed with a picture of bright red strawberries. Back home I called Aminat and Sulfia into the kitchen and turned the bag upside down above the table. A large brown envelope fell out in which we found the invitations. In addition, three chocolate bars, a packet of hazelnuts, a pack of peppermint gum, and two little tubes filled with crumbly, fruity-smelling tablets (we turned them all around until we were finally able to decipher the word “vitamins” on the side), a tin of milk powder, and a large white packet decorated with pink cherry blossoms and a smiling woman’s face. The German words “sanitary napkins” on it made me think that it might be for dressing wounds.

“Look, how nice of the foreigner even to include medical supplies,” I said to Sulfia.

The two of them were so busy looking through the various things that they didn’t notice the most important thing: a small white paper envelope full of Deutschmark notes.

“Think about what you want to bring,” I said. “We’re flying to Germany.”

It took months and a lot of money and aggravation before we had everything sorted. I went to Moscow, twenty-seven hours by train, and stood in line at the German embassy until I was ready to drop. By the time I had the visas and plane tickets I had assembled the necessary certifications: that none of us was insane, none had a contagious disease, none had served time in prison. I went from one government office to the next, always with a stockpile of little gifts in my bag.

The last of our money I spent on souvenirs. I called friends and acquaintances and collected things that, as best I could tell, would please people in Germany: painted wooden spoons in all different sizes, cast-iron statuettes, pins with cartoon characters on them.

We packed two big suitcases and tied them up with laundry line so they wouldn’t come open. It had been fifteen years since they had last been used. We had taken them to the Black Sea that time.

I was excited and very tired. Kalganow drove us to the airport. I looked out the window of the car at the rain and had no desire ever to return.

Deeply saddened, Kalganow carried our bags. Sulfia wanted to help him, but I held her back.

“We’ll bring you back something,” I said to cheer him up.

“Not necessary, Rosie,” he said.

He kissed me, bowed to Aminat, and hugged a sobbing Sulfia. She was getting on my nerves, and I said someone like her should only be allowed to travel as far as the other side of town.

I felt empty and exhausted and tried to cheer myself up by envisioning the winter boots I’d buy first thing in Germany.