The Summer Garden (61 page)

“Or me with the glasses!” said Dasha. “I can see perfectly well.”

“Like I said. Be like me and not want to know.”

“Yes, but Tania, Madame Kantorova said there will be love!” Dasha glowed.

“Yes, and she told Marina to wear galoshes.”

When the Metanov children and Marina were on the porch of their own house, Pasha asked, “Tania, Saika’s mother was wrong about what she said about you, wasn’t she? You didn’t actually see—”

“Did she seem a reliable source of information to you, Pasha?” muttered Tatiana, not looking at her brother. “Of course she was wrong.”

Pasha and Dasha studied her curiously.

“Oh, the both of you!” She went to bed.

Applied Physics on the Hill

The next afternoon Saika proposed a bike race.
Tatiana didn’t want to but didn’t want to be a spoil sport either. She wanted to race down with Pasha, but Saika said, you always race him. Race me instead.

The race worked like this: in pairs, the entire group navigated the steep narrow dirt hill leading from the town of Luga to the huts by the river where they lived. By itself it was child’s play; what made it worthy of Newton himself was the part played by the Soviet distribution trucks, which passed almost empty downhill into the chambers of the cucumber beds and the liters of freshly drawn milk, to return uphill full of labors of the Luga villagers. The children waited for just the right moment when the truck was nearly upon them at the top of the slope, and then frantically pedaled downhill, with the truck a few meters behind them, blaring the horn and trying in vain to slow down. The mass and velocity of the 10-ton truck careening 30 kilometers per hour down a 40° hill was pitted against the mass and velocity of the 10-kilo rusted bikes at 20 kilometers per hour.

The trick was to know two things: how close to let the truck come to make it interesting and when to pitch your bike to the grass before another law of physics came into play: the well-tested one that said that two objects could not occupy the same space at the same time. When they beat the truck to the bottom and didn’t get killed, now
that
was a race.

There was obviously a degree of experimental uncertainty, there were some independent variables they could not foresee, and a small chance for random error. To sum up: the race was educational and enlightening, with high stakes.

The group drew straws; Pasha and Marina were first. They had waited much too long for a truck to appear and when one finally did, they were so impatient and eager that they started down too soon. “Cowards!” Tatiana yelled into their backs. Tatiana and Saika remained stopped.

“Tania, now?”

But Tatiana never went too soon. She knew the speed of her bike. She knew what it could do. They waited, poised to take off, perched on their seats, glancing back at the approaching truck. Saika asked again, “Now?” and Tatiana said, “In just a—” and Saika said, “Now!” and Tatiana said calmly, “All right, now.”

The girls pushed off and pedaled downhill. The truck’s horn was honking madly behind them, their bikes rattled. Pasha and Marina, already at the bottom, were jumping and screaming, and Tatiana suddenly felt the truck accelerating instead of decelerating. This made her glance over her shoulder at Saika and say, “Quicker, come on!” At the very instant of Tatiana’s impromptu glance, Saika seemed to have lost control of her bike—because she swerved sharply into Tatiana’s front wheel. The next instant Tatiana was on the ground, her foot caught in the rim spokes. She was dragged downhill by the force of the fall. The truck driver slammed his brake, but that was like two owls trying to stop a byplane from plummeting down. The truck continued to skid toward her. Tatiana dimly heard Pasha now agonizingly screaming, and somehow she managed to stand up, leg still caught in the spokes of the wheel and hurl herself onto the grass. She freed herself from the bike as she leapt. The truck swerved—its back door coming unhinged and flying open—the bike got caught in its tires and was dragged under the chassis until the truck came to a slow, lumbering stop at the bottom.

The truck driver jumped out of the cabin and started running uphill to Tatiana screaming, “I’m going to kill you! I’m going to kill you!”

Tatiana was on the ground, covered with dust, heart pounding, the gash on her knee bleeding. Pasha was already at her side, Marina was behind the running truck driver, who got to Tatiana, crouched down and with an angry and concerned face said, “You’re crazy! You could’ve been killed, you know that?”

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Tatiana said, holding her bleeding knee. “Is your truck all right?”

Pasha took off his shirt and wrapped it around Tatiana’s leg. Saika stood silently near her bike, and when Pasha said, glaring at her, “What the hell happened?” Saika sheepishly replied, “I don’t know. I just lost control of my bike. Sorry, Tania.”

Tatiana struggled up with Pasha’s help. “It’s okay. Just an accident.”

“Yeah, Tania,” said Marina with a nervous giggle. “Just a crazy game. Lucky for us no one got really hurt.”

Tatiana didn’t say anything else and Pasha said nothing else, but when they had hobbled back home, he asked, “Were my eyes deceiving me, or did she ram your bike?”

“I’m sure your eyes were deceiving you,” replied Tatiana.

The Sack of Sugar

“Children!” exclaimed Babushka
, dragging a heavy burlap bag onto the porch. “Look what I found lying in the grass by the side of the road. Sugar!” No one was more excited than Babushka. “It’s incredible! My children will have sweet pie—oh, what happened to you, Tania?”

While Dasha was bandaging Tatiana’s leg, Pasha told Babushka what happened. Marina added, “It was an accident, though.”

“As opposed to what?” snapped Pasha. Tatiana kicked him with her good leg.

Babushka was unconcerned. “Oh, so that was
your
mangled bike I saw where I found the sugar. I should’ve known, you urchin. Serves you right. Won’t do that again, will you? Still, look what we have! Nice consolation prize, no?”

“No.” Deda came in from the garden. “Woman, what are you thinking? The children can’t have it. It’s not ours.”

“So? It’s nobody’s. We don’t know whose it is.”

“That’s true.” He nodded. “We don’t know whose it is. But there is one thing we know for absolute certain…” Here he raised his voice. “It’s not
ours
!”

Babushka had quite a lot to say to that in response.

“What are you railing at me for, Anna?” Deda was inflexible. “Read the bag. Clearly it says: Property of the U.S.S.R. Collective Administration.”

“Like I said. Nobody’s,” Babushka repeated stubbornly.

“Deda,” Tatiana cajoled, her leg hurting, “because we didn’t steal it, maybe we could have just a cupful out of that large sack, and the rest we’ll give to the orphanage in Luga and to the Staretskys down the road? They haven’t had sugar since Tsarist times.”

Quietly Deda sat with the bag of sugar on the floor in front of him. Dasha said, “Deda, let’s just keep the stupid bag,” and Pasha wholeheartedly agreed, but Deda shook his head. “Tanechka, you know we can’t.”

“What—you won’t give even your own grandchildren a cupful?” Anna shouted. “I’m not listening to you. I’m giving it to them.”

“You
are
listening to me! We have to return the bag to the local
Soviet
in Luga, and when we do, they will weigh it, and what do you think they’ll say when they see that we’ve taken a kilo for ourselves?”

“That’s why we can’t return it to them,” exclaimed Babushka. “We keep it, we cook with it, we eat it, we throw the burlap out. The truck driver will never know it’s gone.”

“You don’t think they count their bags of sugar, Anna?”

“Oh, cut it out. You think you know everything. What are you worried about? Trust me, no one will know. Now, Tania, are you going to sit around all night or can you hobble over Blanca’s to get us our evening milk? Dinner’s in an hour.”

On the way to Blanca’s, Marina ran to Saika’s house to ask her if she wanted to come, too. Murmuring more apologies about Tatiana’s leg, Saika came.

Melek Taus

Gray, tiny, extremely wrinkled Blanca Davidovna
looked warily at Saika when the children were at her door. “Come in,” she said unhappily. “Who’s coming for the tea leaves?”

“Not me,” said Tatiana.

“Tea leaves for me, Blanca Davidovna,” said Marina. “The other day Saika’s mother read my fortune. She told me I would go far. I’d like to know what my tea leaves say this year.”

The children settled around the small parlor in the hut, and Pasha told Blanca Davidovna what happened to Tatiana’s leg. “But I’m fine,” Tatiana quickly added, seeing Blanca’s critical scrutiny of Saika.

Marina must have seen it too, because she said, “Come on, it’s all water under the bridge now. Tania, why don’t you have Blanca Davidovna read your tea leaves this year? She hasn’t read yours in ages.”

“Our Tania here doesn’t like the ancient arts,” said Saika. “Tea leaves, palms, rowan trees. Why not, Tania? Palmistry
is
an art. The ancient Greeks, the Chinese, the Indians learned much about fate by the reading of palms. And my mother, by the way, is a very good
kochek
. Very accurate.”

“It’s not helpful,” said Tatiana. “Blanca Davidovna knows that better than anyone.” She nodded to the old woman. “Other things are helpful. Not that.”

Saika wanted to know what was helpful.

Tatiana demurred from answering. Blanca Davidovna took her by the hand, gently pulling on her. “Darling…come here.”

“No tea, no palms, Blanca Davidovna,” Tatiana said firmly. “You promised.”

“I know, dear child. I don’t go back on my promise. You are right, of course. I should know better than anyone—” she crossed herself. “That fatal curiosity is so pointless—and dangerous. The future is not to be fooled with, not to be trifled with. You can have warm milk from my cow. I don’t read milk. I just want you to sit on my lap, Tanechka.”

“I’m too heavy for you.”

“You’re a wisp, baby girl. Sit. Does your leg hurt?”

“It’s fine.” Tatiana sat on Blanca’s lap. “Don’t touch my hands,” she said. “I know you.”

But Blanca did. She took them—and kissed them. “I know you don’t want to know your future,” she whispered.

Saika perched on the floor, her legs crossed, palms out, watching them intently. “Oh, so, you
do
believe in the ancient arts, Tania! And there I was, misunderstanding you. So what are you afraid of? Blanca Davidovna, what is Tania afraid of?”

“She simply doesn’t want to know,” replied the old woman. “She hates all this talk about fate.”

“I don’t hate it,” Tatiana said, on Blanca’s lap. “It’s unnecessary. Just live your life. Because what else have you got, really?”

“But what is Tania afraid of?” said Saika. “Will you read my hands, my leaves, Blanca Davidovna? I’m not afraid of the future. I’m not afraid of anything.”

“You’re so brave, Saika!” Marina exclaimed.

Blanca was quiet. “You seem to me like the kind of girl,” she said to Saika, “who’s had her fortune read a few times.”

“You’re so right about that,” Saika said with a laugh.

Barely paying attention, Tatiana was purring as the old woman caressed her back. The kids in the village always played such rough games, Pasha especially; gentleness was not in his repertoire. Dasha touched her gently when she brushed her hair, but otherwise, Tatiana had to have a nightmare for Dasha to touch her gently, to whisper love to her.

“Did you say your mother was a
kochek
, girl?” said Blanca to Saika, her voice like gravel. Her wrinkled brow got more wrinkled. “Aren’t
kocheks
part of the Yezidi clergy?”

“Not necessarily,” said Saika, herself frowning. “You know about the Yezidi?”

Tatiana explained to Blanca that Saika’s family was Yezidi.

“
Are
they?” Blanca exclaimed, peering with great interest into Saika’s face.

Saika jumped up. “Were.
Were
. Can we just have the tea, or are we going to talk all night with dry throats?”

“What are the Yezidi?” The ever-curious Pasha.

“Recall Bluebeard’s nosy wife, Pasha,” whispered Tatiana.

“Shut up, Tania.”

Blanca Davidovna was pretending to be busy with serving tea and did not answer Pasha. But Pasha was not a let-it-go kind of boy. And since this afternoon’s bike race, he had lost his good cheer. Pasha lost his good cheer! Tatiana went to sit next to her brother cross-legged on the floor. Pasha sat, sat, and then said, “Saika, does the large painting of a blue peacock in your living room have anything to do with the Yezidi?”

“What?”

“The other night, while your mother was in ecstasy over the lack of my rusty proletarian future,” Pasha said, “I couldn’t help but notice the bright blue bird prominently displayed on your mantel. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it. Is that a Yezidi thing?”

“Just a bird, Pasha. Why such interest?”

“Just making conversation, Saika.”

“All right, I’ll tell you, if you tell me something about Tania.”

“Why is it always about me?” Tatiana exclaimed. “Pasha, tell her something about Marina instead.”

“I know everything about Marina,” said Saika. “Well? You want to play or not, Pasha?”

“Okay, you’re on,” said Pasha. “You first. Tell me about the peacock.”

Tatiana poked him, as if to say, stop making trouble.

“Pasha, do you know what the word Yezidi means?” asked Saika as Marina listened raptly, sitting close. “It means angels in Arabic. The Yezidi is a Kurdish religion of angels.” She smiled. “The peacock is the main angel. He is called the peacock angel.”

Tatiana’s breath was short in her chest. Blanca Davidovna opened her mouth to say, all right, enough now, but of course Tatiana’s brother, with less sense than God gave a goose, was unstoppable. “Does this peacock have a name?” asked Pasha.

“Melek Taus,” Saika replied.

“Blanca Davidovna,” Pasha asked, “does that name translate into our language?”