Kirill was a different type of man, possessing a more temporary kind of effectiveness, a blunt simplicity in how he dealt with things, with people, never backing down, always ready to pounce on weakness, and of course this nature provided a shelter for her younger self. Beside him she was no longer the put-upon, the victim. Such a contrast to her father: his enclosed ways, his secrecies, the weight they all carried around with them—Maria too, wary of how people saw them—which was, of course, the point. There was also an attraction for her—this can’t be denied—in the threat he posed to other men, their hesitancy in his presence, how they could sense the force of his will. On the bus, all it needed was a stare from Kirill and other men would rise, offer their seats, stumbling out of her way, embarrassed, almost hypnotized, and she would feel a surge of power too, by association, by osmosis. This was a man who could take anything he wanted, including her, who was always ready to sweep aside anything in his way.
But her older self knows that such a nature is death to a marriage. A man who could think only of the immediate, whose range of needs was essentially the same as a dog’s—his fixation with dinner, those endlessly repetitive questions, not to mention his sniffing around other women—such stupidity on her part. Power is not about dominance. She really only realized it when she gave birth. Holding that helpless child in her arms. Strength is not as straightforward as she had thought. Of course, he wasn’t there to witness it, to stand by her bedside; he was off on a weekend hunt, his pregnant wife cooking her own dinners, barely able to move. Her giving birth while he killed something. A telling symmetry there, now that she can look at it afresh. And see what she produced. Yes, Zhenya shares his extraordinary stubbornness, but otherwise is unlike him in every possible way. They would have hated each other. Maybe not yet, but five years from now, without a doubt.
Yet Maria never judged, never criticized her in retrospect. For that she is grateful. Had it been the other way around, she knows she wouldn’t have been so lenient.
When Alina received word that her husband had been killed, there were no tears: a vague sadness, yes, but no more than that. By then she hadn’t seen him in eighteen months. And she wasn’t even surprised. Of course his macho vanity would get him killed. Of course showing his comrades how courageous he was would be more important than coming back to his wife and child. It’s easy to be courageous in a war. See what it’s like to work a seventy-hour week, see what kind of self-sacrifice that takes.
Flatten the sleeve out from the seams. Run the iron forward and back.
She doesn’t miss him, but she often misses the idea of him. Feels the absence of someone to fill that role. Someone to talk to Zhenya in the way that men do, that understanding they have. She’s a poor replacement, despite all her efforts.
Someone to fill that role for her too. A man to hand over a small stack of notes, let her do what she wants with them. Play money. He used to do this, on occasion, if he was feeling magnanimous. “Go and play,” he’d tell her. It wasn’t much, but the change was so satisfying: money being freed of necessity, becoming a thing of pleasure. She’d come home with a slightly damaged housecoat, or a hat that just needed a little stitching, or a pair of silky-smooth tights, and feel as fresh as a sixteen-year-old, and Kirill would smile that possessive grin of his that she couldn’t resist and say, “I should give you this present more often.” Such are the things that linger.
Finish with the cuffs.
She hangs the pressed shirts on the top of the door, the tips of the metal hangers digging into the wood. Even though she’s long since tired of ironing, she still finds pleasure in the smell, a richly satisfying odour, as comforting on the nostrils as baked bread.
She and Maria make two salaries, and she has this laundry money on the side, and Maria contributes with her teaching money, and still it’s not enough. It’s not as if they gamble it all away, or drink it all, or buy expensive creams and perfumes. They barely have enough to clothe and feed themselves. Nearly half their food they buy under the counter, because they have to; otherwise, they’d starve. She should open a shop, provide a service people really need, become a butcher.
Maria’s salary helps. The salary, if she’s honest, surprises her. Alina never thought her little sister would be able to stay with a dull job. She always lacked that kind of consistency. Things have always come so easy for her. Yes, her looks play a part, but she has a way, a kind of grace. Barriers open for Maria in a way that they don’t for her. Even now. Look at the teaching thing, dropping out of the blue. People would kill for that kind of work. It’s why she can be so fucking righteous about their father. She doesn’t know what it’s like to have to weigh up the options that are available. Maria has always had another way out. People, their father included, don’t compromise because they want to, they just run out of choices. What was he to do? Tell them no? Tell the KGB he considered them to be morally flawed? Please. The man had a family. Have a child, then she’ll understand.
Alina irons a shirt with yellowed stains at the armpits. She’s become used to these sights, she’s seen far worse. Don’t even get her started on underwear.
But yes, Maria’s recent consistency is impressive, and she’s wonderful with Zhenya and she’s her sister. Maria has helped bring them to this point, Zhenya’s future laid out in front of him. And Alina can take a satisfaction in knowing that all her struggles have, in the end, been worthwhile. She has a son and a sister, and the marriage at least brought them the apartment. This she regards as Kirill’s legacy, not Zhenya; the boy is all hers—laying him in a laundry basket for the first two years of his life, sleeping in the same bed as him all those years when she couldn’t afford an extra mattress, an abundance of reasons for her to lay full claim on the child—but his military service made their home possible. Without it, she can’t begin to imagine what they’d do.
A key rattles in the door.
She puts down the iron. Her arm hairs riffle with suspicion, a mother’s instinct. It’s Yevgeni. She hears him hanging up his jacket, the rasp of synthetic material, and this confirms it: Maria wears a good woolen coat that Grigory bought her years ago. She puts down the water squirter and takes a breath. She puts her hand on top of the iron. There might be a rational explanation for this.
He freezes at the open door, no idea she’d be here. He steps aside, a frantic rustle. Something different about him; she can’t place it. She’s left the ironing board, pacing towards the door, and he passes again, down the corridor to his bedroom. It strikes her then: only socks on his feet. He came in wearing a pair of running shoes, expensive, from the West.
“Zhenya!”
He makes a burst for his room; she follows, gaining; the boy disappears inside, slams his door. All of this taking maybe half a second.
“Zhenya!”
She works the handle. Locked, obviously. She’s been meaning to take the bolt out, he’s getting to that age.
She bangs her fist against it.
“Open this door at once. Why aren’t you at rehearsal? I have a right to know.”
“I didn’t go.”
If Kirill were here, as he should be, being a father, he’d break the door down. Another reason not to be a hero. She thinks about doing the same. It’s a flimsy door, it wouldn’t be difficult. But there’s something unsightly about a woman putting her shoulder to a door, even if it is her own son’s, even if he deserves it. She knows it would lessen her authority, in a way she couldn’t explain.