The days unfold in the same strange routine. Koliuzhi Klara gives Maria and I each a cedar cape. I thank her, knowing she won’t understand. The cape will keep me warm, but it will also serve as a blanket at night. Never again will the cold keep me awake.
Maria and I continue to relieve ourselves together, always under the watchful eye of the same long-haired koliuzhi man. Our trips together to these private places remind me how mortifying it will be when my monthlies arrive. I plan to tear my apron into strips, but I can’t begin to consider how and where I will wash and dry them.
Each time I go out, my eye is drawn to the grey-brown mound on the other side of the river. The crows are equally preoccupied with it. Black shadows, they flutter over it, pick at it, tear bits off it, and squabble and screech over the shreds. Before long, the scent of death hangs in the air. I can’t understand why the koliuzhi seem not to notice.
One evening, just before the meal is ready, I say, “I wonder what’s keeping them.”
Yakov and Maria look sideways at one another. Kotelnikov, who’s cleaning his nails with a twig, wipes it on his sleeve and says with confidence, “They’re planning a surprise attack. They’re going to settle the score with these koliuzhi and shoot them all.”
“Shhh,” says Maria and blesses herself.
“Why would you say such a cruel thing? They’re feeding us and treating us kindly,” says Yakov.
“But that won’t go on forever, will it?” I ask. “It can’t.”
“Don’t worry, it won’t,” says Kotelnikov. “The crew might come back anytime. Any minute now, they could charge through that door…”
“Be patient. There are many things we can’t understand,” says Yakov. “Everything will become clear soon.”
“Maybe they’re waiting for us,” I say. “Maybe they want us to try to escape.”
“Give it time, Madame Bulygina. Rest and eat well. Take these days to build up strength,” Yakov says. “When they come, we’ll have a difficult voyage ahead of us.”
“No,” says Kotelnikov. “She might be right. We should go.”
“I don’t think so,” ventures Yakov.
“Well, I do,” says Kotelnikov. “They can’t stop us.”
Yakov looks at him, his expression in shadows. “If you must, then go,” he finally says. “I’m staying.”
“You’re too trusting, old man. They mean to kill you first.”
“If you flee, you’ll be killed first.”
I decide that instant Yakov is right. At least we aren’t hungry. Our lodgings aren’t luxurious, but they’re a great improvement over a tent. The blisters on my feet have begun to dry and harden. We need to remain patient and wait for answers.
As each day unfolds, I pay more attention to the koliuzhi. This place has been carved out of a Baba Yaga story, with its dense forest, the gloom, the impossible houses in the middle of nowhere, the burbling river, and always the way that fire draws us together in the dark.
Koliuzhi Klara appears and disappears throughout the day. Once I see her with a large, open-weave basket, but it’s empty. Next, I see her with her arms full of small sticks. Then I see her with a basket that has the image of a bird woven into it and I wonder what might be inside. Koliuzhi Klara is thinner than many other women, and her hair is less well-kempt. Her clothing is adequate but plain. If we were in Petersburg, I would assume she comes from a family that, while not exactly poor, had fallen into difficult circumstances. In society, she wouldn’t be highly regarded, though some would take pity upon her.
But they don’t treat her like that here. She talks often with a woman with a round, stern face, who, I notice, is much better dressed than many of the other women. Most remarkably, her hair is pinned back with a comb of fine, filigreed silver. Where did she get it? Other women wear combs in their hair, but they’re carved of wood or bone, maybe antler. No woman has anything so sophisticated. Is this woman Koliuzhi Klara’s mother or aunt? I think not—their ages are too similar. However, they’re most certainly not friends. They speak frequently and courteously, but without the warmth of close friends.
The man with the rattle and the golden cape is the toyon. He’s often at the centre of a group of men who listen respectfully as he speaks. He’s not the only man treated this way, but there’s something that elevates him above them all. In my mind, I call him the Tsar.
The long-haired young man who follows me outside when I need to relieve myself is often away, and he returns after dark. I was wrong about his age. He’s older than I first believed, closer perhaps to my husband’s age. It’s not just Maria and me that make him skittish and nervous. The slightest sounds, even the shadows on the wall distract him, as though he were a kitten. I call him the Murzik for he behaves like a kitten in many ways.
“What do you think that Murzik does all day?” I idly ask Maria one day. She laughs. She knows of whom I speak.
“He’s playing with his mouse,” Maria says and gestures crudely. I redden and ignore her.
I start thinking. What is he doing? Hunting? Could he be hunting the crew? We hear nothing, not a single gunshot, not a cry to indicate the crew is anywhere nearby. Yet I feel uneasy with the Murzik’s frequent absence.
There is so much about the koliuzhi we don’t understand. The way they live is beyond imagination. Some things I admire—like being able to cook in wooden boxes, the versatile bark mats that serve as skirts and tunics and capes and bedding and walls and tables and yet are quite soft and beautiful, the houses’ rafters festooned with so much salmon it’s easy to believe the structures are made of fish. They aren’t—but they’re no less miraculous, constructed with logs so thick three men hand-in-hand couldn’t encircle them. How do they stand them in the ground? How do they fall them in the first place? I start to make a list and try to remember these novelties, so I can tell Nikolai Isaakovich and perhaps even my parents one day when we finally get back to Novo-Arkhangelsk and I can write them a letter.
But other things are less pleasing—how I feel damp even when I’m not outdoors, how the smoke backs up into the house when the rain is heavy and the clouds are low, the lack of privacy when I must relieve myself, the way fish is served at every meal, no matter what time of day or night. The indecent sounds at night—the children must hear them. What do they make of those sounds?
I wonder whether the koliuzhi would like to see how we live in Novo-Arkhangelsk, or even in Petersburg. I wonder what they’d make of private bedchambers. Steaming bathtubs. Feather beds. Silk. Butchers and bakeries. Letter writing. While we think these the pinnacle of civilization, I wonder whether the koliuzhi would find them novel at first sight, and then tiresome. Such things seem meaningless here. A man who does not eat bread has no need of a bakery. A cathedral is useless to a man who does not worship. And a man who does not read and write has no use for a letter, no matter how beautiful its penmanship.
What would they think of the hours I spend marking the position and measuring the brightness of the stars, writing it all down for others who will do exactly the same thing?
This reflection on our differences reminds me of our inability to communicate. It’s language, yes, but the gap stretches beyond simple words. I’m beginning to believe certain elements of my world are so fundamentally different from theirs that I couldn’t begin to describe our odd customs and ways even if anybody were to ask. As they go about their lives, they could never imagine ours. The converse is equally true. They have and do things for which we have no words. The pool into which we must plunge to understand one another is infinitely deep and, as irrational as it seems, perhaps for all of us, immersion would be impossible.