The strawberries and huckleberries in our woods give off radiation, too, as do the porcinis and the birch bolete mushrooms that we gather in autumn, and the meat of the rabbits and deer that Gavrilow sometimes shoots. No outsiders will touch any of it, the most they will do is take samples for their research, but it seems like such a shame to us to put it to that purpose.
Sometimes I think that I owe my long life to the good air and the freshly tapped birch sap I drink early each year. I go into the woods with pickling jars and take the time to find birch trees that seem strong and willing to give me a bit of their sap. I find it barbaric to injure a tree again and again or to take too much sap at one time the way some people do in areas that enjoy a much better reputation than ours. Birch sap sells for a lot, and nobody cares about the scarred, desiccated trees. Me on the other hand, I carefully bore through the bark and insert a tiny capillary tube, hold a jar beneath it, and secure it. The elixir trickles out drop by drop, and when I go back and pick up the jars days later, I tend to the wounded spot with the same care I used to show my patients.
I taught Irina and Alexej that, too: don’t destroy anything if it isn’t necessary. It’s difficult to repair things and something is always lost forever. The village children had a better feeling for it than the summer holiday children who came out from the city. More than once I saw Irina smack their hands when they impatiently plucked an unripe berry or heedlessly pulled a mushroom from the ground only to throw it back down.
I offer the valuable birch sap only to guests who are particularly important to me. I had become fond of the biologist and handed him a glass of the translucent liquid.
“Are you trying to kill me?” He shook his head, laughing.
I love this land, but sometimes I’m glad that my children aren’t here anymore.
I knock on Marja’s door, a gesture she purposefully neglects when she comes to my place because she mistakenly believes that I have nothing to hide.
She yells for me to come in. She is sitting on her bed and has her long, golden hair down, combing it like an overripe Rapunzel.
“So, bride,” I say, “are you getting excited?”
“I’ve never been a bride,” she moans.
“I thought you were married before?”
“Ach,” she says, waving her hand dismissively, “that doesn’t count. That was a hundred years ago. I don’t know what I should wear.”
“What are you two going to do with your houses?”
“What do you expect us to do? We’ll both keep our own.”
“You’re not going to sleep together?”
“A boil upon your tongue.”
“Why are you getting married then?” I sit down next to her. The mattress is very soft and sags precariously beneath our weight. Marja cries out and grabs me. We have never sat together on her bed, only on mine, which holds up better.
“Let go of me,” I sniff. “What has gotten into you, stupid woman, let go of me and help me stand up.”
“I’m trying,” she whines, but with every movement we are just pressed closer together by the buckling mattress.
When it cracks, I feel as if salvation is at hand. The bed collapses and Marja and I land among the covers on the floor. I crawl out of the mountain of covers, brace myself against the wall, and stand up.
Marja sits between the pillows and sobs.
“Now I don’t have a bed anymore.”
“But you have a husband who will build you a new one.”
“Him? Haven’t you seen him?”
“Demand it before you give him a yes.”
She runs her hand over her face. “You always have such good ideas. Without you we’d all be done for.”
“Don’t you start now, too.”
Marja looks at me sadly. “I want you to marry us.”
When earlier I mentioned the sense of time here, this is what I was getting at: barely aware of what’s happening, I’m standing on a lawn, next to me a long, covered table, and in front of me a buxom woman and an old man who looks more like a withered tree than a person.
Behind me stand the village residents. Only Petrow is seated because he is too weak. The others are on their feet. Between the living roam the dead, who seem quite curious. Jegor is directly behind me and looks over my shoulder.
Sidorow built a bed for Marja, an unbelievable bed. Nobody can figure out how he did it. He sawed a tree trunk into four pieces and then, on top, he laid planks he ripped off his shed. Everything secured with lots of nails. Marja’s mattress, pillows, and covers went over that. It is a giant, wide bed, the biggest I’ve ever seen. Marja can sleep well now. She assured me of that when she proudly showed me the bed.
“See what a marriage is good for?” It sounded like she was bragging.
“I never denied it.”
“Why are you laughing then?”
“I’m not laughing, Marja. I’m happy for you.”
For the wedding Marja wears her lace nightgown, which is nearly white and also allows her to show off her abundant body. On her shoulders is a black scarf with roses. She has braided her hair and coiled the braids on top of her head in a way that would let her run for parliament. A lace curtain serves as her veil. And flowers, everywhere flowers. Cornflowers in her hair and Sweet William on her nightgown and a dog rose in Sidorow’s lapel.
Sidorow’s knees tremble and he looks even smaller than he usually does, he props himself up on his cane with his last ounce of strength. The knuckles on his hand protrude, white. But his face is contorted into a victor’s grin. You could also confuse it with an expression caused by a death spasm. He is well dressed, moth-eaten gray pinstripe pants and a shirt with a colorful zigzag pattern.
The bridal pair stands before me and looks at me expectantly. Now it’s up to me to say something appropriately festive. I’m also dressed up in order to show my respect to the two of them, I’m in a long skirt and a silk blouse, the scarf on my head is freshly washed, and my neck is decorated with a necklace of big, colorful wooden beads.
The tattoo on my hand starts to itch again. I try to remember what the registrar said at my wedding to Jegor. But I can’t think of it. Then I think of other weddings I’ve been to as a guest or witness. That in turn reminds me of the fact that I wasn’t at Irina’s wedding.
The wedding of my cousin pops into my head, I must have been in my forties, and one sentence in particular that struck me. “Be good to each other” is how the overtired registrar had sent my cousin and her future husband on their way, no more and no less; dozens of couples waited every Saturday at the registrar’s office, and a lot of mothers-in-law got aggressive in the hallway. Those words stayed with me for a long time. Though I was already married and a mother at that point.
Much later I saw people on television get married in a church, I even saw a royal wedding. These days a lot of young people get married in churches here in our country, too. Back then you wouldn’t have been able to go to work anymore if you did that.
“Give me your hands,” I say, and they reach out their paws willingly, Marja’s soft and doughy and Sidorow’s as dry as a bird’s claw. I take them and place them on top of each other. Marja has donated two rings that she dug out of her stockpile.
I hand them to the bridal pair. Sidorow slides the thick ring with glittering stone onto Marja’s finger, the finger is too big, Marja grits her teeth. Success. Next Sidorow gets his, but his finger is too bony and the little ring dangles from it. Sidorow makes a fist to keep it from falling off.
“Be good to each other,” I say. Marja looks at me with wide eyes, like I’m giving the Sermon on the Mount. “You are now man and wife.”