“Congratulations from the bottom of my heart!” I say. “The child is surely healthy? These days you can see right inside.”
“My wife isn’t here,” he says. “I sent her to England.”
I nod. Then I tell him about the flowers in my garden as he drives along a country road. The landscape stretches out cheerfully white before me. The winters keep getting milder. When I was little we had more snow. Nature needs the snow in order to rest.
In Arkadij’s car, you sit much lower to the ground than in a bus and you hear the pebbles stirred up by the tires. The drive goes by quickly. He stops in front of the abandoned candy factory, next to the green shelter of the bus stop, which is dusted with snow. This is where I always recuperated after my long marches. On the path through the fields you can see the prints of rabbit paws.
“I’m sorry, Baba Dunja,” says Arkadij, avoiding my gaze.
“Don’t let it trouble you,” I say. “I’m very grateful to you.”
“I just don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything.”
I have to struggle to get out. He opens the door for me and waits patiently. He hands me the pillowcase with my things in it.
“You still know the way?”
“You bet I do.” I brush a few snowflakes from his sleeve. “Thank you for your dedication.”
Then he is gone. I throw the half-full pillowcase over my shoulder and head on my way.
I walk not one hour or two. I walk more than three hours. It’s as if the way has lengthened, as if Tschernowo has receded during the time I wasn’t there. Something is singing inside me even though I am having trouble breathing. I limp since the stroke, and everything hurts when I walk as a result. I keep stopping to catch my breath. I wonder whether I should just leave the pillowcase behind.
On the other hand: Who would leave their underwear in a field except in an emergency?
I sing “The Apple and Pear Trees Are Blooming” to regain my strength.
Fortunately it’s not summer. The heat would kill me.
Soon spring will come to Tschernowo. Fresh grass will sprout, the trees will subtly start to green. I will go into the woods and tap birch sap. Not because I want to live to be a hundred but because it is a crime to reject the gifts of nature. The birds will twitter in the blossoming apple trees. The biologist told me why the birds are louder here than elsewhere. After the reactor, more males survived than females. This imbalance persists to this day. And it is the desperate males who belt out their songs in search of good females.
I wonder whether I will still run across Petrow. Probably not. I wouldn’t bet that Sidorow is still around, either. Maybe they will greet me as ghosts. My cat is surely still there. And Mrs. Gavrilow’s chickens. The house will certainly need to be made inhabitable again. Jegor will be there. He will always be there.
I catch my breath again. My leg hurts, but I must keep going. The houses of Tschernowo rise on the horizon like a set of loose, crooked teeth.
Hopefully nobody is there, I think. If nobody is there, then I will live alone with all the ghosts and animals. And wait to see who all comes along.
I think of Laura. I will always think of Laura. I think about how nice it would have been if we had overtaken the bus on the drive here, and inside the bus had been a blonde girl. A short-haired, tattooed blonde girl for all I care. She would have hopped out and I would have taken her by the hand and taken her home. That is what has always been missing for this girl. She never had a home because I never taught her mother how to feel comfortable in life. I learned it too late myself.
I will study English and read Laura’s letter. I will stay alive until I can read her letter.
I take the chocolate bar out of the pillowcase to strengthen myself.
The main road is covered in fresh snow. Smoke rises from the Gavrilows’ chimney. And Marja’s goat is nibbling on the bark of my apple tree.
“Pssst,” I call. “Get away from there, you stupid animal!”
The goat jumps to the side. Marja appears in her window.
“Who’s yelling at my goat?” she shouts.
I have the feeling that I’m seeing double. Just a second ago she was in the window and now she is storming out the door. She runs up to me and nearly crushes me in her embrace.
“Let go of me,” I scold. “You’re going to break all my bones. I’m not eighty-two anymore.”
“I knew they would release you,” she whispers. “I knew it all along.”
“How? I didn’t know.”
“You have to come to my place, the spiders have taken over yours.”
“First I have to have a look.” I turn my back to Marja and my face to my house. It is still my house, the spiders will understand.
“Eat something first!”
“Later,” I say. I walk over and put my hand on the door handle. A meow wafts out of the shed and a little kitty, gray like smoke, straggles out.
“Your cat had another litter,” shouts Marja. “One of them is missing an eye.”
“Don’t yell like that,” I say. “You’re not alone anymore.”
And then I push open the door and once again I am home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Russian-born Alina Bronsky is the author of Broken Glass Park (Europa, 2010); The Hottest Dishes of the Tartar Cuisine (Europa, 2011), named a Best Book of 2011 by The Wall Street Journal, The Huffington Post, and Publishers Weekly; and Just Call Me Superhero (Europa, 2014). She lives in Berlin with her family.