After a while, Katya announced that the meal was ready and we went into the kitchen to eat. I was still feeling weak and made little progress with a large plate of kotlyety, fried potatoes, and carrots.
The grandmother watched me, murmuring without pause, “Eat up, eat up.”
Katya’s mother intervened. “I think it’s best if she does not have too much. Her stomach is not strong.”
The grandmother stopped her chorus for a moment and looked distrustfully at her daughter. Then she turned back to me. “Eat up, eat up a little more,” she said again, “and then I’ll read your cards for you.”
“Babushka reads the cards for the whole neighborhood,” Katya told me. “They come and consult her about everything—whether they should get married, or move, or whatever. They bring her presents—”
“They think I’ve got powers,” said the grandmother, smiling.
“And have you?”
“Bozhe moi, what a question. It’s not for me to say. But I have known some witches in my time. The old lady, Valentina Sergeevna, do you remember her, Katya? She died last year. In her nineties, she was, and weak as a feather, but she wouldn’t die… Week after week she lay in her bed barely eating a thing and those black eyes of hers burning. Everyone was telling her daughter, Don’t feed her! But she kept on giving her little pieces of chocolate. ‘She doesn’t want to die,’ her daughter said to me, ‘look at her eyes.’ And at the last moment, when she felt death lying down beside her, she crawled away! So weak she could barely lift her arm, and yet her daughter found her on the other side of the room under the table. And when her daughter tried to carry her back to bed the old lady fought and cried, and so the daughter brought some blankets and Valentina Sergeevna died right there, under the table… That’s a real witch, that’s how strong they are.”
There had always been rumors of witches, but these days some even practiced openly. Just the other day, a friend of Mitya’s had discovered six needles stuck in his door and realized that his problems were caused by black magic. So he went to see a witch. As he joined the line outside her apartment, she appeared at the door, nose twitching.
“There’s one of you,” she said, “who is surrounded by evil forces of great power.” Spotting Mitya’s friend, she called him up. “You! You need my help more than anyone.”
He glowed with pride as he told us the story. Magic was expensive, he told us earnestly, but well worth it.
The Soviet regime never managed to crush Orthodoxy in Russia. It had still less impact on older, less articulate, but almost universally held beliefs. Lighting candles in front of the old, dark-eyed icons and circling the church three times at Easter were part of them; also crossing yourself at the sight of a black cat, not putting empty bottles on the table, and a hundred other precautions and charms for holding evil at bay. There were both male and female ministers of this faith: witches and healers and horoscope casters and herbalists. But the women were the ones who preserved it at home, combining it with a mass of traditional remedies to keep their families safe from harm. And there is no doubt that it gave comfort. It represented, among other things, a rare continuity in Russian life.
“And I can tell you who you were in a former life,” the grandmother added. “Just eat up a few mouthfuls more.”
“I’d like that,” I replied, responding to the expectant, kind faces that surrounded me, although—superstitiously—I’d always avoided having my fortune told.
Back in the living room, the grandmother laid out nine cards in three rows of three. “Here’s your past,” she said, patting the first row. “Here’s a great sadness, a death, followed by a long journey. Am I right?”
I nodded.
“Here you are now.” She patted the next row. “A dark-haired young woman, and you have an important decision to make. A painful decision. There are two paths ahead of you, and a powerful force is urging you down the wrong one.”
“What sort of a decision?”
“It’s about a man, isn’t it?” interrupted Katya’s mother. “He’s no good for her.”
“I believe it is,” pronounced the grandmother. “You must be strong. You must think of your family, your home—here is the card for the home—and you must decide what is best for you. But if you choose the right path, look, success awaits you. Here is the card for fortune—”
“Russian men are not worth the suffering, Charlotte,” said Katya’s mother, sighing. “Take my word for it.”
For a moment fury prevented me from answering. How dare they try to influence me against Mitya?
“Very enlightening,” I muttered at last. “So who was I in a former life?”
The grandmother made a series of calculations. “You lived in about 1725,” she said, “in Mexico. A woman, a singer or a dancer.”
“A Mexican dancer!” I couldn’t help laughing angrily. “I’ve never heard anything so silly.”
“That’s right.” She smiled. “An entertainer, rather second-rate.”
“How funny! A second-rate entertainer!” Katya repeated delightedly. “Performing in some bar—”
The room suddenly felt stifling. “Thank you very much for all your kindness,” I said, standing up. “I think I’m well enough to go back to the hostel now.”
“Are you sure? I think you should stay the night—”
“No, no, there’s no need.” I had my coat on; they were following me to the door.
“In my previous life I was apparently a priestess in ancient Egypt,” Katya’s mother said. “Well, visit us again soon—”
“Yes, look after yourself,” the grandmother called after me as I reached the street. “Russian men need Russian girls to manage them. You’ll see what I mean.”
“Good-bye, good night.” I’d escaped; the dark, glittering night and the cool air felt good. What did she know anyway, the interfering old woman? Her spiel was nothing but platitudes—the very worst sort, the kind that have a ring of truth. I thought about going to the commission shop to find Mitya. But by the time I reached Friedrich Engels Street, my head was spinning again. The lights of the hostel and even the vakhtersha’s mealy mouthed smile felt like a homecoming.
16
The Thaw
Finally, there is Soviet man, the most important product of the past 60 years… This is a man who, while an ardent patriot, has been and will always remain a consistent internationalist.
Fifty Russian families a day are arriving in Voronezh from the former Soviet republics.
In April the thaw began. For two weeks the weather was cloudy and dull; the sky weighed on the city and people took to their beds. “The pressure,” they said. “It gives me a nervous headache.” An easterly wind blew; it whipped around raw corners and slid inside my collar like a knife edge against the skin. I hadn’t felt so cold in all the five months of winter.