Her milk started running again, forming a dark spot on her T-shirt. What captives of physiology they were—Grandmother Marusya had been the first to tell her this, of course. The biological tragedy of women … Her grandmother, the poor, timid fighter for women’s dignity, for justice. A Revolutionary. How frightened she was when Nora had been expelled from school. She refused to let her come home. So solemn and haughty. Then they had reconciled. But about three years later, they quarreled for good—like a black cat, the Soviet regime had run across their paths and come between them. And their mutual trust, their closeness, came to an end. And later there was Czechoslovakia … Now all she could do was smile about it. So silly.
Nora looked out the window. The glass was filthy; it hadn’t been washed in years. She saw gray snow outside the window, turning into gray rain. Why didn’t I do anything for her? How foolish I was to be angry at an old woman. I’m a heartless bitch.
But Nora had once loved her more than anyone on earth. Nearly every day after school, she rushed along the familiar route past the rerun movie theater, crossed the street by the Nikitsky Gates, then passed the Konservy store and ducked into a maze of small lanes—Merzlyakovsky, Skatertny, Khlebny, Skaryatinsky—to surface on Povarskaya Street by Grandmother’s house. And her heart skipped a beat when she ran up the stairs to the third floor and buried her nose in Grandmother’s tummy.
Still, how white her skin was. Her eyes were peeking out from under her eyelids and staring at Nora with indifference. Nora cut apart the back of the blouse and pulled one half of it on, beginning with the left arm, and the other half starting with the right. For the past twenty years, it seemed, Marusya had not brought home a single new object. Was it because of poverty? Or obstinacy? Or some sort of ineffable principle?
Someone tapped on the door timidly; it was her father, who had been afraid to see his mother naked. He walked in with a businesslike, satisfied expression on his face.
“Norka, I’ve ordered the casket. They’re delivering it tomorrow morning at ten. They didn’t even request a certificate. They just asked about the deceased’s measurements. I said she was five eight.”
“Five six,” Nora corrected him. “And don’t call me ‘Norka.’ My name is Nora. Your mother named me. Haven’t you read Ibsen?”
The sun peeked out for a moment, briefly illuminating the room so that the mother-of-pearl button under Grandmother’s chin gleamed; then the sun retreated again into the gray drizzle.
Nora tucked the jacket under either side of the body, after she had cut it through the back, as she had cut the blouse. The jacket, which had a round bronze brooch on the lapel, was the one Marusya had worn to meetings of some union or other, of journalists or of playwrights.
“Are you staying here overnight?” Nora asked her father.
“No, I have to go home,” he said, alarmed. He hurried to add, “I’ll be here by nine tomorrow, though.” Then, hesitating, he said, “Will you come back to the apartment tomorrow, too, sweetie? I still have to go to the crematorium. I hope I can manage to do everything tomorrow.”
“It can wait until the day after tomorrow.”
“True, but I’d like to get it done as soon as possible. I’ll do my best. I’ll call you tonight.” Genrikh Yakovlevich had suddenly become a wonder of efficiency.
“I’ll be here at nine,” Nora said dryly, nodding. She felt she couldn’t leave her deceased grandmother alone for the night, but it was also unthinkable for her to stay here overnight with Yurik.
Nora went out into the corridor leading to the kitchen and walked down it, turning the two corners she had known since childhood. In the kitchen, Katya Firstonehere stood with her back to Nora, slicing something at the table, her elbows working energetically.
“Katya, we need to talk.”
Katya turned around, swiveling her entire torso. She had no neck to speak of: her head was planted directly on her shoulders.
“What’s wrong, Nyura?” This is what the charming idiot had called her her whole life.
“Will you sleep in Marusya’s room tonight?”
“Sleep there yourself, why don’t you? What are you asking me for?”
“I have a small baby; how can I manage it with him?”
“You had a baby?”
“Yes.”
“My Ninka had a baby, too! So Genrikh won’t stay overnight?”
“He has to hurry home. I’ll pay you.”
“Oh, I’ll take the buffet, then, Nyura. I like it.”
“Fine,” Nora agreed. “Take it. Only it won’t fit in your room.”
“Well, I’ll just move into her room, too. Nobody will refuse me. Ninka lives at her husband’s place, but she’s registered here.”
“All right, all right,” Nora said, nodding indifferently, imagining how Katya would rummage around in the room searching for loot.
“Ten rubles, Nyura! I can’t do it for less,” Katya said, though she winced at her own temerity.
“Ten—that’s for staying the night and for cleaning up,” Nora said, making sure.
That was how they left it.
The next day, Taisia volunteered to babysit Yurik again, so Nora didn’t have to worry about making other arrangements. She had two friends she could call on to help out—Natasha Vlasov and Marina Chipkovskaya, nicknamed Chipa—whom she had known since their years in theater school. They were both reliable, but Natasha had a five-year-old son, and Chipa worked three jobs to support her disabled mother and her younger sister.
Back in Grandmother’s room, she found several people: her father; Valera Bezborodko, his assistant; Katya and her daughter Ninka; their neighbor Raisa; and a woman from the Housing Management Committee, who wore a crooked red wig. The women were engaged in quiet but lively conversation. Nora guessed they were deliberating material, as opposed to spiritual, matters.
“It’s sad about Marusya,” Raisa said, with a subtle shake of her head. “For fifty years, we lived side by side like this, with only a wall between us. I’ve never said a bad word about her in my entire life … I’d just like to have … to remember her by…”
“Raisa, what did you say you wanted?” Genrikh said abruptly, in an unexpectedly sharp tone.
“No, no, never mind, Genrikh. I’m just saying that for fifty years we lived here, you might say, soul to soul, heart to heart…” And she backed toward the door.
The vultures are already here, thought Nora, and sent them all out the door, one by one. Her father looked at her gratefully. He had lived in this apartment as a child, and he had known these old women when they were still in the prime of life, but he had still not learned how to talk to them. He was never consistent, either speaking down to them or trying to ingratiate himself. Nora knew that he was unable to deal with people as equals. There was always a ladder—higher, lower … Poor guy, she thought. She felt sorry for her father, even a certain warmth. And he understood, and put his hand on her shoulder. Awkwardly. In Nora’s earliest years, he believed that, merely because she was his daughter, he was superior to her. He spoke commandingly to her, issued orders. Then she grew up and put everything in its proper place. She was about eighteen when she visited him in his new home, with his new family. He took her aside and began reproaching her for visiting so infrequently, saying that it was, no doubt, the influence of her mother, who didn’t want them to spend time together. Nora cut him off: “Dad, can you really not understand that if Mama didn’t want me to, I wouldn’t come? She just doesn’t care, one way or another.” After that, he never tried to lord it over her again.