It began to smell like spring at the end of February. The snow had not yet melted but the approach of a northern spring was obvious. Bird calls had become raucous, as in spring, and the air had filled with an unwinterly mildness. It was suffused with a light that had not been seen in these parts since the end of autumn.
When you died, Arseny told Christofer, nature was already dark. But now it is bright again and I weep that you do not see this. If I am to speak of the most important thing, then the skies seem to have heightened and turned light blue. Certain other changes are taking place, too, and I will report about them as they develop. In essence, I can already describe certain things.
Arseny wanted to continue but something stopped him. It was a gaze. He sensed it without even seeing it. The gaze was not severe, more likely hungry. To a greater degree: unfortunate. It flickered from behind distant gravestones. Following it, Arseny saw a kerchief and red locks of hair.
Who are you? asked Arseny.
I am Ustina. She stood from a crouch and silently looked at Arseny for about a minute. I want to eat.
A whiff of ill-being came from Ustina. Her clothing was dirty.
Come in. Arseny showed her the house.
I cannot, answered Ustina. I am from the places where there is pestilence. Bring something out for me to eat and leave it. I will take it when you go.
Come in, said Arseny. Otherwise you will freeze.
Several large teardrops rolled down Ustina’s cheeks. They were visible from a distance, and Arseny was surprised at their size.
Yesterday they did not allow me into the quarter. They said I carry the pestilence with me. Can it be that you do not fear the pestilence?
Arseny shrugged his shoulders.
My grandfather died and now I fear little. All is God’s will.
Ustina entered, not raising her eyes. When she took off her torn sheepskin coat, it was obvious she was doing so for the first time in many days. The smell of an unwashed body spread through the house. Of a young female’s body. The smell’s lack of freshness only strengthened its youthfulness and femaleness—it contained within it the utmost concentration of both things. Arseny felt agitated.
Ustina’s face and hands were covered with abrasions. Arseny knew sores could also occur on the body, from not changing clothing. Cleanliness must be returned to the body. He placed a large clay pot of water in the stove. In that long-ago time, nothing was boiled on a fire, it was cooked beside a fire. That is how the stove was designed.
Ustina sat in the corner, her hands clasped on her knees. She was looking at the floor, on which there lay straw sprinkled with soot. Her clothing seemed like an extension of that straw: black and matted. And it was not even clothing, but rather something not intended for a person.
When small bubbles began gathering on the surface of the water, Arseny took the largest grasper and carefully (the tip of his tongue was on his lip) dragged the pot out of the fire. He poured some cold water into a small wooden tub he had placed in the center of the room. Then he poured hot water from the pot. Added an alkaline solution of the herb Enoch, mixed with maple leaf. He placed a pitcher of cool water alongside for rinsing.
Bathe thyself, yf thou wylt.
He went into the next room, where it was unheated, and closed the door behind him. Ustina rustled her ragged clothes. Arseny heard her carefully step into the wooden tub and touch its sides with the dipper. He heard the sound of water. The sound in his own head. He leaned his back against the rimy wall and felt relief. He let out a prolonged breath and observed the steam slowly dissolving in the air.
What cloothes am I to put on? Ustina asked from behind the door.
Arseny thought. He and Christofer had nothing feminine in the house. Arseny’s mother had worn Christofer’s dead wife’s clothes, but everything had to be burned after the pestilence. Looking away from Ustina, Arseny went into the room and opened a chest. On the chest’s open lid he placed some of the clothing that had been lying on top. He found what he sought. He held out his red shirt to Ustina, still not looking at her. He blushed anyway. He blushed easily, like all light-haired people.
Ustina slid her arms into the sleeves and the linen fell softly on her shoulders. Clothing Arseny had previously worn now embraced such a different body. This is what their peculiar union consisted of. Arseny did not know if they both felt that to the same degree.
The shirt proved too long for Ustina so she rolled up the sleeves. She saw a piece of linen fabric in the clothes chest.
May I?
Of course.
She wrapped the fabric around her waist and hips, over the shirt. It ended up looking like a grown woman’s skirt, tied round with a cord also found in the chest. She looked at Arseny. He nodded and felt the surging tenderness that was reflected in his glance. He lowered his eyes and turned red again. A lump had formed in Arseny’s throat from compassion for the thin, red-headed girl who had donned his shirt. He thought he had never before pitied anyone so passionately.
Yes, I forgot, do show me if you have any sores on your body.
Ustina pulled aside the collar of the shirt and showed him a sore on her neck. After hesitating, she undid a button and showed him one sore on her underarm. Arseny inhaled the scent of her skin. The wounds were small but moist. Arseny knew they needed to be dried. He went to the shelf that held many little pots tied in rags, and thought for a moment. He found a small pot with burnt willow bark. He sprinkled a little on a clean scrap of fabric and moistened it with vinegar. He applied it to the sores, one by one. Ustina bit her lip.
Be patient, please. Have you any other sores?
I have but I cannot show them.
Arseny held out the scrap of fabric to her.
Here, dab at them yourself, I will not look. He turned toward the stove.
Ustina’s rags were lying by the stove, and their proximity to the fire decided things. Arseny tossed them in the stove without saying a word. It was a natural motion, and he made it. But there was in that motion a sign of irreversibility. This is how it was in some tale he had heard from Christofer. Watching as the flame enveloped the shabby clothes, Arseny thought that Ustina would now wear his shirt constantly. He also thought she was, essentially, his age.
He gave Ustina some bread and kvass, and felt the touch of her lips on his hand.
That is all there is for now, said Arseny, pulling away his hand.
He wanted to add something else but sensed his voice was not obeying him.
There was no hot food in the house because Arseny never cooked anything. In his day, Christofer had taught him to prepare simple dishes, but after his grandfather’s departure there was no more point in that—or so Arseny had thought. Ustina tried to eat unhurriedly but did not succeed very well. She broke small pieces from the heel of the bread and slowly placed them in her mouth. She swallowed them almost without chewing. Arseny observed Ustina and felt her kiss on his hand.
He poured some whole oat grain, husks removed, from a sack. He covered it with water and placed it in the oven to cook. He had decided to treat Ustina to porridge for supper.
Everyone died in our village, said Ustina, only I was left. And I dread my final hour. Do you dread it?
Arseny did not reply.
Ustina suddenly began singing in an unexpectedly strong, high voice:
The soul and white body say goodbyes,
forgive me, my white body (she inhaled some air),
you, my body, will go into the damp earth,
to the damp earth I do commit you (a vein on her throat swelled),
for them to eat, the worms so cruel.
Ustina went silent and calmly looked at him. As if she had not even sung. She did not avert her eyes. Her drying hair, not yet braided, shone, fluffy, around her head. Thy hayrie lockes are like a flocke of goates upon the mount of Galaad. In these forgotten times hair was more exciting than now because it was usually covered. Hair was almost an intimate detail.