Ksenia nodded her appreciation, then gathered up her courage and said, “Do you have any meat? Myaso?”
The woman hesitated. She pressed her lips together, then took back the flour and produce and came back with a small paper-wrapped parcel and three eggs. “Loshadina,” she said. “Horse meat.”
Ksenia bowed deeply, touched her hand to the ground at the woman’s feet. She wrapped the eggs in her handkerchief, tying the corners with care, and slipped them into another dress pocket. She had turned to go, holding the meat parcel against her chest, when a lurid flash of lightning bisected the sky directly above, followed by a clap of thunder that sent both women back into the open doorway. Catching each other’s eye, they both laughed at their instinctive reaction, then turned to watch the first heavy raindrops kick up puffs of dust in the yard, sending chickens into the sheltering branches of a nearby oak.
Within minutes, it was over; the furiously falling curtain of rain lifted as suddenly as it had descended. Ksenia stepped out, ready to leave, but the woman restrained her with a light touch on the arm. She went inside and reappeared with a cup. Ksenia drank. She did not care for koumiss, the pungent fermented mare’s milk that had been a staple of the Tatars’ nomadic ancestors for generations. But it would have been worse than rude to refuse, and she was hungry.
Leaving the village, she stopped again at the first house. Ignoring the look of annoyance on the young mother’s face, she gave her the cloth dolls and spinning top without a word, and turned for home. She did not look back to see the speechless young woman, toys in hand, stare after her in open-mouthed amazement.
It was evening when Ksenia reached home. She was tired from the day’s traveling, but knew she still had work to do before retiring to her bed. Ilya was at his worktable, bent over a bit of ivory he was carving with a fine-gauge tool, his face illuminated by the glow of the lamp at his elbow. How handsome he is, Ksenia thought. His hair still dark and glossy, his tall body trim. And those hands, those beautiful, sensitive hands.
“Good evening, my dear. Dobryi vecher,” he said, without missing a stroke, looking up only when his tool reached the edge of the piece. “Was your expedition successful?”
“Yes. There will be meat pie tomorrow. How is…” She glanced toward the curtained corner of the room.
“Sleeping.” Ilya picked up a wood-handled chisel, the blade fine as a scalpel, and set to work creating intricate flower petals. “Galya left you some food.”
In the kitchen, Ksenia lifted the plate covering a small bowl of millet, two thin smoked smelts laid across the top. She ate one of the fish, grinding its tiny bones with her teeth, swallowing the head whole, licking her fingers one by one.
She untied the parcel and examined the meat. It looked fresh, with no greenish discoloration or brown curled edges, but who knew how long ago the animal had been slaughtered? Or died, more likely. Healthy horses were too valuable to kill for meat. She had to cook it now, tonight, taking no chances on spoilage from the summer heat. If only I had an ice house, or a cool cellar, like in the country, she thought. I could rest now.
She sighed, added wood to the stove, covered the meat with water in the soup pot, peeled an onion from her kitchen garden. When the water boiled, she skimmed off the gray foam, added a dried bay leaf and the onion, along with two garlic cloves, and moved the pot to the back burner, where the heat was less intense and the soup would simmer, undisturbed, extracting as much essence from the meat as possible. She sat at the table, peeled the last of the month’s potatoes, working expertly, her knife removing barely a shadow of the pulp. This is my craft, she thought. She savored the way the knife’s handle fit her hand, the sharp blade worn paper-thin from many years’ use. My tools.
She stirred the peels into the stockpot with a wooden spoon, put the potatoes on to boil in a separate pot. Tomorrow, she would shred the boiled meat, mix it with the fork-mashed potatoes and make a pie, using the potato water to enrich the dough. If there was enough flour, she would use one of the precious eggs to make lapsha, add the homemade noodles to the stock for a meal as satisfying as it was economical. The other eggs she would save for Maksim. They would give him strength, and perhaps, she fervently wished, a moment’s joy.
Ksenia picked up the bowl of cold millet and ate it, slowly, standing up, chewing the swollen grains with deliberation. “Needs salt,” she said to the empty room, but added none, scraping the last of the cooking liquid out with her spoon, finishing her supper with the second smoked fish.
From her kitchen window she could see into the room outside, a wisp of smoke rising from the kerosene lamp on what was now Filip’s desk, his head bent over a stamp album, no doubt. She could not see Galina, but guessed she would be on the bed, sewing, working on one of the scrap projects that seemed to occupy all her spare time. And yes, singing. Ksenia could hear snatches of a popular melody—what was it? Ah, “Sinyi Platochek,” “The Blue Scarf,” another plaintive song of love and loss. Then Galina moved into her line of vision and Ksenia stepped back; she felt a flicker of shame at her intrusion but was unable to avert her eyes. Filip rose and the two of them swayed together, dancing in the impossibly cramped space, Galina’s mouth at his ear, still singing the haunting waltz. Ksenia saw the flush rise in Filip’s cheeks, and then the light went out.
4
MAKSIM RESISTED SEEING the doctor. “What’s the use? A doctor is not a magician, a wizard who can restore the past with a few incantations. Save your money, Mama. Let it be.”
But Ksenia was adamant. “You may not know everything. An older doctor, with experience, may be able to help you, to improve your life.”
“Improve my life?” He laughed, a strangely mirthless, bitter sound. “You mean equip me with a hook so I can tie my shoelaces and terrorize small children?”
“Do not mock your fate, son,” she replied, stern and unyielding. “Do you think you are the only one who suffers?” she shamed him. “You owe a debt, because you have been spared. A debt to the many who have died, who are dying even now.”
“A debt? What debt?”
“To live a productive life. To do what you can in the time you have. That is your obligation.” He made no answer, his gaze fixed on a point between his feet, so she pushed on. “Let’s see what comfort or relief medicine has to offer. Then we can talk about your future.”
“These words: comfort, relief, future—they mean nothing to me. But I will see the doctor, Mama, because you want it so. I want to put these questions to rest for you.”
“Horosho,” she said. “Good. Ilya? Fetch the doctor. I must finish this pie.”
Toward evening, Ilya returned with a middle-aged woman. She was solid, gray-haired, businesslike. “Maria Kirilovna.” She offered Ksenia a firm handshake, her own hand small and square. “I have been on staff at the sanatorium for the last twenty-two years. Many of my colleagues have been mobilized to treat the wounded at the front. The army determined that I could be spared to care for people here,” she explained.