It was the spectacle of their selective, almost aggressive care that made Masha suspicious of its sincerity and, by extension, the sincerity of the whole marriage. Of course, it was preposterous to think of the situation in these terms. Sveta’s marriage to Brian was never meant to be entirely sincere.
Yet, all the advantages of America now paled in comparison with the look in Sveta’s eyes: half the time glazed, and the other half tense and calculating. Nothing like the bored contentedness Masha had hoped for.
One night in the second week of her stay, Masha had made tea and sat Sveta down at the kitchen table. Brian was at his favorite café, grading midterm papers.
“Svetochka, what is this circus you and Brian are putting up? You can tell me what is happening. I’m your mother, I’ll understand everything.”
Sveta looked betrayed, as though Masha were a teacher who had intercepted a love note and read it to the class. Then she smiled toothily — the American way — and said, “You mean the dishes? Brian thinks a woman like me shouldn’t have to do housework.”
Sveta had gained some weight since Masha last saw her. Sveta’s face had softened, and the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth had filled out. She wore less makeup now, usually just lip gloss, and let her golden brown hair grow long and natural. Looking at her daughter, dressed in loose blue jeans and a T-shirt, and with her hair in a ponytail, Masha had an irksome sensation that she had been transported to the past, to Sveta’s medical school years, but now the role of Sveta was played by an older, skillfully deceptive actress.
“I thought such men existed only in fairy tales,” Masha joked. “Besides, you work as a housecleaner—”
“That’s different, Mama. I know what you’re thinking: if he’s such a knight, why does he procrastinate over doing the housework himself? He also could be more strict with making the girls do their chores.” Sveta rubbed her fingers. “Right now is the time for the girls to concentrate on their education. There will always be dirty dishes and smelly socks, whereas the young mind won’t absorb knowledge like a sponge forever.”
This seemed to Masha a Potemkin speech, prepared especially for her visit.
“If there is another car, why does he drive you to the store for tampons? You were a professional in Russia. You saved lives.”
“He’s trying to help the only way he knows how. I can save a lot more lives if I keep off the icy roads. Besides, I didn’t save lives, you know that. With all the shortages at the hospital — no supplies, power outages — it was mostly the talking cure.” Sveta giggled, but it felt mechanical. When she belittled her own achievements, she stripped away at the coating of pride that kept Masha going through the most difficult and lonely times of their separation.
“Everything is somehow not right,” Masha said, staring at her daughter’s fingers. They had retained their original childish shape, now even more pronounced because of Sveta’s weight gain: plump bases tapering toward the tips, dimples on her knuckles. Masha wanted to shake her. “Do you want me to talk to him? I’ve been learning English. Maybe I can—”
“Mamochka, don’t.” Sveta folded her hands under her chin. “Everything is good. He’s been very nice to us. He never even raises his voice. If you like to slide, you must like to pull the sled, as they say.”
“He doesn’t have the right to interfere with your studying. You didn’t come here to die a housecleaner.”
“He doesn’t. I am lucky to stand a chance of translating my profession. Lizochka used to be a chemical engineer, but she can’t work now the way she worked in the Union. It’s all different here. If everything goes according to plan, we’ll send Katya to a special boarding school for math and science. And if she does well, she might get a scholarship to one of the best colleges, like Harvard or Princeton. Scholarship means studying for free. Good education is very expensive here. From Magadan to Princeton, can you imagine?” Sveta’s face finally brightened and relaxed.
Masha nodded and got up from the table. She tore off a paper towel, softened it in her hands, and blew her nose.
“Nu, if you’re happy, I’m happy.” She wondered how many times she would have to repeat it to herself to make both parts feel true.
“Come.” Sveta took Masha’s hand. “I want to show you something.”
She led Masha to the master bedroom, on the second floor, next to Katya’s bedroom. The room was hot and smelled of vanilla. Masha began to perspire. Sveta got out a key from the back of a desk drawer and unlocked the double doors of a tall oak cabinet.
“Brian’s treasures,” she said and opened the creaky door.
Books about the Soviet Union occupied the top shelves. Reproductions of campaign posters for five-year plans and movie playbills were pinned to the back of the middle section. Several more stood rolled up on the bottom. Plastic boxes with pins and military patches, commander watches, and several generations of Soviet and Russian money filled the middle shelves.
Next to a crowd of traditional matryoshkas and matryoshkas with faces of Russian politicians and American sports stars, Masha noticed a box from the porcelain tea set that she and Sveta had bought together in Magadan.
“Docha, why is our tea set locked up in this cabinet? You don’t want to use it?”
“I thought it was too nice for every day. I’m saving it. Maybe to give Katya for her wedding.”
“The future is an interesting thing. During the Soviet years we sacrificed for the future—”
“Mama, don’t start on that.”
Sveta squatted down and pulled out a cardboard box from the bottom of the cabinet.
“Fragile,” she translated the word handwritten on the top. She lifted the cover to reveal a drab olive-colored backpack with a faint red cross etched on the flap.
Sveta sat down cross-legged on the floor, and Masha settled next to her, her knee joints cracking. She was still surprised at how quickly she’d gained weight after she was laid off from the Aviation Administration, despite the general hunger of the post-Soviet years; how fast she’d developed high blood pressure.
“One of the original first-aid bags made for the Red Army combat medics in World War Two. Some medicines and instruments are still inside,” Sveta said.
“Great Patriotic War.”
“Yes. Same war. This is Brian’s favorite piece. Two hundred dollars for such a museum exhibit, can you believe it?”
Two hundred dollars. That was more than Masha’s monthly pension.
Sveta opened the buckles and pulled out several packs of gauze bandages wrapped in brown paper, a tourniquet, a brown bottle of iodine with a dropper, and a small syringe, its needle still intact. She neatly laid out the contents on the floor. Everything looked brand-new. There wasn’t a single spot on the gauze, nor a speck of rust on the glittering syringe stopper.
“Sometimes, when I’m alone, I look through these things over and over, I don’t know why. The longer I am away from Russia, the more surreal it all seems. Most of all, my childhood. Everything else I don’t mind forgetting.”
Masha picked up a book about Stakhanovites and brought it up to her nose. It smelled of salt and rust, like the window heater in the library where she had studied for exams almost forty years ago.
“You can return anytime, if you’ve changed your mind. We’ll make something up. We’ll help each other,” Masha said, looking up at the colorful army of grinning matryoshkas.