“It’s essential. Vital! If we could figure out the mathematics of the parallel streams, we would be seen as magicians. Time travel, jumping between alternate lives would become a reality. Seeing the intention of the entire structure. That’s what we should be studying, not whirling around with our eyes closed.” He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously. The crows cawed in response.
But I liked the whirling. Opening the vortex, we called it. It was my favorite thing at Ionia. It made you less hungry, more peaceful, and the room held that beautiful energy. We got along better afterward. “What about the sacred spiral? I would have thought you’d approve.”
“We should be examining the layers of existence. It’s a different order of magnitude.”
“But it’s right out of that book you gave me, The Structure of Reality.” The spiral was the gateway to higher dimensions. What could he object to in its embodiment?
“You’re dancing it. It’s not the same as engaging here.” He knocked on his forehead. “You can draw a motor, too, but it won’t take you to Moscow.” He sighed, whacked a tree trunk with a crude ski pole. “But nobody cares. It’s too much mental work. I’ve failed here if you can’t see how it matters.” I could see I’d offended him.
We started down the hill toward the aspen copse, the trees all talking to each other, their roots entwined. “I wrote a poem about parallel time streams,” I said. He seemed so bitter that no one cared about his cosmic theories, I thought it might cheer him. “Want to hear it?”
“Go on.”
He said nothing at first, the crunch of snow under his skis. “Yes, but don’t you want to know why? It’s the manifestation of a universal truth, not just inspiration for a poet’s reveries. Such a bright girl, too. I’d had such high hopes for you.”
How tedious he was. He fell in love with patterns, ignoring the very things worth living for—the body in motion, the beauty of these frosty woods, a line of verse. Every bit the spaceman that Varvara was. Who was he to have hopes for me anyway? “I’m a disappointment to many. You’ll have to queue, I’m afraid.”
We reached the logged stretch, overgrown with blackberries and willows, their bare red twigs sticking up from the snow like the fingers of a frozen traveler. Andrei panted and coughed. I was tempted to send him off into the bush ahead of me, like a beater, to flush the game. I wanted to sneak up behind him and scream, “Wolf!” I knew exactly why Ukashin used him as a scapegoat and court jester. He was so wretchedly earnest. Too much air, Ukashin would say, too little earth. Though didn’t we all suffer from the same complaint? Truly, which of us Ionians wasn’t too much air, too little earth? It was lucky any of us had a roof over our heads. Without Ukashin, Ionia would have starved long ago.
“Hold up!” Andrei was caught. He tried to free himself and toppled over like a rootless aspen.
I tried not to laugh. I was tempted to suggest maybe he could leap over into a parallel time-space stream where he was graceful and useful and quiet. But it wasn’t his fault, he really was helpless, and one didn’t add to the suffering of others, even if they were annoying. I went back to help him, got him out of the snow, set his ski out for him to step into, and strapped him back onto the raw birch plank. I even set his hat back on his head and handed him my bottle of tea wrapped in birch bark.
After that he fell silent for a while. Perhaps he was finally noticing the beauty of the woods, the finely etched branches of maple and birch, the little berries the animals would come again and again to eat. The first trap of the day lay empty, also the second. I had to keep setting new traps in wider circles, I even crossed the river now. It took longer, but we needed the meat. I still could hear Natalya reassuring me that groceries would manifest themselves if we didn’t repress them with our fears.
Andrei was wearying, forcing himself forward into the heavy snow. I stopped at a favorite spot with a view of the river and the low round ball of the sun, always near the horizon in these winter months. He stood next to me, gulping the frigid air, taking in the mesmerizing display of black marks on the white birches, vivid against the white sky, like the masterful strokes of a Chinese brush.
“You know, we’ve met before, Marina.”
“We have?” I squinted at him. Tall, storky, in his quilted coat, squirrel-skin gloves, and felted hat. Emaciated, his lips blue. “When was that?”
“At a party. You wore a rust-colored dress and danced a tango with a young officer. You were laughing. I never see you laugh like that here.”
He’d been there, that New Year’s Eve, the night we cast the wax. He had seen me with Kolya… how was that possible?
Master Vsevolod. Andrei must have been one of Mother’s table-rappers. Of course. “I’ve been here three months and you’re just telling me this now?”
“We don’t speak of the personal,” he said, slightly mocking. “The past is irrelevant.” He sighed. “But your mother and I were once great friends.”
I wanted to hear more about my mother, but we needed to get going if I had any hope of crossing to my other traps and getting back before the weather turned ugly. Already the belly of the sky hung low and fat and was turning the yellow-green of impending snow. We were going to be in for it.
We made our way down to the frozen-over river and took off across the crisp whiteness of the open snow, stopping in the middle to listen to the muffled gurgle. There is no greater pleasure, any Russian will tell you, than standing on a frozen lake or river and contemplating hidden currents under the snow. I thought perhaps I should try ice fishing. Overhead, an osprey circled. The eagles didn’t leave in the winter. I couldn’t imagine the fortitude to last out these brutal winters in a nest of twigs. Even Andrei stopped talking to hear the river’s quiet music.
On the other side, where once little boys had watched me swim naked, not understanding their own excitement, we stopped for our lunch. A good spot, though cold as the heavy clouds descended. We sat on a fallen fir. The white birches were scarred where deer had chewed on them. I shared our luncheon of dried perch and black bread, a red egg left over from the feast—a love offering from Avdokia. I peeled it and ate half—yolk, too—and gave the other half to Andrei. He gnawed the bread with his eyeteeth. It was not quite as tough as rock, but getting there. The fish was full of bones, but nice and salty. I forced myself to eat it flake by flake, careful not to drop any with my freezing hands.