But the local bums who also lived in the basement wouldn’t let you in to see him unless you brought them a bottle of vodka.
Nor would Kornil tell you anything unless he got a bottle, too.
What you needed to do was put down a fresh towel for a tablecloth, and shot glasses, serve the vodka, something to eat, and so on in that vein.
The woman explained in great detail where to go and what to do. She herself didn’t look very welclass="underline" she was pale, as if she’d just come from the hospital, and dressed all in black, with a black kerchief, but she had lovely, kind eyes.
Without even thinking, Nadya bought the vodka bottles, prepared the towel, packed everything neatly into a bag, and went off.
When she was near the hospital somebody directed her to the boiler room, the gathering spot for all local drunks. It looked like every bum in the neighborhood hung out there.
Two or three loitered near the basement door, either waiting for someone or just passing the time.
Worried they’d steal her vodka, Nadya made for the door like a tank, sweeping the drunks from the way and knocking loudly on the door. It opened just a sliver, then welcomed her fully when Nadya flashed one of her bottles from the bag. The drunks outside tried to get in behind her, and there was some commotion as she entered the basement.
She was immediately relieved of one of the bottles; the person who did so informed Nadya that Uncle Kornil was very ill and mustn’t be allowed to drink under any circumstances.
He pointed her to a corner where a man lay next to an old wardrobe with its doors missing. He looked like he’d just been picked out of the trash. He lay with his arms outstretched. This was Kornil.
Nadya did as the woman at the post office had directed-she put down a fresh towel, placed a bottle of vodka atop it, cut up some bread and pickles, and also put down a little money to help Kornil with his future hangover.
Kornil lay there like a corpse, his mouth open, his forehead covered in tiny scratches, though there was a particularly large one, like a wound, right in the middle.
There were open sores on his hands.
Nadya sat there and waited, then opened the bottle and poured a large shot into the glass.
Uncle Kornil stirred, opened his eyes, crossed himself (so did Nadya), and whispered, “Nadya”-she shivered-“do you have his photograph?”
Nadya did not have a photograph of her son with her. She could have died of grief right then and there.
“Do you have anything of his?”
Nadya started rummaging through her bag. She took out a little purse, a packet of milk, and a used handkerchief. That was it.
She’d used that handkerchief to wipe away her tears on her walk home from the hospital the first time.
Nadya brought the full glass to Uncle Kornil’s lips.
Uncle Kornil raised himself on an elbow, drank off the glass, chewed a pickle, and fell back down again, saying, “Give me your handkerchief.”
Then, holding the handkerchief (there was a large leaking sore on his wrist), he said, “If I drink another glass, that’ll be the end of me.”
Growing frightened, Nadya nodded.
She was kneeling by his side, on her knees, waiting for him to speak. Her dried tears were on that handkerchief, the traces of her suffering, and in a way those were also the traces of her son-so she hoped.
“Sinner,” Uncle Kornil managed, “what do you want?”
Nadya answered right away, beginning to cry: “How am I a sinner? I have no sins on my conscience.”
Behind her, at the table, she heard an explosion of laughter-one of the drunks must have told a joke.
“Your grandfather killed one hundred and seven people,” croaked Uncle Kornil. “And now you’re about to kill me.”
Nadya nodded again, wiping away tears.
Uncle Kornil went quiet.
He lay there silently; meanwhile, time was growing short.
He needed more to drink, apparently, before he would continue.
Nadya hardly knew anything about her paternal grandfather-he’d disappeared at some point. And as if there hadn’t been enough wars in which people killed one another, involuntarily, without anger.
They gave you an order-and either you killed, or they killed you for disobeying the order.
“So my grandfather was a soldier,” said Nadya, wounded. “But what does that have to do with the boy? What did he do? Maybe I should suffer, but why should he? Everybody killed back then-so what?”
Uncle Kornil didn’t say anything; he lay there like a corpse. A drop of blood began to run down his forehead. “Oh, no,” said Nadya, blanching.
She didn’t have anything to wipe it away with. He was holding the handkerchief, and she couldn’t very well use her skirt-she’d be walking around town in a bloody skirt.
And without the handkerchief, he wouldn’t be able to say anything.
The handkerchief held the traces of her suffering and her son’s suffering.
Once again laughter exploded behind her.
She turned and saw the drunks sitting around the table, laughing. They were paying no attention to her at all.
“I have nothing to hope for!” she suddenly blurted out. “You know that, Uncle Kornil.”
Time passed.
The stream of blood dried on the forehead of the man on the floor.
He was unshaven, filthy, skinny; a bad smell wafted up from him; he probably hadn’t stood up in days.
Empty bottles piled up in the wardrobe next to him.
Apparently this Kornil had already helped a number of people today by drinking vodka he couldn’t refuse.
He was waiting for her to pour him more.
The woman had warned that without a drink he wouldn’t say a thing.
Nadya poured out another glass of vodka.
Holding it up, she said: “You asked what I wanted: I want my son to be happy. That’s all I want.”
She stopped, imagining how this twisted Kornil would grant her wish-because happiness for her son consisted of leeching off her, drinking, partying, motorcycling.
“I want him to study. I want him to go back to school and study,” she said.
She stopped again, thinking he still had two years of school left, and in the meantime she’d have to slave away at three separate jobs to feed him. And she was tired.
“He should help me,” said Nadya. “He should get a job, earn some money, learn how to work hard.”
But then she remembered they were going to take him into the army soon, and he’d come back very quickly in a coffin, as he’d promised.
“Let him go to college,” Nadya concluded firmly. “And stay out of the army.”
Then she imagined six more years (one of school, five of college) of constant torment and sleepless nights before exams. She remembered how she got whenever Vova was late from school, how she cried and yelled at him when she got summoned to school when he failed his classes or lost his textbooks or got in a fight.
“All right,” Nadya said finally. “I want him to study, and work hard, and do what I say, and come home on time, and… no more of these friends of his! Especially the girls. And the drinking and partying. It’ll end in jail, that’s what. So he gets up early, leaves for work, comes back on time, cleans the house, helps me out…”
Then poor Nadya realized it would be best if her son were alive, healthy, a diligent student, a good worker, and never, ever at home.
When he was home it meant a racket, loud music, his stuff flung all over, phone conversations late into the night, eating standing up like a horse, accusations, demands for money followed by tears…
She thought of how much she’d had to endure from her one and only son, and said bitterly: “You call me a sinner, but when did I get a chance to sin? When? I don’t live for myself. I live only for him… only for him. All I think about is how to feed and clothe him. I saved every penny, and now there’s nothing left-he stole it all. Oh, and I’d like for him not to steal anymore, Uncle Kornil. No one in our family ever stole before. And I don’t want him drinking. His health is bad; he has allergies, chronic bronchitis. He should go to college. After that, he should get married to a nice girl. And live with her. God bless them. It’s bad enough with just him, but to have them both running around the house? And then a child? I’m tired; I’ve no strength left. The psychiatrist at the hospital said I should get treatment myself! But I’ll help them. As for me, as for me-when can I live my life? I think only of him. I cry myself to sleep every night. What kind of sinner can I be?”