Ice Trilogy (2 page)

In the morning I remembered the dream in detail and told it to my family at breakfast. But it didn’t make any particular impression on them.

With his habitual rough directness Father recommended that I “fantasize less and get more fresh air.” Mother simply made the sign of the cross over me that night, sprinkled me with holy water, and placed an image of Saint Panteleimon the Healer under my pillow. My sisters didn’t see anything unusual in my dream. My brothers simply hadn’t been listening to me.

During the day the mysterious mountain occasionally revealed itself to me alone, here and there — in a snowdrift near the porch, as a wedge of cake on my sister’s plate, as a juniper bush the gardener had pruned in the form of a pyramid, as Nastenka’s metronome, as a mountain of sugar in Father’s factory, as the corner of my pillow.

However, despite all this, I felt quite indifferent to regular mountains. The beautiful atlas titled
Les plus grands fleuves et montagnes du Monde
that Didenko showed me struck no chord of recognition: my mountain was not in there among the Jomolungmas, Jungfraus, and Ararats. They were just ordinary mountains. I had dreamed of the Mountain.

Gradually, my childhood paradise began to show cracks. Russian life seeped in through them. First, in the form of the word “war.” I was six years old when I heard it on the terrace of our Ukrainian country estate. We had been waiting some time for Father to return from the factory for dinner, and at Mother’s command had already begun the meal, when suddenly the jingle of the droshky bells could be heard, and Father entered somehow more slowly than usual. He was wearing a three-piece nankeen suit and a white hat and holding a newspaper in his hand; he was serious and sternly triumphant. He tossed the paper on the table.

“War!” he said. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his long, powerful neck. “First it’s those Austrian swine, then the Prussians. They want to gobble up Serbia.”

The men sitting around the table got up, their voices clamoring as they clustered around Father. Nastya and Arisha turned to Mother in bewilderment. She looked frightened. I had bitten off too big a piece of an egg pasty, so I kept on chewing and stared at the newspaper. It lay close to me, between a carafe of raspberry drink and a dish of cold pork. The big black word WAR was folded in half. Under it I could see a smaller word — SERBIA. It made me think of the
serp
, the sickle women used to reap the wheat and buckwheat growing on our estate fields. Reddish-brown cockroaches were called “Prussians.” Imagining a red cloud of them attacking the iron
serp
and gobbling it up, to the horror of the harvester, I shuddered and noisily spat the unchewed piece of pie out on the newspaper.

No one paid any attention to me. The men were making a restrained racket around Father, who stood too straight, as usual, and, thrusting his strong chin forward, was saying something about an ultimatum to Austro-Hungary. The women sat hushed.

I looked at the unchewed piece of pie lying on the black word WAR. I don’t know why, but for my whole life that image has been a symbol of war for me.

Later, war became part of everyday life.

News from the front was read out loud at the breakfast table. The names of generals began to seem like those of relatives. For some reason I liked General Kuropatkin best of all. I imagined that he was like Uncle Chernomor in Pushkin’s
Ruslan and Liudmila.
I also liked the word “counterattack.” We moved to Vaskelovo and went to see our troops off at the station. Mama and my sisters sewed clothes for the wounded, cut bandages, made cotton plugs for wounds, visited sick quarters, and once were photographed with the empress and the wounded. Vasily volunteered, despite Father’s protests and Mother’s tears.

Soon after the beginning of the war I became acquainted with two other loyal companions of humankind: violence and love.

In the spring, Father traveled to Basantsy and took Nastya and me with him. It was Palm Sunday and we set off for church in three droshkies with our aunts and various hangers-on. It was a pretty, white-and-blue church that father had restored, and it stood at the edge of Kochanovo — the village next to Basantsy. I always felt cozy and calm in the church. I liked everyone crossing themselves, bowing and singing. There was something mysterious about it. During the service I tried to do everything like the grown-ups. When the priest began sprinkling water on the palm branches and drops hit my face, I didn’t laugh but stood quietly like everyone else. However, by the end I was always bored and couldn’t understand why it had to go on so long.

That day, when the service was over we began to leave the church with the crowd. Right behind us there was a sudden crush of people and several voices began arguing.

“These Ukies are always barging ahead!” one voice said in Russian.

“Those Moscow mosquitoes fly in just to push us around!” said another voice in Ukrainian.

The weather was springlike, the sun was shining, and the remaining patches of snow crunched underfoot. Father and the aunts gave alms to the poor, while Nastya and I sat in the
britzka
and looked at the square in front of the church. It was jammed with people. Some were already drunk. The village people, the Ukies, loitered about here — as did the factory people who worked in Father’s plant. The plant was located about a verst from the village, but the factory settlement, built awhile back by my grandfather, lay just beyond the wide ravine. The Ukies shelled pumpkin seeds and made a hubbub; the factory workers smoked and laughed. Suddenly someone in the crowed screamed, we heard the sound of a slap, someone’s cap went flying, the crowd surged with excitement, and the men ran to the ravine. The women squealed and ran after them. The square emptied in a second; the only people remaining were the beggars, the cripples, two constables with big sabers, and my relatives.

“Where are they going?” I asked Nastya, who was four years older.

Still chewing on the host, Nastya smacked her palm on the back of the driver’s padded coat.

“Mikola, where are they running to?”

The swarthy Ukie with droopy mustaches turned around, smiling. “Well, miss, they’s run off like the divil’s kin to slug ’em in their mugs.”

“Slug whose face?”

“Them own selves, Miss.”

“What for?”

“Wouldn’t be knowin
g...
”

We stood up in the carriage. In the ravine the men had lined up in two ranks — the plant workers, mostly Russian newcomers, in one; the local Ukrainian villagers in the other. The women, old people, and children stood at the edge of the ravine and watched them from above. A hat flew up again and the fight began. It was accompanied by women’s shrieks and encouraging shouts. For the first time in my life I saw people deliberately beating each other. In our family, other than Father’s occasional cuffs and Mama’s smacks, or a disobedient child ordered to sit in the corner, there were no punishments. Father often yelled at Mother until he was blue in the face, stamped his feet at the servants, and threatened the manager with his fist, but he never touched anyone.

Mesmerized, I watched the fight, not understanding the meaning of what was happening. The people in the ravine were doing something very important. It was
hard
for them to do it. But they were really trying. They tried so hard they almost cried. They groaned, swore, and shouted. It was as though they were
giving
one another something with their fists. It was interesting and frightening. I began to tremble. Nastya noticed and hugged me.

“Don’t be scared, Shurochka. They’re peasants. Papa says all they do is drink and fight.”

I held Nastya’s hand. Nastya was watching the fight in a strange way. It was as though she stopped being my sister and became distant and grown-up. And I was left alone. The fight continued. Someone fell on the snow, someone else was pulled by the hair, another guy would move back, spitting red. Nastya’s hand was hot and alien to me.

Finally the constables whistled, and the old men and women shouted.

The fight stopped. The brawlers went home cursing — the Ukies to Kochanovo; the factory folk to the settlement. My tenderhearted mother couldn’t help herself and cried after them, “Shame on you! Orthodox boys are on the front fighting the Germans, and you fight each other on a holiday!”

The ends of my father’s thin-lipped mouth curled in a smile. “It’s all right, let them entertain themselves and get it out of their system. It will be quieter that way.”

He was afraid of the strikes and walkouts that had shaken Russian factories in 1905. All in all, though, he was content: the mobilization didn’t affect his workers since sugar was considered a strategic product during wartime. The war promised great profits for Father.

Mama got in the carriage with us, the coachman tugged on the reins, clucked, and we set off. I let go of Nastya’s hand. Two factory fellows passed by in homespun coats. One of them had a black eye, yet he was positively glowing with joy. The other guy touched his broken nose. Mother turned away indignantly.

“There you go, master, sir, we taught those Ukies a lesson!” said the fellow with the black eye, who pulled something from his closed fist and showed it to me, winked, and laughed. “A Ukie tooth got stuck in the mallet.”

His friend quickly bent over and blew his nose. Red drops colored the snow. These fellows were
happy
. Both of them had a kind of
invisible
gift. They had received it in the fight. And they took it home with them.

I couldn’t understand
what kind
of gift it was. Nastya and the other grown-ups understood, but they wouldn’t say. There were
many
things no one would tell me.

I discovered the world’s secrets for myself.

At the end of July we moved to Vaskelovo. At noon, after a two-hour lesson with Madame Panaget, I had some baked-milk pudding with bilberries and headed for the garden to play until dinner. The garden had been built a century and a half earlier, but it retained only remnants of its original magnificence — the former owner hadn’t taken care of it at all. I loved to launch paper boats in the pond, climb on the willow tree that bent over to the ground, or, hiding behind the juniper bushes, throw pinecones at an old marble faun. But that day I didn’t feel like doing any of this. Nastya was practicing her music in the house; Mama and the nanny were making jam; Father had left for Vyborg to buy some kind of machine, taking Ilya and Ivan with him; Arisha and Vasilisa were dozing with their books on chaise longues. I wandered around until I reached the most overgrown corner of the garden, and suddenly saw our maid, Marfusha. Squeezing her body between two iron fence bars pulled slightly apart, she disappeared into the forest that began just beyond the garden. There was something entirely uncharacteristic in her furtive movement; plump and calm, she was usually unhurried and smiling, with silly, wide-open brown eyes. Sensing some mystery in Marfusha’s action, I wriggled through the fence and carefully ran after her. Her stern blue dress with its white apron stood out starkly against the background of the wild forest. The girl walked swiftly along the path, without turning around. I followed, walking on the soft, pine-needle-covered ground. A thick grove of old fir trees stood all around. It was dusky in the grove and only the rare birdcall could be heard. After about half a verst the grove ended: a small swamp began here. At the edge of the trees there were three shelters fashioned from fir branches. Every spring Father and his friends came here to hunt black grouse, which mated in the swamp. A whistle sounded from one of the huts. Marfusha stopped. I hid behind a thick fir. Marfusha looked around, and entered the hut.

“I was thinking you’d not come,” a man’s voice said, and I recognized Klim, a young servant.

“They’ll be sitting to dinner soon, the missus is making jam. Lordy, I hope they don’t miss me,” Marfusha said quickly.

“Don’t worry, they won’t take notice,” Klim muttered, and they fell silent.

I approached the hut stealthily, thinking to give a shout and scare them. On reaching the edge of the hut, I was just about to open my mouth, but I froze on the spot when I caught a glimpse of Klim and Marfusha through the fir branches. A sack was spread out on the ground inside the hut. They were kneeling, embracing, and sucking on each other’s mouths. I had never seen people do that. Klim was squeezing Marfusha’s breasts with one hand, and she was moaning. This went on and on. Marfusha’s arms hung helplessly. Her cheeks were burning. Finally their mouths separated, and curly-headed, skinny Klim started to unbutton Marfusha’s dress. This was totally
incomprehensible
. I knew that only a doctor was allowed to take a woman’s dress off.

“Wait, I’ll take off my apron,” said Marfusha, removing the apron, folding it carefully, and hanging it on a branch.

Klim unhooked her dress, bared her young, strong breasts with little nipples, and began to kiss them greedily, murmuring, “Sweetheart, my sweetheart.”

“What is he — some kind of a baby?” I thought.

Marfusha shuddered and her breathing was irregular.

“Klimushk
a...
my preciou
s...
Do you really love me?”

He muttered something and unhooked her rustling blue dress even further.

“Not that way,” she said, pushing away his hands and lifting the hem of her dress.

There was a white slip under her dress. Marfusha lifted it. And I saw female thighs and the dark triangle of her groin. Marfusha quickly lay down on her back.

“Lordy me, it’s a si
n...
Klimushk
a...
”

Klim lowered his pants, fell on top of Marfusha, and began to move back and forth.

“Oh, we shouldn’
t...
Klimushk
a...
”

“Quiet,” Klim muttered, moving back and forth.

He began moving faster and growling like an animal. Marfusha moaned and cried out, muttering, “Lor
d...
oy, it’s a si
n...
oh my Go
d...
”

Their bodies trembled, their cheeks filled with blood. I understood clearly that they were doing something very shameful and secret, for which they would be punished. I could see that it was very hard for them, and probably hurt. But they
really really
wanted to do it.