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Snow in May
Kseniya Melnik
SHORTLISTED FOR THE DYLAN THOMAS PRIZEThe stories of Kseniya Melnik’s debut collection are small-town miracles, each a miniature epic.Their focus is Magadan, a town in the Northern Far East of Russia, and the unvisited lives of its inhabitants and emigrants – schoolchildren, doctors, teachers, mothers, daughters. Some characters span several stories. Some of their stories span decades and continents. The measure of their telling, though, is invariably the measure of everyday existence. Their dramas, too, are made of quotidian stuff, each life with its own sly or suppressed tragedies, and its brief, often unexpected ecstasies.Kseniya Melnik’s sensibility is sober and humorous; her stories are moving and funny. In their patient, deliberate unfolding – at once surprising and convincing – and in the fitness of their details – vital because they are suggestive – we sense, above all, an assurance that is dazzling.
Copyright (#uee5ebe2f-6a8f-5a06-bb5c-ccac74343470)
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.4thestate.co.uk (http://www.4thestate.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by Fourth Estate in 2014
First published in the United States by Henry Holt in 2014
Copyright © Kseniya Melnik 2014
Cover photograph © Diana Berlizeva/EyeEm
Kseniya Melnik asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Some of the stories in this collection have appeared elsewhere, in slightly different form: ‘The Witch’ in Granta’s New Voices series on Granta.com, 2010; ‘Rumba’ in Epoch magazine, 2012 series, Volume 61, Number 3; ‘Love, Italian Style’ as ‘In the queue’ in Prospect magazine, May 2011; and ‘Closed Fracture’ in the Virginia Quarterly Review, fall 2011. Lines from ‘But could you?’ by Vladimir Mayakovsky, translated by Dorian Rottenberg; lines from ‘To He BeTep’ (‘Kruchina’), music by A. Varlamov, lyrics by S. Stromilov; lines from ‘When Youth Leaves’, music by V. Sorokin, lyrics by A. Fatianov.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This collection is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007548705
Ebook Edition © May 2014 ISBN: 9780007548712
Version: 2015-05-22
Dedication (#uee5ebe2f-6a8f-5a06-bb5c-ccac74343470)
In loving memory of my grandmothers, Olga and Irina, and my friend Allison Powell
Contents
COVER (#u32a561e4-ea46-5133-b545-135256bd0531)
TITLE PAGE (#uc937c974-9b64-518a-9c86-6af811125c60)
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
LOVE, ITALIAN STYLE, OR IN LINE FOR BANANAS
CLOSED FRACTURE
THE WITCH
STRAWBERRY LIPSTICK
THE UNCATCHABLE AVENGERS
RUMBA
SUMMER MEDICINE
KRUCHINA
OUR UPSTAIRS NEIGHBOR
GLOSSARY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Love, Italian Style, or in Line for Bananas (#uee5ebe2f-6a8f-5a06-bb5c-ccac74343470)
1975
“Grazhdanka, it’s forbidden to sit here. Follow me.”
Tanya looked up from her shopping list. The stewardess’s curt demeanor was so incongruous with her childlike face, Tanya felt a swell of pity. Here was someone already kicked around by life, her defenses permanently raised.
Moments earlier, Tanya had sat in one of the open seats directly behind a group of men in identical blue T-shirts and track pants. On an otherwise full airplane, they were buffered both in front and behind by an empty row. Preoccupied with planning the most efficient shopping itinerary for Moscow, Tanya hadn’t given this much thought.
Now she wrestled her frayed carry-on from the overhead compartment and followed the stewardess. The empty rows were puzzling indeed. When she looked back, the blue-T-shirted men grinned at her over the tops of their seats. There was something glossy in their appearance, something one didn’t see in everyday people. With their smooth faces, shiny hair, and lime-white teeth, they looked freshly washed and wrung free of life’s problems.
Tanya’s assigned seat was in the last row, beside a middle-aged couple.
The husband turned to Tanya. “The Italian soccer team,” he said with enthusiasm. “They’re trying to keep us away from them. International security measures, you see. But if seriously, what secrets do they think we could give them? That the country’s short on soap and rope?” He snickered. “Soap and rope, yes.”
“Who thinks? The Italians?” Tanya said. She’d never seen a foreigner before, not even someone from the Eastern bloc—the so-called Soviet camp—although she’d heard they were easily spotted in the bigger cities. But these were real foreigners, real Westerners. There were separate hotels for them, and shops and restaurants. Separate seats at the Bolshoi Theatre. She felt embarrassed for having sat down behind them now.
“Them. The—”
“Sasha, quiet,” his wife said, glaring at him as though the plane was bugged by the KGB. And who knew? Maybe it was.
The plane taxied for takeoff from Leningrad, where Tanya had spent five days slumped in a seminar room at the Hermitage. She curated the arts wing of the Regional Museum in her hometown in the northeast and every five years attended these educational programs, required and paid for by the countrywide arts board. During the day, she half listened to lectures on “the portrayal of socialist reality through painting and sculpture.” In the evenings, she strolled down the Neva embankment, its austere neoclassical buildings the color of cucumber flesh, omelet batter, sour-creamed borsch. What a shame it was that she had to travel so far to see real beauty.
She closed her eyes and thought of all the things she needed to get in Moscow to take back home to Magadan, where the grocery stores weren’t empty but also had no variety. Leningrad, with its theaters and museums, was Russia’s starving artist; the capital was the rich merchant, the pride of the country—a requisite stop for everyone on the way back to the provinces. She and Anton had saved all year for this shopping trip. Baby Pavlik needed a winter coat, and Borya needed a backpack, notebooks, and all the bright school accessories to get him excited about first grade.
Fruits and good vegetables. Avitominosis was common during spring in Magadan. Tanya loved cabbage for its excellent transportability. She’d have to get three or four heads. Juicy southern tomatoes, too, if she could find a sturdy box. Apples, oranges, pears. And maybe something exotic and a little magical to jolt their life, if only for a moment, out of its bread-and-potatoes doldrums. Pineapples or bananas if she was lucky, though even in Moscow they were a rarity. Anton had asked for color film and photo paper, preferably East German. He loved taking pictures on his geological expeditions. She wished she had time for the shopping bus tour that went to all the foreign import stores: Warsaw, Dresden, Budapest, and, of course, Belgrade.
Tanya pulled out Eugene Onegin and opened at the bookmark.
“Ehhhhh. Ciao, bellissima.”
She looked up. It was one of the Italian soccer men. His right arm was propped on his hip; the other inched toward her with a piece of paper. He was mockingly handsome—his features oversized, his full lips shiny as though dabbed with olive oil. He stared at her with intensity, the way the blue-cloaked Zephyr looks at Venus in her favorite Botticelli.
A pang of sweet fear seared her stomach.
“Ehhhhh. Would like rendezvous,” the Italian said.
His arms were tan and muscular, and not at all hairy, as she had expected of Italians. People were turning back to watch. Some even stood up to get a better view.
“Bellissima. Sono Luciano. Per favore, Hotel Rossiya. Eight.” The Italian thrust his note at her. She took it, if only to divert the spotlight from herself. He held on to her hand and kissed it wetly. “Luciano.”
He kissed her hand again and sauntered back to his seat. It wasn’t only his arms that were muscular, she noticed.
Tanya’s neighbors looked at her as though she were a chicken who had suddenly learned to fly. She turned back to Onegin, her face flushed. Not once in her thirty-three years had she been paid such a compliment by a stranger. And from Italy—the birthplace of art and beauty. It was a miracle.
“What did he want?” asked Tanya’s neighbor, the wife. She hadn’t dared look up from her knitting.
“He invited me to meet him at his hotel, I think.”
“You will go? It’s not illegal, but—”
Tanya caught the accusation in the woman’s tone. “You must be joking,” Tanya said.
“It is discouraged. Yes, it is strongly discouraged,” the husband whispered. “You will be put on a list for observation, if they even let you into that hotel.”
“I have two children, seven years old and one and a half,” Tanya said. “A good husband. Nondrinker.”
Anton was much more than a nondrinker, of course. Had he been a bachelor, he would have made a perfect personal ad: thirty-five, ethnic Russian, tall, nonsmoker, employed. And he’d never raised a hand to her. Tanya loved him for his decency, for being a good father to her sons. Yet, he’d never looked at her as she thought the Italian had, as if she were a newly discovered Michelangelo painting. Anton told her that she was getting a bit plump and to please bring him his coffee and a piece of cheese, for which she had to stand in line for an hour.
Italians, on the other hand … Don’t make me laugh, please, Tanya thought not without pleasure. She knew all about them from films: Marriage, Italian Style and Divorce, Italian Style. They didn’t have divorce in Italy, and the only way out of marriage was to catch your spouse cheating and then kill him or her to protect your honor. And the lover, too, while you’re at it. The sentence was more lenient for a crime of passion. She tried to remember whether Luciano wore a wedding band.
“Luciano Moretti, Hotel Rossiya, 8,” the note said in loopy, Rubenesque letters. She peeped out. Luciano was looking at her over his headrest. But thinking rationally: What did a sportsman of international caliber, rich and free, see in a tired, ground-down Soviet woman? She went back to her reading.
An hour later the plane landed in Moscow. The Italians were let off first, followed by the running-of-the-bulls-style disembarkation of everyone else. Tanya got punched in the ribs and her feet were stepped on several times. To her surprise and mortification, the entire soccer team greeted her with cheers and whistles at the arrivals terminal. Luciano, blocked by the large bosom of a peroxide-blond interpreter, sent her a battery of air kisses. Must be weariness from the all-male company, she thought. It won’t be long now, given the women in the Intourist welcoming delegation.
Studying herself in the mirror of the airport bathroom, she felt dismayed by her own credulousness. Her face was red, her mascara had flaked under her boring pale-blue eyes. Her blondish hair, badly in need of a root touch-up, was frizzy in the back, while in the front her bangs were glued to her forehead with sweat. The neckline of her old traveling blouse was hopelessly stretched. Luciano must be blind.
Outside, the spring morning was in full bloom, and Tanya found herself wishing she’d worn a short-sleeved dress to let her skin breathe. To her right stretched an endless taxi line. To her left, a bus was about to depart for central Moscow. Just off the curb, the Italian soccer team was boarding the Intourist van. Luciano waved and cried out, “Otto! Otto, per favore!”
What a peculiar man, Tanya thought. Italians … This was a real cliché. She tried to keep from smiling. She stole one last look at Luciano and ran for the bus, her heavy carry-on banging against her legs. It was almost nine hours until otto, plenty of time to forget about the way he’d looked at her.
Exhausted by the multitransport trip from the airport, Tanya rang the doorbell of Auntie Roza’s fifth-floor kommunalka. They kissed hello. Auntie Roza smelled like Tanya’s late mother, of sugary sweat and fresh-baked bread, scents that calmed Tanya no matter how stressed she was. She noticed that while she’d been in Leningrad, her aunt had given herself a makeover: she’d tweezed her eyebrows down to threads and dyed her graying hair the color of peeled carrot.
“Look at you, Auntie. Ten years younger! For the May Day party at work?”
“Trying to keep up with you.”
“Me?” Flattery was in the air today.
Tanya changed into a pair of house slippers and followed Auntie Roza through the darkened hallway, which branched off into rooms where different families lived. All the doors were closed. Every few steps Tanya bumped into something—boxes, metal-edged trunks, wood boards, a bicycle, a baby stroller, and God knows what else.
Halfway down the hallway they almost collided with Sergeich, who was carrying a bowl of eggs and a packet of sausages to the kitchen.
“Good afternoon, Roza Vasilievna. You look wonderful as always. Ah, I see Tanechka is back.”
“Good afternoon, Mikhal Sergeich. Thank you for the compliment.”
He pressed his barrel-shaped body against the wall to let them pass.
“Are you hungry?” Auntie Roza said when they reached her room.
“I want to take a shower, wash off that airplane grime.”
“Why shower? You’ll be running around dirty Moscow all day. Besides, Ivanova has the bathroom for the next two hours.”
“When’s your turn?”
“In the evening, Tanya, in the evening. Weekends are busy, you see, everyone’s home. You rest now while I warm up borsch and cutlets.” Auntie Roza opened her fridge and pulled out two pots.
“I’ll help. Want to tell you something, you won’t believe.”
On their way to the kitchen they ran into a tall, heavyset woman with a column of sooty hair piled on top of her head. Letting her pass, Tanya tripped over the bicycle, and it crashed to the floor with a ring. Fierce yapping started up at the other end of the hallway.
“I’m sorry,” Tanya said.
“To the devil!” the woman yelled, gesticulating with a pot of pea soup in front of her heaving bust. “That bicycle was new. If it’s broken, you’ll be standing in line for a new one yourself, Roza Vasilievna.”
“Broken!” Auntie Roza came to an instant boil. “You should see your sons ride it down the stairs. First bicycle, then their necks, I’ll say. Broken—tfoo.”
“That’s none of your business. You better tell your niece here that she turned on our lightbulb when she splashed in the washroom for a whole hour last week, and we now have to pay for that electricity,” Pea Soup said. “Do I look like a millionaire to you? She’s the one from Magadan here.”
“And who’s going to pay when your boys steal my—”
“Sergeich!” Pea Soup hollered. “How many times do I have to tell you that pets are not allowed in the common areas?”
The communal kitchen contained five ovens, five tables, several standing and hanging cupboards, most of them with locks on their doors, and a sea of kitchenware occupying every available surface and wall. The entire space was segmented by bedsheets, towels, and various other laundry articles hanging to dry from a network of ropes. An invisible radio babbled the news. The smells of fried onions, pea soup, and fish fought for airspace. A beautiful young woman with curlers in her bleached hair flew into the kitchen, chirped hello to Auntie Roza, and carried away a whistling kettle.
Auntie Roza turned on the gas and struck a match. “Now tell me what happened, Tanechka.”
