Susan Sherman - The Little Russian

A few days later, just after sunrise, Berta was out walking a track in the fields. She had just come upon a farmstead a few versts outside of town, where the old bol’shak , the head of the household, sat with his sons on the porch, eating his bulgur wheat from a wooden bowl. They looked her over with an appraising eye as she passed. They knew her. She was that pretty thing from the grocery where they bought their axle grease and kerosene. She tossed them a look of scorn and quickened her pace.

Not long after that, she heard the groan of wheels behind her and turned to find the same young man from that day in the store riding up in a broken-down cart pulled by an old horse. She had already asked Meshia Partnoy’s son, the seltzer man, about him and had found out that he was a wheat merchant from Cherkast. She found out from Meshia Partnoy herself, who put him up in her front room whenever he came to town, that his name was Haykel Gregorvich Alshonsky.

“They call him Hershel. He is very rich, though you wouldn’t know it,” Meshia said in a conspiratorial whisper when she came in to buy her usual order of Shabbes herring.

“How do you know?” Berta asked.

“He smokes Kollis. I could make a whole meal out of what he pays for those readymades. He can’t roll his own like everyone else?”

Hershel Alshonsky pulled up the horse and wished her a good day. “Would you like a ride, Mademoiselle? I’m going into town.”

“No, thank you,” she replied crisply. “I prefer to walk.” It was better not to encourage these boys.

“Suit yourself. But it’s a dusty road. Better turn your back when I drive off and cover your eyes.”

“I assure you I’ll be fine.”

He tipped his hat and gave the reins a flick.

A few days later he met her on the same road. When he saw her, he pulled up on the reins and waited until she caught up with him. She was carrying a book, a thin volume, and he asked about it.

“It’s poetry.”

“What kind of poetry?”

“Good poetry, not nursery rhymes or silly limericks. It’s Yeats… I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him?”

He thought for a moment. “Can’t say as I have. Is he famous?”

“I don’t know,” she said irritably. “Who cares whether he’s famous or not. He’s good, isn’t that enough?”

“Suppose it is. Maybe I should pick up a copy?”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. Although, I don’t think it would be of much interest to you. For one thing, it’s in English. Do you read English?”

“No.”

“Well, there you are then,” she said primly, with a note of satisfaction.

He regarded her with a half smile. “Are you angry with me, Mademoiselle ?”

She reddened. “Certainly not. Why should I be angry with you? I don’t even know you. I don’t even know why I’m standing here talking to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

The next time they met he told her to wait as he pulled up on the horse. By the time she decided not to wait, he was already coming around to meet her. “I brought you something. I thought you might like it.” He held out another slim volume. This one had a green cover.

She eyed it suspiciously. “What is it?”

“Go on. It’s by that poet of yours.” He shoved it into her hand.

Reluctantly, she read the title and then looked up at him in surprise. “Where did you get it?”

“In a little shop.”

“It ’s in French. I didn’t know there was a translation. I’ve been struggling with the English.” She smiled up at him with something akin to gratitude. He returned her gaze, full in the face, without a trace of embarrassment. She found this disconcerting and not a little annoying, but she kept quiet and turned her attention back to the book. She fingered the title, The Wind Among the Reeds , which was embossed in gold above the author’s name. When she turned back to the flyleaf she saw his name, Haykel Gregorvich Alshonsky, written at the top in a cramped hand. She looked at him in surprise. “This is your book.”

“I may have put my name in it,” he said indifferently. His eyes slid past her to a cart rumbling by on a parallel track. A young barefoot girl sat in the back and hung on to the slats, while the cart bucked erratically over the ruts.

She flipped through the pages again and this time found faint pencil notations in the margins in the same cramped hand. “This is your book.”

His eyes traveled back to her. “Is it?” He gave her a teasing smile.

She studied him for a moment. “You’ve been playing a trick on me.”

He flicked a horsefly off her shoulder. “Well, what if I have? You deserved it, you know.”

“I did? And why is that?”

“You haven’t exactly been friendly. In fact, you’ve been pretty rude. And all because you thought I was unschooled and dressed badly and drove around in a broken-down cart. Is that anyway to treat a fellow traveler who only wanted to be sociable?”

Of course, she knew he was right.

“And what was I supposed to do? I just wanted to be left alone.”

“Is it such a bother to receive a friendly greeting now and then?”

She shrugged indifferently. The fact that she treated everyone in Mosny with the same discourtesy didn’t seem much of a defense.

“Look, there’s no sense in arguing about it,” he said with a generous smile. “The sun is barely up and already it’s hot. Why don’t you get in and I’ll drive you back.”

She was still feeling the sting of his reproach. “And why would I want to do that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe for the conversation. You might be in need of it just now. I imagine you still think a lot about Moscow. It can’t very be easy living here after your life there.”

A pang of grief and for a terrible moment she felt her eyes welling up with tears. She looked up into the sky to keep them back and shielded her eyes with a hand even though the sun was still low and not very bright. When the moment had passed and she was once again on solid footing, she said, “I suppose it is going to be hot today.”

“Good, then it’s settled.” He took her hand and helped her up to the bench. As she climbed up she was acutely aware of a hole in her stockings just above her right ankle that she had been meaning to mend. She didn’t want him to see it and was careful to stoop as she climbed up to keep her skirts over the spot.

When she was comfortable, he went around and climbed up beside her. “Do you believe in fairies, Mademoiselle?” It was an allusion to Yeats.

She smiled with pleasure. “Of course I do, don’t you?”

He laughed and picked up the reins and gave them a snap. The horse started up and the cart dipped and bounced over the ruts. All the way back they talked about fairies, ghosts, and gods. They quoted passages, sometimes in unison.

A FEW WEEKS later, Hershel pulled up to the store in a new droshky. Berta was the first one to see it.

“Is that yours?” she called out as he jumped down.

“All mine. You like her?” He turned back to admire the carriage.

“She’s beautiful. I like her very much.”

Berta had to admit that the droshky didn’t look all that new; the paint was peeling off the chassis and the mudguards were cracked and needed repair. But the brass lamps had been recently polished and the spoke wheels had been painted yellow and the seats seemed to be in good condition.

“I bought her off a cabman in Cherkast. Come out with me. I have to see a man about a load, but it won’t take long. It’s a beautiful day.”

Berta went up to change into her lavender tea dress. She wore her straw hat with the matching hat band and carried her lace parasol. After she was seated alongside Hershel, he urged the horse on and it trotted out to the clatter of hooves on the hard dirt. She watched her reflection ripple in the shop windows and caught the women at the town pump giving her hard, envious looks. She closed her eyes and it felt like Moscow again, the same heady sense of entitlement, of being special and apart, of being up high where she couldn’t be reached.