Emily Rubin - Stalina

“When autumn came, my mother and grandmother closed down our summer house. My job was to take the curtains from the windows and throw mothballs in the corners of the closets and on the beds.”

“No wonder you were such a good maid when you first came here,” Mr. Suri said, picking up his apple and shining it.

I continued.

“We did not pack up the kitchen. Every pot and pan remained on a hook, all the plates were kept unwrapped in the cupboards, and all the knives sharpened in the drawers. During the last days of summer, there were squash the size of canoes in the garden, and you could not step in there without smashing tomatoes under your feet. Our wooden kitchen table was big enough to seat ten, and in the middle my mother always kept a basket woven by a local farmer from reeds that grew at the edges of the marshes. I used the basket to collect apples for my grandmother Lana’s special applesauce. She would say about the big load of the beat-up reds I picked off the ground, ‘They may not be very pretty, but I can make delicious sauce with them.’”

“I am a fan of applesauce,” Mr. Suri said.

“I would wear the reed basket on my head like a great wizard’s hat. The sunlight would filter through the slats and make flickering jewels all over my body. Inside the basket was dark and close and smelled of the earth. We had only four apple trees, but we called them ‘the orchard.’ The stand of trees made a pool of shade on one side of the yard, with grass underneath that was always cool and moist. I used to lie out under the trees with my dog Pepe, throwing him apples to fetch until his tongue dragged on the ground.”

“A dog—maybe we need a dog for the motel? Or here at the front desk for protection,” Mr. Suri interjected.

“I feel perfectly safe with the bat under the counter, sir.”

“Stalina, remember what I said about calling me sir.” He continued to shine his apple.

I went on. “Collecting the apples I’d pretend to be a spy on an espionage mission gathering data on Russia’s enemies. One summer, soon after the war was over, we were still unnerved by the Germans. I imagined the apples picked off the ground were battle-weary German soldiers holding secrets and treasures they stole from Russia. The apples picked fresh from the trees were the shiny, bright Americans—our friends who would soon turn and go rotten.”

Mr. Suri was rubbing his apple vigorously on his pant leg.

“My grandmother would stand on the back steps, wiping her hands on her apron. I always called her Lana Lana because that was my grandfather’s pet name for her. She watched me work under the trees. Proud of her acute eyesight, she’d point to places where I’d missed apples. I carried the basket on top of my head; fifty apples was no problem. She would hold the door open as I ran for the table to drop my load.”

“Hold on one moment, Stalina,” Mr. Suri interrupted. “I have to give room one a warning.”

He dialed the room. “Hello, this is the front desk. You have fifteen minutes left.”

“I saw that young couple going in. They looked nervous; I thought maybe it was their first time.” I realized that I had stopped crying.

“You should have heard the grunt that came over the phone, Stalina,” he said, laughing. “They definitely figured out how to do something with each other.”

He smacked his lips with the first bite of the young apple. I continued.

“Lana Lana and I would sit side by side at the table and examine each apple. The bright, smooth ones were for eating, and the nasty fallen ones were for sauce. Separating the apples was our time together. My mother would be at the stove cooking dinner surrounded by the swirling steam from the boiling pots of sautéed onions mixed with rosemary and dill. She looked as if she were floating in the clouds. The rosemary smelled like cedar trees, and the dill had the scent of the ocean. The outside brought inside.”

Mr. Suri’s mouth was filled with apple as he nodded at me to go on.

“After every apple passed through her hands, my grandmother would select the most perfect one and shine it on her soft apron. She would pull out my grandfather’s folding knife. She always had it in her pocket since he died of a heart attack. The knife, opened and glinting, fit perfectly in her broad, well-worn hands.”

Mr. Suri had stopped eating and was just listening.

I told him how with the polished apple in her left hand she began the ritual peeling of the fruit’s skin in one long spiral. Hoping to learn the subtleties of her moves, I would watch the waxy, red skin drop from the slowly turning apple. She would move the knife through the skin so close to the surface that the white fruit inside remained untouched. At every curve, moving the knife, she would look up to be sure I was watching. The red skin fell like a snake to her feet. It was mine. I retrieved it from between her leather-thonged feet and stretched the shiny peel lengthwise between my hands. Reflections of the kitchen stretched in its slender red curves. She held the apple up to the light. Naked in her hand it was a pearl, the full moon, a finely carved muscle all at once. Sweeter than spun sugar, the smell hit me as I leaned against her big chest and looked up, fascinated by her delicate work. She would then move the knife in her hand and make a slice following the curve of the apple. “You must always slice the apple before it starts to change color,” she explained. Again, with the apple slightly turned, she made another fresh cut, and with a final flip pulled out a perfect wedge, held at the tip of her blade, just for me. “Here, Stalina, the first slice is the best,” she would say and watch carefully as I ate the piece of apple.

“I love apples,” Mr. Suri said, biting into his again.

“I feel better now,” I said.

“What are you going to do about your mother? In India we cremate and send the ashes on a paper boat into the river.”

“I think the rooming house can organize a cremation. They are very practical about such things in Russia.”

“Will you go?”

“It’s very expensive. Olga can…”

“What about Olga?”

“She can help with the arrangements. She has her own beauty salon not far from the rooming house.”

“Do you think people need to have their hair done for cremations?” he asked and cocked his head. In that moment I saw him as a very young boy. Innocent and curious.

“No, that wouldn’t be very practical. I need to go home, Mr. Suri.”

“Home? So you will go? You stopped crying. I’ll see if I can get someone to cover your shifts.”

“I mean home to Star Lane, not Leningra…I mean Petersburg.”

Even though he was being very patient with me, I could tell he was agitated that the couple in the Gazebo Room had not yet vacated. He was staring at the empty room-key hook.

“I can knock on room one when I go to put Svetlana back in the linen room.”

“Thank you, I was starting to think I would have to call them again.”

He opened the office door, threw his apple core under the pine trees, and said, “That crow eats apples.”

I stood up with the sleeping Svetlana in my arms. She barely stirred. When I stepped outside, her eyes opened wide and she stretched her paws.

Caw! Caw!

The crow had flown down to grab the apple core.

“Svetlana, there’s your adoptive mother.” The cat squirmed in my arms, wanting to get down. “Not now, I’ll let you be with her tomorrow.”

The couple from room one was coming out of the room as I approached the door. They looked slightly shell-shocked, but they managed to smile as we passed each other.

“I hope you liked the room,” I said.

“Very unusual,” the young man said.