Emily Rubin - Stalina

“Now wouldn’t that be a kick in the pants. Having to wait till you die to be happy. What a silly plan,” Olga said. “It would be nice to have some happiness while we’re here.”

I had nothing to say, but I thought about how nice it would be to spend an eternity with Trofim.

As I spoke with Olga, the weather changed dramatically. The temperature dropped and the rain turned to icy snow. Three geraniums in the window box under the office window, surprised by the cold and ice, went top-heavy and touched the dirt. The whitening branches of the pine trees looked very Russian.

“Is there snow in Petersburg?” I asked Olga.

“What a question, Stalina. There’s been snow on the ground since October,” she replied.

I heard a dog yapping in the background. “Is that a dog?” I asked.

“That’s Neptune. I found him near the Neva by the Admiralty, shivering in the cold.”

“Neptune?”

“He fell into the sewer. It’s a miracle he survived, so I thought I’d give him an impressive name. He’s actually very small.”

“It’s a big bark he has. Are they keeping the metro stations warm?” I asked.

“Yes, of course, like always, and we still go there to meet after work,” she said, “like always.”

She laughed, and I cried.

“Stalina, why don’t you come and retrieve your mother’s things? You don’t have to give anything up. Just come.”

“It’s too soon. I am trying to be happy here.”

“And what about here? Many things will never change, but everything feels different. That’s almost like happiness.”

“Here it is about the pursuit of happiness, and that is what I want.”

“You could do that anywhere, Stalina.”

“The motel brings me happiness. It’s mine now.”

“Did you kill your boss? Did you marry him?”

“Did you know Nadia is here?” I asked.

“Did she have her boss eliminated? I heard she has adjusted to America very easily.”

“She arranged for me to have the motel; she’s in the business.”

“You, beholden to Nadia. Stalina, I think you should come home. You don’t want her to own you.”

“She’s letting me do as I please. Olga, you could open a hair salon here,” I added.

“We both have our hands dipped in darkness, Stalina. You with Nadia, and I get my supplies from the black market. Everything they do happens behind a door, as they say, and my beauty salon provides the perfect façade. I always have plenty of hair spray, shampoo, and polish. Otherwise, my business would be nothing.”

“It’s not so different here, but I like the motel life. It suits me.”

“Send Nadia my regards. I never thought you would be friends.”

“It’s not about friendship, it’s about business.”

“Stalina, where should I mail your mother’s things? Tell me quickly, I need to take Neptune for his walk.”

I looked out the window and saw Svetlana’s crow digging in the snow under the pine trees. “I have a kitten named Svetlana,” I said.

“Only one? What’s the address, Stalina?”

I picked up a card from the front desk and read the address to her. The Liberty Motel, 345 Windsor Avenue, Berlin, Connecticut, 06037. Mr. Suri’s and his brother’s names were still on the card. I crossed out their names and wrote “Stalina Folskaya, Manager/Designer” and added “Rooms for the Imaginative” underneath.

Olga called me back the next day.

“Bad news, Stalina. I can’t send the ashes.”

“But it’s my mother. Did they find out you weren’t me? People die away from home all the time.”

“She was home, Stalina. You are the one who is away.”

“You just need a certificate of death—the rooming house should have it—and an affidavit from the crematorium stating the ashes are those of the deceased.”

“It’s not that. Someone else picked up her ashes.”

I was not sure I heard her correctly.

“The rooming house said your mother had a visitor. A man.”

“He came often?”

“He came the day after she died and paid for the cremation.”

“I sent them two hundred dollars for the expenses. Who was this person?”

“It was an M. Kharkovsky who signed the register.”

“Maxim.”

“You know him?”

“He was my uncle, sort of.”

“A relative? Then it’s easy; he could help you.”

“He’s not my uncle.”

“A friend to your mother?”

“Yes, and I called him uncle.” It never occurred to me that anyone else would be sad about my mother’s passing.

“I have his address, Stalina. The rooming house gave it to me.”

“He probably still lives in the same place, 45 Smolny Prospekt.”

“Yes, that’s the place.”

20 February 1994

Dear Maxim,

It’s been a long time since we have had contact, but I heard from my friend Olga, who has helped me since my mother’s passing, that you are in possession of her ashes. I also learned that you paid for her cremation. That was very generous, but the rooming house on Lermontovsky Prospekt has cheated us both. I sent two hundred U.S. dollars for the expenses. Olga went to pick up Mother’s ashes and her few personal things to send them to me here in the U.S. where I now live. It is not an option for me to travel to Russia at the moment to collect them. I am merely a worker at a motel in Berlin, Connecticut, and have not amassed any kind of a fortune, even though I am very happy. I am sorry if you have suffered for the loss of my mother. You meant a great deal to her. Before I left Petersburg, I had a conversation with my mother about her ashes. Here is that conversation word for word. I thought it would amuse you and would help you to carry out her wishes.

“Mother, your ashes, what would you like me to do with your ashes?”

“My ass? Why are you so concerned with my ass, Stalina? There are nurses here.”

“Not your ass, Mother, your ashes, after you die. Do you have any requests?”

“I’m not dead yet.”

“Mother, the time will come, and I just want to do what is right.”

“Use them to powder your face. You are always so concerned about your looks.”

“What about where we used to swim in the gulf?”

“That water is polluted.”

Maxim, did you not find my mother infuriating toward the end?

“Mother, I have many memories of swimming with you there. The beautiful gardens and fountains of the Winter Palace in the background. The fried fish sandwiches we used to have for a picnic. It was a pretty place, wasn’t it, Mother?”

Maxim, I know you are not my uncle. It was on one of our swims that my mother told me about you.

“Then put me in the sea, Stalina, if that’s what you want.”

“Is there someplace else?”

“I want revenge, Stalina.”

“With your ashes? For whom?”

“Find Nadia’s parents; spread me in their midst. I want to harass them for all time. They don’t deserve any peace.”

“I am not sure where they are, Mother.”

“Find them. They had your father sent away.”

“How do you know that, Mother?”

“They were both informers. Radya used to say she got all that caviar and fine wine from a cousin who worked on a ship. It was all arranged.”

I know where Nadia’s parents are, Maxim. They live here in America in the Brighton Beach. You may keep some of her ashes, spread some in the Gulf of Finland, and send the rest to me to take to Brighton at the beach.

He wrote back. Quickly.

Dear Stalina,

Your letter came today, and I write to you as I await my dinner at the Café Karenina, near the Maryinsky Theater. Perhaps you know the place. Your mother and I had dinner here often. I will go to the opera this evening. Carmen is playing. The maître d’ led me to a table in a corner from which I have the advantage to view the entire restaurant. Each table is decorated with a white linen cloth, a small white vase, and a fresh cut yellow rose. I want to set the scene for you, Stalina, because if you are anything like your mother, you will love all the details.