Мария Кузнецова - Something Unbelievable

But my week in America isn’t quite lifting my spirits either; it has been a strange one. I knew Natasha would be busy with her rehearsals, but she was not only busy but utterly distracted, barely even looking me in the eye, giving me far less attention than she offered during our Skype sessions, which did make me wonder once or twice why I even bothered going across the ocean for a face-to-face encounter. Though baby Talia! I must admit I’ve had a few fair moments with her, which is partly because I had been asked to watch her more often than I expected. In fact, the six-month-old child has been smiling and even laughing at my antics and generally giving me more attention than her distracted mother. Though her father, darling Yuri, had been as affectionate as always, just as he is at this moment.

“A gorgeous day, isn’t it, Larissa Fyodorovna?” he says, gesturing at the ocean with the flowers in his other hand.

“Indeed,” I say. “I will not have many more of them. When the play is over, you can bury me right on the beach.”

He laughs and says, “But what about the after-party?”

“I suppose we can scope it out first, see how good the drinks are….”

Natasha and her vagabond Stas have been preparing at the theater since morning. Talia is at home with the manager of Natasha’s former bar for this special occasion. I am finding it hard to catch my breath, but I am happy to be out and about with a handsome man by my side.

Brighton Beach hasn’t changed much since my husband and I visited my son in America just before his untimely death. The storefronts still boast their names in Russian. Occasional food wrappers and plastic bags float through the streets. The sand on the beach is dark and filled with branches and women who are too old to be showing so much of their sun-bronzed bodies. Women not much younger than me sit on their stoops, gossiping loudly. “I told my Marina one million times, Boris is no good for her, no good at all, but does she listen?” one of them says, and we pass them before we can hear a response, though I can well imagine it.

The last time I was here, my son had taken me and Misha to sit by the water at a restaurant with a slatternly name like Tatyana or Ruslana, and we were served warm beers in tall glasses and a perfectly decent meal. Though I had to do most of the talking, as usual, I remember enjoying myself, feeling as if there was nothing else in the world I wanted, even if the sanguine middle-aged man I had birthed across from me seemed to lack for everything as he picked at his meal, mayonnaise from Salat Olivier stuck to the corners of his mouth, without a woman to reach over and wipe his face for him. He did not soar like a rocket, my Tolik—he did not even come close. A man whose sadness predated his birth, whose movements even in my womb were so infrequent that I was surprised and delighted every time I felt another flutter in my abdomen after a long respite, relieved he was still alive.

My husband looked a bit melancholy as he gazed at the water, and I wondered if it was because he found the beach to be an inferior specimen, because he, too, pitied our poor boy and wondered how we could have raised such a lackluster being, or if he was just afraid of dying. I asked him about it later that night, as we settled into our son’s puny guest room. “Oh, Larissa,” he said. “You read too much into everything. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I was perfectly happy to be there. It must have been a bit of indigestion.” I did not believe him for a second, but I did not press on. I only went back one more time after that—for Natasha’s wedding—and I told my husband to stay home, citing his health, though to be honest it was because I did not want him to bring down my mood. Staying cheerful at my age was a hard enough business as it was.

“Does it feel anything at all like home?” Yuri says as we pass a stand with an old man selling dried fish and sunflower seeds. Here, beer cannot be sold in the streets, a true travesty.

I laugh. “Who knows what home feels like anymore?”

“I suppose you’re right,” he says. This time, he is not playing along and looks a bit lost himself. I can’t blame him, with his wife either tied up with the baby or at the theater, while he blunders on at the university. It has not been the easiest summer for him. Perhaps it is a blessing for him, for Natasha, for me, for all of us, that the summer is coming to a close, that the days have been getting shorter.

“I bet you’re ready for the show,” I say, and he smiles.

“Definitely,” he says. “I’m ready for Natasha to relax a bit. She’s been working so hard.”

“So have you.”

His eyes twinkle at my bit of mischief. He knows I love Natasha but that I am also aware of how hard he is working, that she is not the only one with responsibilities.

“I’m so happy you were able to come. I know it means the world to Natasha,” he says.

“It was nothing,” I tell him. “What else do I have to do? Rework my will?”

“That is only necessary if you plan on leaving more for us,” he says.

“I will leave you everything, little fools.”

“Stop the nonsense,” he says, patting me on the back. “You will outlive us all.”

What a kind, well-mannered boy—one with a sense of humor, at that. A loving husband and father. And yes, one whose sense of duty and politeness is not unlike my Misha’s, but yet, who appeals to me utterly. A man who does not seem prone to bouts of abyss-gazing, though that may very well come later.

We are fast approaching the theater, which is spray-painted a tacky gold-and-red color meant to look regal. The marquee boasts the title SUNSET, which it takes me a moment to realize is the name of dear Natasha’s play, unknown to me until now. When we enter the auditorium, I begin to feel nervous, though I have utter faith in my granddaughter. I must say the place is much larger than I expected, based on the previous hellholes I had crawled into to watch my sweet girl perform, places with beer-stained seats, cracked toilets, and moldy ceilings. There are velvet curtains and dim lights on either side, and the place is quite cozy, the seats warm and inviting.

There must be at least three hundred seats in the place, but only two dozen of them are filled, at most. I check my watch and see that we are quite early, that the crowd still has fifteen minutes before the curtain opens, but when I look behind me, I don’t see anyone coming. Yuri is concerned about the lack of crowd too—for weeks Natasha has been promoting the show on the Internet—but it feels taboo to mention it.

“It’s not an utter hellhole, after all,” I tell Yuri, and he gives me a small laugh.

“Definitely not,” he says. “A nice place,” he adds pointlessly, also looking over his shoulder for imagined guests.

There are only a few minutes left and only a handful of people have trickled in since we arrived, a few of them waving at Yuri, which means they are simply friends who have taken pity on my poor granddaughter, not discerning theatergoers. What is poor Natasha thinking backstage? Is she also feeling a pit in her stomach as the emptiness of the room dawns on her? I hope she is too focused on getting into character, getting her show on the road at last, to notice. Or perhaps when she comes onstage, the lights will be too bright for her to even see the lackluster crowd.

At last, the lights dim slightly, signaling that there are only minutes before the show begins. Then I hear a clanging of high heels and Yuri and I both turn around to see three extremely dolled-up young women in high black boots and black dresses, and enough makeup that they themselves should be onstage. Behind them, I see at least a half dozen other young women and men who are dressed in a similarly garish manner, and I understand that these are Natasha’s former theater colleagues. Well, I think her Baby Borsches are better than empty chairs, and I hope she thinks the same.