Juliet Butler - The Less You Know the Sounder You Sleep

The next morning the bell goes and we get up, just like we always do. We get washed, I scrub our nappy clean and hang it up. Just like I always do. We go to breakfast and we eat our curds and whey. Slava looks across the table at us. He knows something’s happened.

When we go out, Masha and me sit under the pear tree.

‘So shall we tell anyone?’ asks Masha. ‘About what happened? What it’s like when you leave here?’

I shake my head. ‘No. They’re right. We don’t need to know… they’re right…’

Slava comes out of the breakfast room and looks over at us. ‘Except Slava,’ I say. ‘He’s our best friend and he’s got family. He won’t have to go there.’ What I’m really thinking is, he won’t let me go anywhere like that either. He’ll want me to stay with him, in his village, where there are ducks and hens and cows, which give warm, frothy milk straight from their udders. I’ll cook and clean for his family, I’ll…

‘Hey, girls. What’s happened?’

‘Slava,’ we say together. He sits down and then I tell him everything, just like Valentina Alexandrovna did. When I’ve finished, his expression hasn’t changed.

‘We need vodka,’ he says in a quiet voice. ‘Get us some vodka.’

Me and Masha get up then, and walk down to the kitchens.

‘Morning, girlies! What have you two come to scrounge today?’ Aunty Shura is fat and greasy and smells of cabbage, but she always gets us a bottle in exchange for letting some of the townspeople come and look at us. We don’t do it often. Masha’s always ill after we drink, and I only do it so Slava and I can kiss a bit without her minding. We’ve never had sex again though. Masha hasn’t been drunk enough. The townspeople pay Aunty Shura to see us and she spends some of it to buy us cheap cigarettes or vodka, and keeps the rest for herself. An hour later, we’re in the cold pantry, stripped to our pants and vest, with three of Shura’s clients circling us. They want to see everything, so we keep undressing down to nothing, but it only takes ten minutes and Aunty Shura is always there and won’t let them touch us. She looks after us. Masha always says that if Ronnie and Donnie, the American twins, can get people to give them hundreds of American dollars to look at them, why shouldn’t we get a bottle of Russian vodka?

We get dressed afterwards and walk out, with the bottle tucked under my shirt.

‘What about Olessya?’ I say.

‘What about her? She never liked us doing this, but she’s not here to slap our wrists now, is she?’

‘No. I mean we must get Aunty Nadya to find out where she is. Make sure it’s not like the place here. Olessya hasn’t written, and she said she would.’

‘Aunty Nadya can’t save everyone. She’s ours.’

I sigh. Sometimes I just want to take her head in my hands and squeeze and squeeze until it cracks like a nut and let some pity for other people seep in. I worry so much about Olessya and Masha doesn’t worry at all. I’ll ask Aunty Nadya anyway, I’ll just come out with it, then Masha can’t stop me. Masha can’t read my mind.

Slava’s waiting for us and we go down to the cobbler’s cellar. He puts his transistor radio on the floor and turns the volume up. It’s the Red Army Choir singing a marching song. He takes the first swig. ‘To Big Boris, wherever he is,’ he says.

I take the next gulp, screwing up my eyes and fighting down nausea.

‘To Sunny Nina,’ I say. And then I take another small swig and say, ‘To Little Lyuda.’

‘To us!’ says Slava loudly, over the music, as I hand the bottle back to him.

‘To survival!’ says Masha, even louder, taking the bottle and handing it to me. ‘To winning!’

‘To life!’ I take another gulp.

‘To love!’ Slava has a gulp.

‘To forgetting…’ My gulp.

‘To Dashinkaaaa!’ Slava has another long swig.

And then he leans in to me. But we’re not drunk enough yet. The bottle’s only half-empty. It won’t have properly reached Masha and we need a double dose to his single one. He usually understands that…

‘Dashinkaaa,’ he whispers in my ear. He’s grasping my knee tightly as if he’s drowning and I’m a life raft. ‘To life and love…’ I can hardly hear him ‘…seize it while you can…’

Masha leans over and pushes him off.

‘Whadjuh do that for…’ he says, trying to focus on her and frowning. ‘Leave us alone.’

‘You leave her alone, moodak . Have you no respect for the fucking dead?’ He sits back and takes another wobbly swig. Masha sniffs, then tips my arm to get me to drink as well. More and more. I feel the vodka swilling through my veins and mashing up my brain, taking away the pain. I can feel his warm hand on my back too, under my shirt, I can smell him. God, I wish we were alone. I want to live. I want to have him… just once, just once before I die… alone… and with him and forget…

Kryaaaak! Masha smashes him in the face with her fist and he goes flying on to the floor. ‘Fuck off, pizdyets !’ she screams. The marching music bangs on victoriously as he lies there on his back, not moving. We both stare at him. Then slowly he sits up. His eyes are blazing, black and angry. He’s going to hit her back. I really think he’s going to hit her back. He’s swaying, or maybe it’s me that’s swaying. None of us say anything, and then finally, after what seems like hours, the music ends with a triumphant clash and he says in a slow, horribly quiet voice:

‘What have you done?’

I go cold all over.

‘What’ve I done?’ yells Masha. ‘ Me? You mean what’ve you done?! Keep your dirty black hands off my sister, you hear? She’s mine, all mine, my sheep, my slave. All mine!’

Then he speaks again in that whispery, crazy cold voice. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done, d’you? Nyet . You don’t know what you’re doing to us, d’you? The three of us? Because you don’t know shit , Masha Krivoshlyapova. We’re in this t’gether, see. We’re all fucked, and we may all stay fucked, and there’s no time… no time… but there’r still things thad make life worth living. Bud you can’t see it can you, you selfish, psychopathic bitch .’

‘No! P-Please! P-Please don’t, Slava!’ I hold both hands out to him trying to get him to stop talking, to stop saying things that will mean we can never be together. If he does, then this is the end.

‘And you…’ He turns to me, his eyes glittering like he has his own chortik . ‘You’re weak, a feather, you won’t stand ub to her, nodeven for me. Nodever. Will ya? Will ya?’ He glares at me like he hates me.

I look at Masha, who’s white with rage, and then back at him, who’s black with rage. I’m shaking all over.

‘I c-can’t…’ I stutter.

‘You can!’ he shouts. ‘Do it now! Do it! Do it for me, do it for you, do it for us! Stand up to her!’

Masha’s getting up. She reaches for her crutch so I reach for mine, automatically, and we almost fall over backwards. I can’t look at him. I can’t do it. He must understand that. I can’t force Masha to let him and me be together. I can’t force Masha to do anything. She’s the strong one. She’s in control. He’s right, I’m weak. A feather blown in the wind. I’m scared of her. I can’t suddenly stop doing what I’ve been doing all my life – doesn’t he understand that? ‘Slava… p-please, Slavochka…’ I say and reach out to him again, but Masha tugs me back.

He grabs the bottle off the floor by the neck like he wants to throttle it.