Marina Cramer - Roads

“So how is life for you with your new family, my son?” Zoya interrupted his ruminations. She pushed a small plate of baklava closer to his side of the table.

“All right. They are… hardworking, even if they lack Papa’s sophistication and your good breeding. You know Ksenia Semyonovna is of humble stock. Her mother was a peasant, her father a merchant. She is uneducated, but not illiterate or stupid.”

“And your father-in-law? He is clever with his hands, yes?”

“Well, yes, Ilya Nikolaevich is gifted,” Filip conceded. “He is what you might call a good and righteous man. But I find him dull.”

“And your bride, she is well?”

“She is the light of my life, Mama. She is so… so alive. I am happy just to look at her.”

“Can she cook?”

“Well enough, I suppose, given the limited provisions available. Her mother is more capable that way, constantly trading and foraging. We do not often go to bed hungry. Still, I miss some of your dishes—the grape leaves, and that wonderful Greek soup you make. And this lovely baklava. If you could teach my wife to make it, I think I would be completely content.” He lifted a spoonful of the confection to eye level, admiring its paper-thin layers interlaced with honey.

“It is not so difficult if you know how,” Zoya dismissed the compliment, bristling a little at the comparison with the other household. “The dough requires no yeast, but does need some butter or lard, or it will not layer properly. This is a poor imitation. It should have more honey, and nuts, too, which I do not have.”

“Let me see what I can do.” Filip swallowed the pastry, drained his cup, and rose to go. “There must be hazelnuts in the woods. Galya will know.”

“Don’t go to any trouble for me,” Zoya sighed, rising to see him to the door. “Just don’t forget me.”

“Filipok, wait,” she called down after him, stopping his rapid descent. He looked up the stairwell at her, smiling.

“You have not called me that since I was five years old.” He came back, obeying her beckoning finger.

“I forgot to ask you, how is Maksim? Any change?” Zoya whispered, pulling her son into the apartment vestibule even though the hallway was deserted, with no nosy neighbors in sight.

“Only for the worse. He used to try sweeping the yard now and then, but gave that up, saying it was too difficult with one hand. Now he does nothing. And he never goes out.”

“What does he do, then? Read, like you?”

“Not anymore. He says nothing interests him. Most of the time, he just lies on his cot, staring at the ceiling.”

“ Ai-ai-ai .” Zoya shook her head, absorbing this last bit of news with the perverse pleasure only a confirmed gossip would understand. “He is a lost soul. A lost soul. His mother must be suffering so. I will pray for them to the Virgin Mary, and to Saint Nicholas, the worker of miracles.”

That will surely help , Filip wanted to say, but stifled the sarcasm just in time and bent instead to kiss his mother’s cheek.

“Go, son, go,” she insisted. “And be kind to him. A lost soul,” he heard her repeating behind the closed door.

Filip headed downtown, taking the long way through the park, stopping to buy a bag of cherries from a red-faced country woman’s pushcart. He could bring them home; Ksenia would make compote or jam or her sweet-tart kissel’ thickened with potato starch and served with rice cakes. He bit into the first one. Or he could eat them all, feel their juicy sweetness explode in his mouth, and no one would know. Well, maybe not every last one , he thought. I’ll save a few for Galya; she can enjoy them when I walk her home from work.

From the park, he walked to the seawall, strolled along the esplanade, enjoying the cool spray, watching the rocking of the waves. He knew his mother meant well. She was sentimental, but even she understood the crucial difference between sentiment and true compassion. If everything was in God’s hands, as she believed, then some of us were clearly meant to suffer more than others. Maybe it was enough to put some spare change in the poor box and say a hasty prayer. It was a facile argument, he knew. It lacked something about good works, personal responsibility, and the prospect of eternal salvation, but he had no patience with it one way or the other.

And Maksim, poor devil, what grievous sin had he committed to deserve his fate?

He had been arrogant, Maksim. So what? Filip could see no wrong in knowing your own worth, staying on the path to your chosen future. If anything, Maksim’s mistake had been in caving in, accepting the patriotic rhetoric, losing sight of his own carefully laid out plans. He had been blinded by the illusion of the importance of service to others. “See where that gets you,” Filip said, spitting the last cherry pit into the Black Sea.

Galina came out smiling, holding something half-concealed in her left hand. She locked up the shop, then opened her hand. “Look,” she said brightly, “Zinaida Grigoryevna gave me this, for Maksim. What do you think?”

Filip glanced at the mechanical spinning top balanced on her palm. “I think Zinaida Grigoryevna has lost her mind,” he replied. “Too much romantic poetry can do that to a person. What possible use is this… this trifle to a war veteran?”

“Well, the paint is chipping here and here. But the plunger you push in to make it spin, that works fine. She thought it might help him to, you know, exercise his good arm…” Her voice trailed off, as if no longer sure of the soundness of the idea.

“ Dura . No, not you, Galya. That woman, she is a simpleton!” He reached for the toy, intending to toss it in the gutter, but Galina was quicker. She closed her hand and stuffed it into her pocket.

“I will give it to him anyway. It might cheer him up.”

When they got home, Maksim was sitting on his cot, staring at the rug hanging on the opposite wall. It was a nature scene, a partridge and her chicks partially concealed in meadow grass, a fox watching them with interest from behind a bush, an eagle circling the panorama above the trees.

She sat down next to him. “What are you thinking about?”

“That picture. It’s supposed to be peaceful, I think, but it’s full of calamity about to happen. The forest food chain in tapestry. The only one who survives is the eagle. Until the hunter appears, that is.”

“What a gloomy outlook. Not everything gets eaten all the time, not even in nature. Look, I brought you a present.” She placed the top on his night table, pushed the plunger down to make it spin.

“What the—” He stared at the gyrating plaything, its stripes of blue, yellow, red blending into a blur of color. He looked up at his sister.

“It might help you strengthen your arm, and…”

“Is this one of your idiotic jokes?” he exploded, bringing Ksenia running in from the kitchen, Filip and Ilya from the yard. “What is wrong with all of you? Can you not see that I am worthless? No good to anyone? What is the point of ‘strengthening my arm’ if I can do nothing with it? Ni cherta . Not a damn thing.” He flung the toy across the room; it bounced off the far wall and came to rest, still wobbling, under Ilya’s worktable. Maksim stormed out, muttering, “Pardon my language, Mama,” when he squeezed past her. “Just leave me alone,” he said from the doorway through clenched teeth, his back to the room. “All of you.”

When the evening meal was ready, Filip came in from the yard by himself. “Galya has a headache. I will bring her her food.”

“I—” Ksenia rose, soup ladle in hand.

“No. I will do it.” Filip took the plate from her, balanced the bread on the edge, and retreated, coming back after a few minutes to take his place at the table. They ate in silence.