Mikhail Shishkin - Calligraphy Lesson

The floor polisher came and slid his brush under the couch and out rolled a dried up Christmas mandarin orange, ringing like a nut.

Zhenya dear, what’s the date?

The teenth of Martober.

And they brought a blind man to Him, and they asked Him to touch him. Taking the blind man by the hand, He led him out of the village, spat in his eyes, laid His hands upon him, and asked whether he saw anything. The man looked and said, “I see people passing by like trees.” Then He laid His hands on his eyes again and told him to look again. And the man opened his eyes and saw everything clearly.

I explained, “Alyosha, my son, don’t act crazy! Why should you marry her?” He said, “How can you not understand? Vera’s having my baby!” I said, “Lord, who cares who’s expecting what from who!” And he said, “Mama, what are you saying! What are you saying!” I always called her Vera dear, darling—but she bore me a grudge and set Alyosha against me. Right before the wedding, a miscarriage. “Alyosha,” I told him, “This is a sign.” My little idiot should have postponed the wedding and let everything run its course—to the end. But no, he married out of principle. “You don’t love her,” I told him. His whole body flinched. “How can you know whether I love her or not? On the other hand, I won’t be a scoundrel.” Then there was another miscarriage. That was right before my eyes. A five-month-old boy. Hands, feet, fingers, ears, wee-wee—just like a live baby. The third time they told her, Choose, it’s either you or a child. What choice was there? For some reason Vera decided it was all my fault. That’s ridiculous, of course, but in her condition she might have thought anything. I feel like a mother to her. I do understand… I sent them a gift at Christmas, a Chinese cup with a lid, the one I had from my grandmother. And what happened? I came home and my box was standing by the door. As if they’d said, Go choke on your gifts. You know, Zhenya dear, at the time, I remember, I went to bed and thought I could never get up. No, that’s not it. I could, but I saw no point, no need. I wasn’t even hungry. I lay like that a whole week. I’d eat a bite, wander around my room, and go back to bed. And then, you know, life won out. It’s all so simple. I laughed at myself, fool that I am. Life’s like that, Zhenya. Afterward you have to laugh. Vera and I made our peace somehow. They would visit me on holidays, and I’d visit them. And here she’s fallen ill, and I wanted to move in to look after. “Don’t,” she said. If she says don’t, I won’t. “Zhenya comes over, she helps,” she said. “What Zhenya?” “Dmitry’s, Alyosha’s friend, his daughter. An odd girl, but good-hearted.” And here you are. What a happy girl you are, Zhenya. The very best is just about to begin for you. I know. I had all that. Imagine, Zhenya, for me, after every time, a while later it would heal. Can you imagine? My doctor, the late Pyotr Ilich, was always amazed. “I can’t tell you how many sugarplums I’ve seen in my day, but never in my life anything like this.” That’s what he called them, sugarplums.

So, kind Alexei Pavlovich, I hasten to inform you who is breathing seagull-beaten air that I had a fight with my father, that we made each other so mad we stooped to low blows. We shouted, trying to say the most hurtful things we could, and rejoiced in the wounds we inflicted on each other. I ran to my room and wailed for an hour. I assume you’re already experiencing a slight incapacitation, an unpleasant chill: Did my father find out about me and you, about our plot, about the fact that I’m your secret, and therefore true, wife? Calm down. My father is still in the dark. What set us off was completely insignificant, not even worth mentioning. All that’s important is that we are little by little, bit by bit, sucking the life out of each other, and the closer we are, the more lethal it gets. Mika came in with water and valerian drops and begged me to take them, but I waved her off, knocking the tray out of her hands, and the glass spilled on the bed. She said, “Zhenya, the bed has to be changed!” And I shouted at her, “There is no has to! Leave me in peace!” Here I am lying in the wet and writing these lines to you. You, kind Alexei Pavlovich, are afraid of my father. So am I. I keep imagining telling him. What’s scary isn’t his anger, that he’d kill me and you—because he wouldn’t—but something else. My father is irascible, crude, and crazy. But that’s not why you’re afraid of him. You’re afraid because he’s holy, not of this world. He’s amazing, remarkable, a kind that no longer can or does exist. That woman, my mama, hasn’t existed for a long time, she’s absent in nature, and instead of her is a void easily filled by things and people, but my father has latched onto this void and won’t let anyone or anything in. He thinks he’s doing all this for me, out of love for me. He thinks he’s living for his Zhenya’s sake. He’s never denied me a thing, neither money nor time. He could play with me for hours—puppets, theater, post office, all that childish nonsense. When I was just a child, he was already jealous of the whole world, even when I was simply playing with other children. It’s a disease, insanity. He’s not normal. You never know what to expect from him. He does impossible things. In the spring we went to Petersburg, and on the way back the train was held up at a station; some woman had thrown herself under the wheels. Everyone went to look, and I wanted to go, but my father wouldn’t let me. I lay on my berth and read. Two Germans were standing by the open door in the passageway chatting. It was so stuffy, you couldn’t close the compartment door. The train started. We rode and rode, and the Germans kept chatting, or rather, one spoke while the other listened. I already had a headache, and that voice was so grating and effeminate, I couldn’t stand it. My father stuck his head out into the passage and asked them to move away or quiet down. I said, “They didn’t understand you.” And he replied, “The gentlemen are in Russia, so they should be so kind as to understand Russian.” The German did not quiet down and kept chattering. Finally my father couldn’t take it and hollered at him. “ Du, Arschloch! Halt’s Maul! ” [10] “Shut up, you asshole!” The Germans cleared out.

I laughed half the way home. When Vera Lvovna had just gone to the hospital, my father and I went to see her. After a thaw, there was sun, the way was impassable, and we could barely get through the mud. My father was hot, he was sweating, striding, his coat open. We bought oranges. I couldn’t wait and ate one on the way and afterward my fingers were sticky. It was hot in the hospital, too. The heat was on, all the windows were sealed shut, and no one was airing the rooms out because they were afraid of drafts. On the ward, there was one withered old lady on one cot, and she was on the other, lying facing the wall. We sat down, my father on a chair, me on the edge of the bed. Without turning around, Vera Lvovna said, “This is it, Mitya, [11] “Mitya” is the diminutive of “Dmitry.” this is it, this is it.” My father cut her off. “Stop it! Those know-it-alls say all kinds of things.” She turned around. Her face was tear-stained and swollen. “Vera, let me look at you.” My father turned down the blanket, pulled her shift to her chin, and started palpating her breasts and feeling under her arms. Vera Lvovna lay with her eyes shut. “This doesn’t mean a thing yet,” my father said. “You’ll see, everything will turn out fine.” Then we ate the oranges. My father slit the peel with his Swiss knife and stripped it off, turning his nails yellow. The peel sprayed. I held one section at a time out to Vera Lvovna. When we left, the janitor on the corner was breaking up the melting ice. The splashes flew straight at us. My father shouted, “Have you gone blind or something?” The man waved his hand, as if to say, Get lost, removed his mitten and blew his nose. My father went up and kneed him in the groin. The janitor deflated and crumbled. I shouted and ran to my father, trying to pull him away, but he shook me off and punched at the man’s cap from above so that the lout fell to the pavement. The ice, his face—it was all covered in blood. My father came to his senses and I led him away. His hands were shaking all the way home, and he kept begging my forgiveness. The day they did the operation, I arrived a little earlier, and there you were, waiting in a nook near the ER. We sat on a small wooden bench by a potted palm and watched the nurse move something from one cupboard to another. She must have been new; I recognized all the old ones. Then the nurse went away and the corridor was deserted. I took your hand and we embraced. That’s how we sat, pressed close. Then the door opened and the nurse came in again. We should have moved apart, drawn back, let go, but that was utterly impossible, and we kept sitting with our arms around each other. The nurse said, “Young lady, let’s go, you can help your mama. Don’t worry so much. Everything’s going to be fine.” Then I stood up and went in.