Stalina: A Novel Part 15

When we got upstairs, Amalia asked, "Your parents don't touch anymore, do they?"

I could not remember the last time I saw them touch each other.

"They don't need to touch," I told her.

"Everyone needs to touch," she said.

I finished packing and went downstairs. Amalia was in the bas.e.m.e.nt with Alexi. They were having an argument. I picked up the phone to call Olga in Russia, but the smell of cigarettes and gardenia perfume on the receiver made me sick to my stomach. Bacco was waiting in a car to take me back to the motel. My new home.

I reached Olga from the office phone on the first try. She had been to the rooming house earlier in the day and learned the details of my mother's pa.s.sing from one of her roommates.

"I hope you don't mind, but I told them I was you," she said.

"Who did you speak with?"

"Ludmilla was her name. She said she thought I was shorter and had darker hair. I told her I had only recently become a blond and was wearing heels."

"I remember Ludmilla. She had the cot across from my mother, and her son used to bring her chocolates."

"Is he married?" Olga was constantly on the lookout for men with connections. She continued, "Chocolates at the salon would be nice for treats."

"Ludmilla never had the heart to tell her son that the chocolates gave her indigestion. She gave them away to the nurses and kitchen staff. My mother used to complain that Ludmilla got special attention because of the chocolates. She told me, 'They gave her an extra piece of chicken the other day. Maybe you could do something for me, Stalina?' That was when I gave her the toilet tissue and gifted the bra.s.sieres to the nurse."

Olga explained, "Ludmilla told me that evening noodle soup with fish b.a.l.l.s was served in the commissary for dinner. When the bowl was placed in front of your mother, she picked up one of the b.a.l.l.s with her spoon, flung it against the wall, and screamed, 'Capitalist pigs! They h.o.a.rd the caviar for themselves and let us eat this slop!' The nurses tried to calm her down with a cup of tea. She apologized for the bad behavior and a.s.sured them she was actually fond of fish b.a.l.l.s, but had been possessed by a bad memory."

I told Olga, "Mother must have been thinking of the time when Nadia's parents were giving a party and served caviar. She left the party and went behind their house with a full mouth. I ran after her, thinking she was ill. She spit out the caviar and said, 'I feel like I just sucked the c.o.c.k of a KGB operative.' Nadia's dog, Trala, came out and started barking at us. 'Are you the house informant?' she said and spit at the yapping poodle. 'That would figure.' 'Mother, it's just a dog,' I said. Then a stray cat with a split ear crawled out from under the house and began to lick the caviar from the leaves of the hydrangea where it had landed. We went back to the party, leaving the cat picking at the bits that got caught between her claws. 'That must be Ezhov; he was known for licking Stalin's a.s.s,' Mother said about the cat. 'Mother, it's just a stray cat,' I a.s.sured her."

Olga described how she'd been told. Mother's roommates had returned from dinner only to find her standing at the edge of her bed facing the picture of my father-the one with the shovel. With red lipstick she had scrawled these lines on the starched white bedsheet: The last time we were Together we watched as the ice cream Slowly dripped onto our daughter's finely manicured hands.

I don't care for chocolate, but it is ecstasy for her.

The hysteria of you is a charm Not mine alone.

I cannot protect you from the Sun, But you can love us all.

This was another poem of my father's we found amongst his things. According to Ludmilla, the roommates stood by their respective cots, chanted the words, and were soon dancing around the room swinging in one another's arms.

Frieda, who has one leg shorter than the other, got up on her cot and challenged the room, "In what year did Leonid write that poem?"

Many knew my father's work; I made sure his poems were pa.s.sed among other poets and friends.

"If I know, do I win something?" asked Talia, the shy one who had long gray braids.

"It was like we were children again," Ludmilla told Olga. "Then the nurses came and made everyone go to bed. Your mother refused to have the sheet changed, so with the words draped over her body, she went to sleep, fully dressed."

Olga went on to explain how the rest of the night unfolded. Lights-out was ten o'clock. Around three in the morning, Ludmilla heard my mother talking. She had taken the photograph of my father off the wall, laid it next to her on the pillow, and was whispering to it.

"Is everything all right?" Ludmilla asked my mother.

There was no answer, but my mother continued talking to the photograph. Ludmilla heard her crying and was about to get up when my mother sat up and reached her arms out as if to embrace someone. Her face was filled with a big broad smile, and then her eyes closed. She fell back onto the bed, barely making a sound. Ludmilla waited for my mother to move, but she remained still.

"Ludmilla said it was as if someone had come to greet her," Olga said.

I wonder who it was. Maxim? My father? It was a relief to hear she was happy about whoever or whatever had taken her to the other side.

"Could it be that you get to spend eternity with the person you truly love?" I asked Olga.

"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 facade. 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 pa.s.sing.

"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 pa.s.sing, 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 ama.s.sed 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 a.s.s? Why are you so concerned with my a.s.s, Stalina? There are nurses here."

"Not your a.s.s, 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?"