Blooms of Darkness

54

Outside the sun is already high in the sky, a warm sun. The snow, which sparkled only yesterday with its poignant beauty, has already lost its crispness and turned into muddy slush.

“What’s the matter with you, snow?” Mariana lifts her head and calls out. The sight of her raised head reminds Hugo of an animal whose master has abandoned it. “Now all the roads are open, and the Russians will advance as they please. Until now the snow and the storms protected us. Now all the fortifications have collapsed. The tanks will speed right through to us, but you’ll protect Mariana. You’ll tell them that Mariana protected you and loved you. Am I lying?”

“You’re telling the truth,” replies Hugo.

“Say it a bit louder.”

Hugo raises his voice and shouts, “Mariana is telling the truth. Let everyone know that there’s no one like Mariana. She’s beautiful, good, and loyal.”

Now a new spirit grips her, and she speaks of the different life that is in store for them in the mountains. “People in the mountains are quiet, they work in the fields and in vegetable gardens. We’ll also work in vegetable gardens, and at noon we’ll sit under a broad-branched tree and eat corn porridge with cheese and cream, and finish off with a cup of fragrant coffee. It will be warm and pleasant, and we’ll doze a little. After our nap, we’ll return to the vegetable gardens. Tilling the soil is good for the body and the soul. We’ll work till sunset, and in the evening we’ll return to our hut, and no one will find fault with us.”

But meanwhile, they gather wood and light a fire. Mariana makes tea and is about to soar off again in her imagination when some bad luck appears, as though emerging from beneath the earth — a peasant. He fixes her with an angry look and says, “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing,” she answers, stunned.

“Get out of here.”

“What harm have I done?”

“You’re even asking?”

Now it seems as though he is about to come over and hit her. Mariana rises to her feet and cries out, “I’m not afraid of death. God knows the truth, and He will judge me with justice. God hates hypocrites and self-righteous people.”

“You’re talking about God?” he says, and spits at her.

“You’ll pay for that spit. God remembers every injustice. You’ll get yours in this world and in the world to come. His account book is open, and He writes everything down.”

“Whore,” he hisses, and goes on his way.

Mariana sits back down, boiling with rage. Hugo knows he has to leave her alone now. When Mariana is furious, she falls silent and bites her lips, and then she curses for a long time, swigging from the bottle and mumbling. Hugo likes to hear her mumblings. They burble like running water.

Suddenly, as though just waking up, she says, “Mariana is too concerned with herself and forgets that she has a darling of a lad. We have to learn how to see the good. My grandma used to say, ‘The world is full of His goodness, too bad our eyes don’t see it.’ Do you remember your grandma?” Again she surprises him.

“Grandpa and Grandma live in the Carpathians,” replies Hugo. “They have a little farm, and we go to them for summer vacations. Life in the Carpathians is very different from life in the city. There a different clock ticks, with different hands. You go out for a walk in the morning and come home in the evening, day after day.”

“Are your grandparents religious?”

“Grandpa prays every morning. He wraps himself in a prayer shawl, and you can’t see his face. When Grandma prays, she hides her face in both hands.”

“I’m glad you got to see them.”

“Everything there is very beautiful, very quiet, and wrapped in mystery.”

“There are things that we see and don’t understand, but in time they become clear. I’m glad you saw your grandparents praying. A person who prays is close to God. In my early childhood I knew how to pray. Since then, much water has flowed.”

They heed their feet and move on. From the villages near the main road they hear the roar of tanks and the cheering of the peasants. They move away from the main road and are bogged down in the melting snow. The wetness penetrates Hugo’s shoes, and he is sorry he left his other pair in the closet.

Once again he sees the closet before his eyes, and Mariana’s room, and the hall where the young women gathered. The many days he spent there now seem as though they belong in a hidden world within him, a world that will be revealed to him in detail one day. For now, it’s locked behind seven locks.

“What are you thinking about?”

“About the closet and about your room.” He doesn’t hide it from her.

“Better to forget that. For me it was a jail cell. The people and the walls only darkened my life. I thank God for freeing me from that prison and giving you to me.”

As they slog through the snow, another mood grips Mariana. “You’ll forget me,” she says. “You’ll grow up, and you’ll have other interests. Women will chase you. I’ll be remembered as a strange woman in the flow of your life. You’ll be successful. I have no doubt that you’ll be successful. Your success will be so great that not even for a moment will you ask yourself, ‘Who was that Mariana, who was with me in The Residence and in the open fields?’ ”

“Mariana,” he dares to interrupt her, “I’ll always be with you.”

“It’s customary to say that.”

“I love you,” he says, and his voice chokes.

“So you say.”

“I’ll go with you wherever you go. Remove doubt from your heart.”

Mariana chuckles and says, “It’s not your fault, darling. It’s man’s rotten nature. A person is just flesh and blood, enslaved to the day and to the needs of that day. When she doesn’t have a house, and she doesn’t have food, and she doesn’t have a living soul, she does what I did. I could have been a laundress or a servant in the house of some rich people, but I went to The Residences. In a residence, you’re not yourself. You’re a chunk of flesh that they roll and turn over, pinch, or just bite. At the end of the night, you’re bruised and wounded and you bury yourself in the pit of sleep. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“I’m trying.”

“Mariana doesn’t like the word ‘trying.’ Either you understand or you don’t. ‘Trying’ is a word for spoiled people, for people who don’t know how to decide. Listen to what Mariana is telling you, don’t say ‘I’m trying’—do it!”