The Hottest Dishes of the Tartar Cuisine

Other things to worry about

During the initial period without my husband, I filled the empty hours with thoughts. I thought a lot. I conducted a thorough evaluation of my life. It was clear that not everything had gone smoothly. But I had always made the best out of every situation. In my late twenties, for instance, I had to get a new passport because my old one had been stolen. For that I needed my birth certificate, which I no longer had. The orphanage where I spent the bulk of my childhood had burned down, and all the records destroyed. The passport-issuing authority had to take my word — so I made myself seven years younger, which seemed about right for me anyway.

I had always tried to make up for the failures of others, whether through advice, action, or my own good will. That’s a notoriously thankless job.

Occasionally I interrupted my reflections and walked to the window. Often I saw my husband standing next to the lamppost. Sometimes at night, too. I asked myself what this meant. I didn’t open the window because I didn’t want him to think I was going to ask him to come up. He never did anything; he just stood there looking wretched.

But I had other things to worry about.

I’d seen my son-in-law downtown with a young blonde.

They were sitting at a café, at a little round table in the sun — like something out of a foreign movie. They were eating ice cream from glass bowls. Sulfia never did that kind of thing, sitting in a café eating ice cream. The stranger laughed like a lunatic. My son-in-law smiled and looked at her. Now and then he took her hand, which she would quickly pull away to gesture wildly in the air. She was a very fidgety young woman.

I hid behind the Lenin monument. With my eagle eyes I could see everything. How he paid the bill and helped her into her coat. A light green one, a daring color. I knew every style that had been in stores during the last five years — could rattle them off by heart — and this coat was not among them. It looked suspiciously like something from America. My son-in-law had obviously not brought slippers back for this woman.

They walked together to a trolley station. They kissed each other in front of everyone. How shameless. Couldn’t they at least find a building entryway or an empty spot in a park?

I carefully considered my options.

One of them I rejected, namely to run up to the slut in green and shove her under the oncoming tram. I would take another path. I had no doubt there were other options. I just had to figure them out — and to judge by what I’d seen, I had very little time to do so.

Soon I had a good idea. I waited for Sulfia in front of the entrance to her surgical clinic. She worked a lot and had managed to repeat her training and become a proper nurse. When she finally came out of the building — loaded down with five mesh bags stuffed with the groceries she’d spent her lunch break buying at the market, like any normal married woman — she reacted calmly.

“Mother?” she said. “What’s the matter?”

She looked at the package I had in my hand and her eyebrows gathered.

“I’m not even going to try it on. Save yourself the trouble, please.”

A little while back I had tried to help her dress better. Now that I saw her more frequently, I just couldn’t stand it. Always a pair of pants that sagged in the knees and the behind, and a sweater from her husband’s dresser. It was really no wonder she was in her present predicament. So I had begun to bring her things offered for sale by friends and co-workers who had managed to get hold of them through labyrinthine channels only to find out they didn’t fit. They were nice things, not like the nightmarish clothes made of execrable materials that hung in the shops. I’d already offered Sulfia a cream-colored blouse with big golden buttons. And a dress that went to the knees and accentuated the bust — even if it was lacking, as in her case. All sorts of dresses, blouses, pants. But Sulfia refused to wear any of them. She didn’t so much as try any of them on, and even I was incapable of persuading her.

This time I had an extraordinary treasure in my hands. A light wool jacket in a subtle pink color. With her raven-black hair, she would have looked like a princess in it. I told her that. She shook her head, stubborn as a mule. Here I was trying to save her marriage, and all she could do was shake her head.

“You haven’t even seen the jacket yet,” I said.

“I don’t need a jacket,” said Sulfia. “This one is fine.”

“But, my daughter, that one is already ten years old.”

“So? It’s still like new.”

“Sulfia, listen to your mother.”

“Mother, we could save ourselves a lot of time if you would stop bringing all this stuff. I have enough things of my own.”

“I see that.”

“What I wear needn’t be to your liking,” said Sulfia.

And what about Sergej, I almost answered in the face of her cheekiness. I suppose it needn’t be to his liking either? Well, don’t worry then, because he doesn’t like it! If he could choose between a woman who looked like a mangy old crow and one like a spring breeze incarnate, I’ll give you three guesses as to which one he would choose!

“I’m tired, mother,” said Sulfia. “Can we possibly get together another time? I slept so little.”

“Wait,” I said. “I have to talk to you.”

Sulfia stayed put. Her bloated mesh bags, filled with potatoes, red beets, and cucumbers, knocked against her legs.

“Come to my place,” I said. “I have to tell you something.”

“Another time, mother, yeah? I’m going home.”

“It’s important,” I said.

“Then tell me now,” said Sulfia, looking over my shoulder at the bus that was just pulling away from the stop.

“I can’t tell you now. At least not here.”

“Then leave it for another time.”

She just didn’t want me to help her. She was keeping me from saving her marriage. She always resisted whatever I did. The good times between us were apparently over, just like the good times between her and Sergej.

“Mother, I’m so tired I’m about to fall over. Let me go, alright?”

I took her by the arm and looked directly into her eyes.

“Sulfia,” I said, “you need to get pregnant as soon as possible.”

Sulfia began to blink.

“What?” she said. “What do I need to do? In your opinion?”

“Get pregnant.”

“What?”

“Have a child.”

“What?”

“GET PREGNANT, SULFIA! God damn it!”

“But how?”

I sighed. It occurred to me that I’d never told her how it worked. At first I had thought she was too young, then I thought there was no need. Then Aminat was born. These days I figured that she wouldn’t need any explanation.

Sulfia looked at me affectionately.

“Mother, you’ve had a hard day. Shall I take you home?”

“But you didn’t want to a minute ago.”

“I think it would be better if I go with you.”

We went back and forth like that for a while. She offered to take me home, I turned her down. I just kept telling her that she desperately needed to have a baby. That it was her only path to happiness. Sulfia tried to put her cool hand on my forehead. I insisted on a new baby. I told her that Sergej could certainly produce a handsome son.

Sulfia’s pale cheeks blushed. But she didn’t contradict me. She took me by the arm and led me along the street. I let her do so — it gave me more of a chance to get my message through to her. I was sure that if I said it enough times, it would sink in. I just had to be persistent, and that I could be.

Sulfia opened my apartment door, helped me out of my coat, led me into the bedroom, and sat me down on the bed. I realized she thought I was having a nervous breakdown. Maybe she thought it happened to people who got left.

“When a man has a child, he’s not so quick to run off,” I whispered. “If he’s half decent, then he comes to his senses. Then he’s duty bound. Sergej would not leave his child in a lurch.”

I looked at Sulfia: she was very pale again.