The Story of a Life

3

Carp

Stuck in Gorodishche after the death of my father, I recalled my early childhood, those times when we, happy and carefree, would come to stay for the summer from Kiev. Mother and Father were young then, and Grandfather and his Turkish wife were still alive. I was still just a little boy and loved to make up all kinds of fanciful tales.

The train from Kiev arrived in Belaya Tserkov in the evening. Father hurried out into the station square to hire one of the garrulous drivers. We reached Gorodishche in the middle of the night. Half asleep I heard the tiresome jangling of the springs, then the noise of the water near the mill, and the barking of dogs. The horses snorted. The wattle fences creaked softly. The endless stars shone in the sky, and out of the damp darkness came the smell of weeds. Aunt Dozia carried me, half asleep, into the warm cottage with its coloured rugs spread out over the floor. The cottage smelled of warm milk. I opened my eyes for a moment and saw in front of me the rich embroidery on Aunt Dozia’s snow-white sleeves.

The hot sun beating against the white walls woke me in the morning. Red and yellow hollyhocks swayed outside the open window. A nasturtium peeped inside the room; a furry bee had crawled into the flower and become stuck. I froze and watched as it angrily struggled to back its way out and fly off. Soft, bright waves of light reflected from the river rippled endlessly across the ceiling. The river rushed noisily nearby. Then I heard funny Uncle Ilko’s voice: ‘Well, as usual, the sun’s barely up, but the parade’s already begun! Dozia, put the cakes and the cherry brandy on the table!’

I jumped out of bed and ran barefoot to the window. A line of old men in large straw hats, tapping the ground with their knotty sticks, the medals on their brown tunics clanking and glistening in the sun, was slowly making its way over the causeway from the other side of the river. These venerable elders from the neighbouring village of Pilipchi had come to welcome us upon our successful arrival. Leading the way with the copper badge of his office hanging from his neck was the pock-marked Mayor Trofim.

The cottage sprang to life. Aunt Dozia tossed a cloth over the table, sending a rush of air through the room. Mama hurriedly piled cakes on the plates and sliced sausage. Father pulled the corks from the bottles of homemade cherry brandy, while Uncle Ilko set out the sturdy glass tumblers. Then Aunt Dozia and Mama ran off to change and Father and Uncle Ilko went out onto the porch to meet the elders who were approaching, as solemnly and inevitably as fate itself.

At last the elders arrived, and, after silently exchanging kisses with my father and uncle, they sat down on the low stone ledge amid a chorus of heavy sighs. Then Mayor Trofim, once he had cleared his throat, uttered his traditional greeting: ‘I have the distinct honour of welcoming you, Georgy Maximovich, most respectfully to our quiet corner of the country.’

‘Thank you!’ said my father.

‘Yes-s-s!’ the elders replied immediately, sighing with relief. ‘Yes, of course, as it should be.’

‘Yes-s-s!’ repeated Trofim, peering through the window at the sparkling bottles on the table.

‘That’s the way it is,’ added an old soldier from the era of Tsar Nicholas I with a crooked nose.

‘Quite naturally,’ chimed in a small, curious old man by the name of Nedolya. He was the father of twelve daughters, but in his old age he had forgotten most of their names and could only remember five of them by counting on his fingers: Hannah, Parasya, Gorpyna, Olesya, Frosya … And then here the old man would get confused and have to start all over again.

‘Yes, indeed!’ the elders said and then fell silent for a time.

At this point Grandfather Maxim Grigorievich came out of the cottage. The elders got up and bowed down low. Grandfather bowed in return. After yet another round of loud sighs, the old men sat back down, grunted and stared silently at the ground. Finally, Uncle Ilko, having read some mysterious signs imperceptible to the rest of us that the meal was now ready, said: ‘Well, my good men, thank you for this conversation. And now let us partake of what God has provided us.’

Mama, in a fine summer dress, greeted the men inside. Each of them kissed her hand, and, as was the custom, she kissed theirs, wrinkled and brown, in return. Beautiful Aunt Dozia, rosy-cheeked and prematurely grey, wearing a blue dress and a shawl embroidered with crimson flowers, bowed at the waist.

After the first glass of the syrupy cherry brandy, Nedolya, tortured with curiosity, began asking his questions. He was bewildered by the things we had brought with us from Kiev and, pointing at each one, asked: ‘What’s this here? What’s it for? What do you say it’s called?’

Father then explained to him – this here is a brass steam iron, and this is an ice cream maker, and over there on the commode, that’s a folding mirror.

Nedolya shook his head with amazement: ‘There’s a tool for everything!’

‘Yes, of course, so there is!’ the elders agreed as they drank up.

Summer came into its own at Gorodishche – hot summers with terrifying thunderstorms, rustling trees, currents of cool river water, fishing outings, blackberry picking, and the sweet sensation of carefree days filled with surprises.

The island on which Grandfather had built his cottage was, of course, the most mysterious place in the world. There were two large, deep ponds behind the house. Their dark waters and the surrounding old willows gave the place a gloomy feel. On the hill beyond the ponds stood an impenetrable tangle of nut trees. Beyond the trees stretched several meadows filled with flowers up to your waist whose fragrance on a sultry day was enough to give you a headache. Past the meadows a thin trail of smoke rose from Grandfather’s crude hut by the beehives. And beyond the hut lay unexplored lands – rocky hills of red granite covered in creeping vines and wild strawberries. There were small pools of rainwater amid the rocky hollows. Little wagtails, shaking their bright feathers, drank the warm water in these pools. Cheeky bumblebees, having clumsily splashed down into the water, spun around and buzzed, vainly calling for help.

The rocks ended in a steep cliff above the Ros. We were forbidden from going this far, but once in a while we crawled out to the edge of the cliff and looked down. The sight of the torrent of clear water rushing down the Ros made our heads spin. Just below the surface of the water, skinny fish, struggling against the current, slowly made their way upstream.

Spread out along a slope on the far side of the river was the forest preserve of Countess Branitskaya. The green forest was so thick the sun could not penetrate it. It was rare when a ray of sunlight managed to break through the trees to reveal the amazing forest depths. Little birds darted into the beam like twinkling dust motes. They chirped as they chased each other and then dived into the leaves as if into green water.

But the ponds were my favourite place to visit.

Father went there to fish every morning, and he took me with him. We went out very early, moving slowly through the heavy, wet grass. Catching the first light of day, the willow branches shone like tranquil slivers of gold amid the dark, as yet nocturnal foliage. The carp splashed, disturbing the quiet water. Clumps of water lilies, knotweed and arrowhead hung as though suspended somehow above a black abyss.

This mysterious world of water and weeds opened itself before me. I was so enchanted by this world that I could have sat on the banks from sunrise to sunset.

Father would silently cast his line and light a cigarette. The smoke drifted over the water and wound through the rushes. I gathered a pail of water from the pond, threw in a handful of weeds, and waited. Red floats rested motionless on the surface of the water. Then one of them would begin to tilt, creating slight ripples, before either diving to the bottom or shooting to one side. Father hooked a fish, the line tightened, the wooden rod bowed into an arc and then a thrashing, splashing row erupted in the haze over the pond. The ripples rocked the lilies and sent the pond skaters scuttling in all directions, and then, finally, out of the mysterious depths there appeared a quivering streak of gold. It was impossible to know just what it was until Father landed the heavy carp on the trampled grass. It lay on its side gasping for air and moving its fins. The carp’s scales smelled of a wondrous, underwater realm.

I dropped the fish in the pail. It thrashed about among the weeds, smacking its tail all of a sudden and splashing me with water. I licked the water from my lips and felt a deep urge to drink from the pail, but Father wouldn’t let me.

It seemed to me that the water in the pail with the carp and the weeds tasted as delicious and refreshing as rainwater. We little boys loved to drink rainwater and we believed it could make you live to the age of one hundred and twenty. At least that’s what Nechipor always said.