tears well in her eyes. “Don’t mind me,” she says, angry at herself. “I always cry at holocausts.” She blows her nose into a paper napkin. “In Petersburg I met a gray and white torn near the Voznessensky Bridge reeling home after anight in the coal cellars. He hoarsely conversed with me for several minutes, then went on his drunken way. I took that as an omen too and the next day the Germans attacked. Do you like cats, Robes- pierre Isayevich?”
“I like their taste, little mother,” Pravdin tells her, exhaling as she directed and trying another sip of infusion.
“Their taste!” Mother Russia gulps her own infusion between short puffs on her long ivory holder. “Did I understand you to comment on their taste?”
“In the camps, little mother, any cat we got our hands on we ate. Thinking of them as pets was a luxury I never had.”
“So you’re from the camps then.” Mother Russia contemplates Pravdin’s badly set thumb through a haze of cigarette smoke. “I have put in a certain amount of time too,” she says quietly. “But that’s another story.”
They are silent for a while. Pravdin grows accustomed to the water lily root infusion and drinks from his cup more willingly. When he finishes she invites him to her room off the kitchen.
“Waak:, waak, power to the powerful, power to the powerful.”
Pravdin ducks, pivots, throws up before his face a protective mesh of fingers, finds himself staring through the mesh into the beady eyes of a green-crested parrot who stirs the air with his wings in greeting.
“Gently, gently, Kerensky,” Mother Russia calms the bird, chucking him under the beak with the swatter end of her fly swatter.
Pravdin, recovered, takes in the room: large with an alcove, light pouring in through a birch tree, three golden cages containing three green-crested parrots hanging at different heights from an ornate ceiling, a large overhead electricfan that doesn’t work, a brass four-poster (unmade, with the imprint of a small body on one side, as if leaving a place for someone to sleep next to her), a night table covered with books and bottles of herbs and powders, an old prewar Singer sewing machine, worn carpets underfoot, an old gramophone, a 1930s art deco table clock ticking away perfectly, a collection of 78 r.p.m. records, a desk with an old Cyrillic Remington on it, piles of papers, books everywhere, dozens of postcards (yellow and curling at the edges) thumbtacked to the wall above the desk.
“I collected them as a child,” Mother Russia explains, “when it was an everyday occurrence to receive such things from outside the country in the mail. My father, a fur salesman during one period of his life, traveled a great deal and sent me a card from every city he visited. See”—the fly swatter becomes a pointer—“Istanbul was called Constantinople then; Izmir, Smyrna. You are to sit here.” She plants herself across from Pravdin at a small round table covered with a rectangular cloth with fringes that reach to the floor. “Serve yourself,” she nods toward a bowl of grapes.
Pravdin selects a small bunch, clips it from the stem with a silver scissors, dips the grapes into a cut-glass bowl, half full of water and a slice of lemon, spits the pits into his palm and deposits them in a heavy cut glass ashtray.
“Waak, waak, rev-Iutions are verbose.”
“Another bird heard from,” Mother Russia comments. ‘That one’s named Trotsky. The third one is Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. I suspect Vladimir Ilyich of homosexual tendencies—the bird, not the man. I have seen him at various times eyeing both Kerensky and Trotsky with that watery stare often associated with sex.”
Pravdin fidgets uncomfortably. “What does Vladimir Ilyich say?”
“Oh, he’s the least talkative of the three,” Mother Russia allows. She reaches through the cage with her swatter and taps Vladimir Ilyich on the head.
“Help, help, waak, waak.”
Pravdin flashes one of his crooked
“I like their taste, little mother,” Pravdin tells her, exhaling as she directed and trying another sip of infusion.
“Their taste!” Mother Russia gulps her own infusion between short puffs on her long ivory holder. “Did I understand you to comment on their taste?”
“In the camps, little mother, any cat we got our hands on we ate. Thinking of them as pets was a luxury I never had.”
“So you’re from the camps then.” Mother Russia contemplates Pravdin’s badly set thumb through a haze of cigarette smoke. “I have put in a certain amount of time too,” she says quietly. “But that’s another story.”
They are silent for a while. Pravdin grows accustomed to the water lily root infusion and drinks from his cup more willingly. When he finishes she invites him to her room off the kitchen.
“Waak:, waak, power to the powerful, power to the powerful.”
Pravdin ducks, pivots, throws up before his face a protective mesh of fingers, finds himself staring through the mesh into the beady eyes of a green-crested parrot who stirs the air with his wings in greeting.
“Gently, gently, Kerensky,” Mother Russia calms the bird, chucking him under the beak with the swatter end of her fly swatter.
Pravdin, recovered, takes in the room: large with an alcove, light pouring in through a birch tree, three golden cages containing three green-crested parrots hanging at different heights from an ornate ceiling, a large overhead electricfan that doesn’t work, a brass four-poster (unmade, with the imprint of a small body on one side, as if leaving a place for someone to sleep next to her), a night table covered with books and bottles of herbs and powders, an old prewar Singer sewing machine, worn carpets underfoot, an old gramophone, a 1930s art deco table clock ticking away perfectly, a collection of 78 r.p.m. records, a desk with an old Cyrillic Remington on it, piles of papers, books everywhere, dozens of postcards (yellow and curling at the edges) thumbtacked to the wall above the desk.
“I collected them as a child,” Mother Russia explains, “when it was an everyday occurrence to receive such things from outside the country in the mail. My father, a fur salesman during one period of his life, traveled a great deal and sent me a card from every city he visited. See”—the fly swatter becomes a pointer—“Istanbul was called Constantinople then; Izmir, Smyrna. You are to sit here.” She plants herself across from Pravdin at a small round table covered with a rectangular cloth with fringes that reach to the floor. “Serve yourself,” she nods toward a bowl of grapes.
Pravdin selects a small bunch, clips it from the stem with a silver scissors, dips the grapes into a cut-glass bowl, half full of water and a slice of lemon, spits the pits into his palm and deposits them in a heavy cut glass ashtray.
“Waak, waak, rev-Iutions are verbose.”
“Another bird heard from,” Mother Russia comments. ‘That one’s named Trotsky. The third one is Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. I suspect Vladimir Ilyich of homosexual tendencies—the bird, not the man. I have seen him at various times eyeing both Kerensky and Trotsky with that watery stare often associated with sex.”
Pravdin fidgets uncomfortably. “What does Vladimir Ilyich say?”
“Oh, he’s the least talkative of the three,” Mother Russia allows. She reaches through the cage with her swatter and taps Vladimir Ilyich on the head.
“Help, help, waak, waak.”
Pravdin flashes one of his crooked
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