Letters from Novosibirsk Read online

the nuclear catastrophes of the previous century, or one of its contained ethnic wars. Had it been the Uigurs who had claimed this territory? Or a tribe of Kazakhs? She must find the answer later that evening.

  “Excuse me.”

  Karyne jerked her head up like a startled chicken.

  “Did you lose something?”

  A man had appeared in the cottage’s doorway. A Uigur who managed to hang on to an ancestor’s spoils? Or were those the dark eyes of a Tibetan driven from China years ago?

  “No. I haven’t lost anything,” Karyne shouted. Perhaps he didn’t speak English at all, and she would have to repeat her message with hand and face gestures.

  “No (a hard shake of the head, with a frown), I haven’t (teeth showing) lost (hands up in the air) anything (He’s safe! sign).”

  “Oh. Fine then. Good day.”

  He disappeared.

  Well, he certainly managed those couple of phrases quite well. But she was certain that the endless discriminations he had suffered—first at the hands of the Chinese, then the ignorant Siberians, and finally the cruel indifference of the rest of the world—must have given him a sensitivity that was uncommon. Certainly she didn’t share it. She decided to knock on his door.

  “Excuse me?”

  He appeared again, this time behind the screen, even darker (and more handsome) than she remembered him to be.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Karyne Fugal. I live in number three, Wild Goose Lane. I just wanted to let you know that I understand what you are going through, living in this neofascist (he had never heard that word before) world of ours. I wish you could return to your homeland without the bitterness that we, myself included, have sown in you.”

  “Please?”

  “I mean, the ceremonial bells are ringing for you. Do not deny your ancestors for your contemporary grief.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you are saying, Madame. My name is Omar Bengzi. I am from Egypt, and I am free to go there whenever I wish, which at the present time I do not.”

  “Oh.”

  “You will please excuse me now. I am finishing a project I have been working on.”

  “What’s that?” asked Karyne, unaffected by her earlier misconceptions.

  “Antarctic trade zones of the early twenty-first century.”

  “Oh. That sounds very interesting. Actually I have to get back to my projects too. But it was very, very nice to have met you. See you around. Bye.”

  Omar nodded politely and closed the door in her face. Karyne walked off wondering where she’d met this Omar before.

  Kolya went flying about twenty-five feet above Wild Goose Lane, a grayish smudge in the air that must have appeared to be lost smoke from a distant backyard fire. But this wisp of smoke had a life, and direction, of its own; unaffected by wind or the whims of onlookers.

  Karyne stood at the doorstep of her little, disorganized house, wondering why her focus had shifted, seeing something dark (a storm approaching?) from the corners of her vision. Her rotten wooden door was more brightly lit today, and a new stillness surrounded her: she pondered that name, OMAR, again, feeling the stillness and wondering if black smudges in the air meant she would soon be wearing glasses.

  At last she triumphantly opened the door; the strange light and hints of darkness disappeared, and she felt more ready than ever to take an axe to her colleague’s paper, just as she’d planned.

  Todd, however, had not really started out with a plan that day. Todd often let the day figure itself out, something a plebeian would rarely do, according to Todd. And, of course, anything a plebeian would rarely do was something Todd would most definitely do.

  And so, having stood at his front doorway looking out over the grayish cottages of Novosibirsk, he decided to paint his doorframe in a rich royal theme—something with fleurs de lis, perfectly round roses, diamonds, stars, suns, fruit trees, walnuts, and stripes; making generous use of unconditional reds, pure purples, silver, gold, royal blue, and tangerine. There would be no other door frame like it in all of Novosibirsk, nor in all of the International Free Zone of Siberia for that matter. It did not matter that Todd had never painted a picture in his life. He began drawing with a soft pencil on the rotting, knotted wood, and by late morning the design had been laid out. The supply store (where Karyne had just bought the SCD paper) offered Todd a complete set of weather-resistant Polytone colors, but Todd preferred to buy the old-fashioned oils, which came in the traditional small tubes and gave him a sense of authenticity in this work.

  After a brunch of currant-and-gooseberry jam on croissants, crow paté, and ginger broth, Todd cracked open the vermillion and began painting. He was pleased with his first strokes (now adding a little gold to highlight a rose) but annoyed by a deceptive host of flying insects which kept him swinging the paintbrush and scratching his cheek. It seemed that they disappeared from the corner of his eye every time he noticed their small flashes in the air.

  He painted until mid-afternoon like this, swatting invisible insects and laying on one brilliant color after another.

  Finally, he took a few steps back and surveyed his work. Yes, it was all turning out just as planned—even better. The large clusters of roses on both top corners of the frame contrasted nicely with the more geometric fleurs de lis running across the top and down the sides. Anyone entering would surely feel that this was no ordinary home, and that no ordinary person lived there. Narrow gold bars stretched doubly adjacent to the doorjamb, which would soon be transformed by this ongoing project.

  A thin cloud passed over Todd, casting a delicate shadow over the bright colors, and when the shadow was gone his eye was drawn to a face that had appeared among the roses. He had not painted it, yet the face was unmistakably there: a child’s face, like the face of an angel on the ceiling of a Baroque church. But the face was the color of his roses. Had he painted it unknowingly? Or was this just one of the sun’s tricks?

  He blinked. The face went away, but came back after his next blink. And this time the child was laughing, so convincingly that Todd could have sworn he’d heard its high-pitched, staccato giggle.

  He moved closer, and new clouds of various sizes and intensities moved over him, with the sun intermittently breaking through. He watched the child’s face change again: this time it became older, the face of a young woman, fair and innocent. And on this innocent face Todd saw the mark of a woman who is carrying a child: the slight rose flush of her skin, the barely noticeable glint in her eyes, the closed and expressive lips. Todd looked deeply into that alluring face, representing feelings he had never known, and grew to know it, even as it changed again, very slowly, into a mature woman, but a woman without that childbearing look. This woman’s face contained other feelings: loss, withdrawal, bewilderment. And these new feelings met similar feelings inside Todd.

  As his realization of these feelings grew deeper, like a hot iron thrust into his chest, he drew away from his rose-face painting, and stepped back into full sunlight. Another imperceptible insect buzzed around his nose, around to the back of his head, then lingered at the corner of his vision before disappearing completely, leaving Todd to refocus on his painting again: the fine, clear roses and fleurs de lis, the silver diamonds and blue stripes on a gold background. It was just as regal as he had imagined it, without an ounce of the plebeian sentiment he despised.

  12.

  In early autumn, having passed another delightful spring and miraculous summer in near solitude, the residents of Novosibirsk sometimes felt smug enough to have regular conversations with one another. Though never practiced for more than a couple of weeks, this habit progressed from year to year, until some actually decided to brave a delicate topic of discussion:

  Todd awakened on such a day with a head full of dust, so much that he felt obligated to clean the house, as if that would also take care of the fuzziness inside him. On this day, having forgotten the night’s dreams, he was absolutely fed up with everything: this town, his s
uppressed life, the indifference of the world to the enlightened of Novosibirsk.

  He opened the back door and, holding it open with his foot, swung around to let a rug full of dust open onto the yard. He gave it a methodical snap or two, and heard a hollow cough.

  The dust had fallen on Elsa, who came begging for a tea bag. She tried to catch her breath, but she could only speak in gestures: a wave over her mouth, pointing to her beleaguered throat, and finally patting her stomach.

  Todd’s first impulse was to wish he’d never met this deaf-mute; it was only a further unpleasantry in this tedious day of his. But she spoke:

  “I was wondering if I might borrow a tea bag or two. I was about to sit down for tea, but found that I haven’t any. Do you speak English?”

  “Quite well.”

  “Well then, do you?”

  “Yes. I am from an English-speaking country.”

  “I see. I am not. But I meant, do you have the tea bag?”

  “What kind?”

  “Any kind will do.”

  “I have a collection of very fine, the finest, teas. Chinese. Georgian. Thai. Indian. You’ll have to make a clearer choice, if tea is of any importance to you.”

  “I only drink it from habit. In any case, I can go to another house if you would rather not lend me…”

  “Wait.”

  Todd disappeared from the doorway. Elsa heard a cabinet door open, then close. In another instant he reappeared