Letters from Novosibirsk Read online
Page 11
in the doorway.
“Here, take these. But come around to the front door.”
He was gone again.
Elsa was quite perplexed by this strange behavior, but nevertheless made her way around the neatly trimmed hedges and flower garden to the front entrance of Todd’s cottage. Soon she would have her teabag, and be done with strange neighbors. But something told her to look up. Colors flashed at the corner of her eye. She stopped before the magnificent doorway Todd had painted, and found him standing there, looking down at her.
“Oh,” she said.
“Oh?” he replied.
“Oh,” she repeated. “My.”
“I painted it just recently. Do you recognize the motif?”
“I’m afraid I don’t”
“Are you Canadian?” Todd asked.
“No. I am Danish. My name is Elsa.” She extended her hand.
Todd had no choice now but to dethrone himself and step down to meet her.
“Todd Excelsior Darnet. Darnay. It’s French.”
“Excelsior?”
“Yes. Todd Excelsior. Two d’s.”
“Pleased to meet you. I am Elsa Helsingfor.”
Todd finally took her hand and squeezed it coolly. Elsa let it fall. She waited for him to invite her in, but nothing happened.
“So, thank you,” she said.
Todd realized at this moment that a kingdom was not viable unless there were subjects. Not that he felt he must be the ruler; he just wanted someone to acknowledge his artifacts, to enter into the kingdom.
“Come in, please,” he bade.
Elsa, on stepping up to the small landing, thought she saw a mirror hidden in the floral design of the door frame, but Todd was holding the door open, so she had to proceed, feeling slightly queazy about all the decorum. Elsa had always felt uneasy about decorum.
They walked directly into a room full of faded tapestries, but it was just this faded aspect that prevented Elsa from fleeing: if they were faded then they were dead, as was the period they represented.
Todd believed quite to the contrary. He had resurrected the tapestries, saved them from the German family in southern Russia that had wanted to get rid of them in favor of New Era hangings depicting more contemporary events. They did not represent an age that was dead for him; they allowed him to live in their age, to resurrect it.
“Why don’t we have the tea here?” he suggested. “It’s decent to get to know one’s neighbors, anyway.”
“I suppose it is,” Elsa said, a little quietly. “But I’m sorry—I can’t stay very long.” She now felt quite suffocated by the tapestries, with their weight of ancient tradition.
Todd was a tall man, with wavy dark hair always parted and patted into place. His steps, though full of confidence, seemed a little uncertain to Elsa. She liked that. She saw that his confidence had been planned; it was not entirely natural. She was suspicious of anyone who was naturally confident about everything.
When he returned with the silver tray, china cups, and porcelain teapot (18th c.), Elsa remembered that disastrous tea of hers, when she had forgotten to boil the water.
Todd could never do anything of the kind. His every move had been calculated, and calculated twice. He poured two perfect cups of sparkling amber tea, and followed by asking whether she preferred her tea white, with how many lumps of sugar?
“Two would be fine,” she said.
The tea entered her like a familiar old spirit, protecting her from uncertainty again, and fortifying her internal strength.
Todd drank inaudibly; she had to strain her senses to tell whether he was enjoying it. Perhaps he really didn’t enjoy anything, contrary to what he would have others believe.
A cluttered moment passed, during which cups met saucers and a spoon fell to the floor.
This made Elsa feel at home, so she uttered something she wouldn’t have dared earlier:
“Funny—” She paused.
“Yes?”
“It’s funny. Todd, did you, have you ever felt anything unusual going on in your place?”
“For instance?”
“Oh, nothing. I don’t even know what I’m saying.”
“Yes?”
“It must be that these houses are so old. Things—excuse me?”
“Yes,” he interrupted, “I have.”
Todd had no idea how to continue this conversation. What on Earth were they talking about? But Elsa’s face told him he’d better get on with it, or risk another uncomfortable silence.
“Just the other day—I don’t know if this is what you’re talking about—but I saw a face in my painting near the doorway. And, I’ve just realized this, it was very similar to yours. It’s probably just a coincidence. Anyway, at first it seemed to be a child, and then it grew, and changed into an adult. A very attractive adult…”
His voice lightened. Elsa looked slightly downward:
“I see.”
She could not bear the uncertainty of this topic any longer. Instead of relating her own experiences she begged to leave. Todd, who had been lurching toward genuine interaction with another human, took a full turn and abruptly rose to show her to the door.
Elsa’s cup of tea sat steaming on Todd’s lacquered Chinese table for many hours after she’d left. He might even have said it felt warm the following day.
13.
It seemed, thought Nura, that they were more aware than she had imagined. Might they, some day, prove to be as curious about their surroundings, and others, as she and her contemporaries had been? But no, their roots were not well-grounded. They had not enough sense of who they were…
“Nonsense!” Zofiya interrupted. “And how grounded were you, Nura? Have you already forgotten where you were born?”
“Moscow, I grant thee. But I had Russian roots nonetheless. And if you care to see back further, on my mother’s mother’s side, you’ll notice that my kin have pocketed the Siberian earth for living centuries!”
Zofiya exuded a sense of matronly insouciance: Nura was a much younger ghost than she, and less experienced in grave matters.
“All right, Zofiya,” Nura related, but we still have something new to contend with here.”
“What’s that?” Zofiya responded.
“Why, the very idea that they might discern our presence!”
“Isn’t that what we want?
“Well, not really,” Nura returned. “It isn’t as much fun that way.”
“And is that our intention here, to have fun?”
“It doesn’t hurt,” Nura concluded.
A new wind blew in, one they’d never perceived before. It even shook the earthly trees, much to the old women’s surprise. What kind of a ghost could do that?
“Alexei?” they called.
“Kolya?” they entreated.
They intoned a few others, quieter members of their aerial gatherings, but there was no response.
There was only a sense of washed-out color around them, and an elusive but unmistakable presence. Certain ghosts, if their time had passed long ago, could not connect well with those who were more recently dead. They were like shadows of their ages—ages when Vydrino had been nothing more than a stop along an extended desert, or a brief settlement for nomads and wandering monks from distant lands.
Nura and Zofiya felt that this was such a ghost, and that its presence, so unexpected, might bring them in touch with deeper realities, and therefore more fruitful interactions with the new inhabitants of Vydrino.
They exchanged nothing of their perceptions about this new presence among themselves. They simply let feelings come, and then pass away, along with the ancient ghost, because neither could summon enough intention to enter into dialogue with it: they had been undeniably humbled, like a couple of ripe acorns blown off a tree.
And, instead of learning something more from him of their timeless art, they felt that their intentions with the new inhabitants of Vydrino would now be second to the intentions of this ancient and powerful, golden-and
-red-robed ghost.
14.
With the publication of this letter I am ending my boycott of parsnips. I encourage you all to do the same. The Root Growers Association has decided to lift the child-bearing limit it had imposed on Ossetians, as well as its tacit encouragement of the new female infanticide in southern China. (You will note the incongruity of the policies.) The unstable Chinese government will not comment, of course, except to say that the Root Growers Association will be hosting their biennial convention there in 2084. I plan to attend, whether or not I will be welcome.
Go somewhere you are not welcome! Don’t let them get away with Masonic secrecy and condescending voodoo—be it at school, work, or your place of worship. The only secret we all share should be the knowledge that no one has the right to exclude others.
And neither do we have the right to exclude natural foods from our diets. How enthralled I am to be able to cook my borscht with turnips again! That, as you may or may not know, is the authentic way to make a borscht —beets did not make their way into the soup until much later. And the RGA, for all their good intentions, has failed to notify the consumers of this important bit of history! How can they expect to introduce cleaner eating habits to the citizens of our Regional Biospheric Growing Centers without first teaching them the important traditions they are faced with upholding? I confess that I still do add a beet or two to the soup, but only for coloring. The main flavor remains parsnip.
With my borscht I usually have a salad of fresh-frozen dandelions which I’ve defrosted and dressed with cider vinegar and bacon fat. Yes! Bacon fat! I use only time-tested ingredients. And I feel more in tune with the earth here. I have new strength and vigor, just as the
“Here, take these. But come around to the front door.”
He was gone again.
Elsa was quite perplexed by this strange behavior, but nevertheless made her way around the neatly trimmed hedges and flower garden to the front entrance of Todd’s cottage. Soon she would have her teabag, and be done with strange neighbors. But something told her to look up. Colors flashed at the corner of her eye. She stopped before the magnificent doorway Todd had painted, and found him standing there, looking down at her.
“Oh,” she said.
“Oh?” he replied.
“Oh,” she repeated. “My.”
“I painted it just recently. Do you recognize the motif?”
“I’m afraid I don’t”
“Are you Canadian?” Todd asked.
“No. I am Danish. My name is Elsa.” She extended her hand.
Todd had no choice now but to dethrone himself and step down to meet her.
“Todd Excelsior Darnet. Darnay. It’s French.”
“Excelsior?”
“Yes. Todd Excelsior. Two d’s.”
“Pleased to meet you. I am Elsa Helsingfor.”
Todd finally took her hand and squeezed it coolly. Elsa let it fall. She waited for him to invite her in, but nothing happened.
“So, thank you,” she said.
Todd realized at this moment that a kingdom was not viable unless there were subjects. Not that he felt he must be the ruler; he just wanted someone to acknowledge his artifacts, to enter into the kingdom.
“Come in, please,” he bade.
Elsa, on stepping up to the small landing, thought she saw a mirror hidden in the floral design of the door frame, but Todd was holding the door open, so she had to proceed, feeling slightly queazy about all the decorum. Elsa had always felt uneasy about decorum.
They walked directly into a room full of faded tapestries, but it was just this faded aspect that prevented Elsa from fleeing: if they were faded then they were dead, as was the period they represented.
Todd believed quite to the contrary. He had resurrected the tapestries, saved them from the German family in southern Russia that had wanted to get rid of them in favor of New Era hangings depicting more contemporary events. They did not represent an age that was dead for him; they allowed him to live in their age, to resurrect it.
“Why don’t we have the tea here?” he suggested. “It’s decent to get to know one’s neighbors, anyway.”
“I suppose it is,” Elsa said, a little quietly. “But I’m sorry—I can’t stay very long.” She now felt quite suffocated by the tapestries, with their weight of ancient tradition.
Todd was a tall man, with wavy dark hair always parted and patted into place. His steps, though full of confidence, seemed a little uncertain to Elsa. She liked that. She saw that his confidence had been planned; it was not entirely natural. She was suspicious of anyone who was naturally confident about everything.
When he returned with the silver tray, china cups, and porcelain teapot (18th c.), Elsa remembered that disastrous tea of hers, when she had forgotten to boil the water.
Todd could never do anything of the kind. His every move had been calculated, and calculated twice. He poured two perfect cups of sparkling amber tea, and followed by asking whether she preferred her tea white, with how many lumps of sugar?
“Two would be fine,” she said.
The tea entered her like a familiar old spirit, protecting her from uncertainty again, and fortifying her internal strength.
Todd drank inaudibly; she had to strain her senses to tell whether he was enjoying it. Perhaps he really didn’t enjoy anything, contrary to what he would have others believe.
A cluttered moment passed, during which cups met saucers and a spoon fell to the floor.
This made Elsa feel at home, so she uttered something she wouldn’t have dared earlier:
“Funny—” She paused.
“Yes?”
“It’s funny. Todd, did you, have you ever felt anything unusual going on in your place?”
“For instance?”
“Oh, nothing. I don’t even know what I’m saying.”
“Yes?”
“It must be that these houses are so old. Things—excuse me?”
“Yes,” he interrupted, “I have.”
Todd had no idea how to continue this conversation. What on Earth were they talking about? But Elsa’s face told him he’d better get on with it, or risk another uncomfortable silence.
“Just the other day—I don’t know if this is what you’re talking about—but I saw a face in my painting near the doorway. And, I’ve just realized this, it was very similar to yours. It’s probably just a coincidence. Anyway, at first it seemed to be a child, and then it grew, and changed into an adult. A very attractive adult…”
His voice lightened. Elsa looked slightly downward:
“I see.”
She could not bear the uncertainty of this topic any longer. Instead of relating her own experiences she begged to leave. Todd, who had been lurching toward genuine interaction with another human, took a full turn and abruptly rose to show her to the door.
Elsa’s cup of tea sat steaming on Todd’s lacquered Chinese table for many hours after she’d left. He might even have said it felt warm the following day.
13.
It seemed, thought Nura, that they were more aware than she had imagined. Might they, some day, prove to be as curious about their surroundings, and others, as she and her contemporaries had been? But no, their roots were not well-grounded. They had not enough sense of who they were…
“Nonsense!” Zofiya interrupted. “And how grounded were you, Nura? Have you already forgotten where you were born?”
“Moscow, I grant thee. But I had Russian roots nonetheless. And if you care to see back further, on my mother’s mother’s side, you’ll notice that my kin have pocketed the Siberian earth for living centuries!”
Zofiya exuded a sense of matronly insouciance: Nura was a much younger ghost than she, and less experienced in grave matters.
“All right, Zofiya,” Nura related, but we still have something new to contend with here.”
“What’s that?” Zofiya responded.
“Why, the very idea that they might discern our presence!”
“Isn’t that what we want?
“Well, not really,” Nura returned. “It isn’t as much fun that way.”
“And is that our intention here, to have fun?”
“It doesn’t hurt,” Nura concluded.
A new wind blew in, one they’d never perceived before. It even shook the earthly trees, much to the old women’s surprise. What kind of a ghost could do that?
“Alexei?” they called.
“Kolya?” they entreated.
They intoned a few others, quieter members of their aerial gatherings, but there was no response.
There was only a sense of washed-out color around them, and an elusive but unmistakable presence. Certain ghosts, if their time had passed long ago, could not connect well with those who were more recently dead. They were like shadows of their ages—ages when Vydrino had been nothing more than a stop along an extended desert, or a brief settlement for nomads and wandering monks from distant lands.
Nura and Zofiya felt that this was such a ghost, and that its presence, so unexpected, might bring them in touch with deeper realities, and therefore more fruitful interactions with the new inhabitants of Vydrino.
They exchanged nothing of their perceptions about this new presence among themselves. They simply let feelings come, and then pass away, along with the ancient ghost, because neither could summon enough intention to enter into dialogue with it: they had been undeniably humbled, like a couple of ripe acorns blown off a tree.
And, instead of learning something more from him of their timeless art, they felt that their intentions with the new inhabitants of Vydrino would now be second to the intentions of this ancient and powerful, golden-and
-red-robed ghost.
14.
With the publication of this letter I am ending my boycott of parsnips. I encourage you all to do the same. The Root Growers Association has decided to lift the child-bearing limit it had imposed on Ossetians, as well as its tacit encouragement of the new female infanticide in southern China. (You will note the incongruity of the policies.) The unstable Chinese government will not comment, of course, except to say that the Root Growers Association will be hosting their biennial convention there in 2084. I plan to attend, whether or not I will be welcome.
Go somewhere you are not welcome! Don’t let them get away with Masonic secrecy and condescending voodoo—be it at school, work, or your place of worship. The only secret we all share should be the knowledge that no one has the right to exclude others.
And neither do we have the right to exclude natural foods from our diets. How enthralled I am to be able to cook my borscht with turnips again! That, as you may or may not know, is the authentic way to make a borscht —beets did not make their way into the soup until much later. And the RGA, for all their good intentions, has failed to notify the consumers of this important bit of history! How can they expect to introduce cleaner eating habits to the citizens of our Regional Biospheric Growing Centers without first teaching them the important traditions they are faced with upholding? I confess that I still do add a beet or two to the soup, but only for coloring. The main flavor remains parsnip.
With my borscht I usually have a salad of fresh-frozen dandelions which I’ve defrosted and dressed with cider vinegar and bacon fat. Yes! Bacon fat! I use only time-tested ingredients. And I feel more in tune with the earth here. I have new strength and vigor, just as the
Letters from Novosibirsk