Читать книгу Siberian Hearts - James Anderson - Страница 5

Natalya Bombla left her classroom after a day of teaching English and art. Perhaps one or two men and some women would not call her beautiful, but those with eyes enough to see past their own jealousies thought her magnificent.

She was twenty-nine and still single. Many marriage offers had been made but she refused all of them. She had long, incredibly thick black hair which, when she let it, hung down to her waist. Her breasts were of medium size and her legs and buttocks were very shapely and tapered into a small waist and flat stomach. She had high cheekbones and heart shaped lips which easily slid into smiles. Her eyes were clear and large and an even shade of light brown. She looked very Yakut from her mother’s side and little of her Russian father showed in her, but the mix tempered her Yakut features and made her exotically beautiful.

She had had one lover in her life, a young Russian mining engineer who was deeply in love with her. He was a good man with a good heart and a responsible attitude toward everything. She was with him two years: not exactly living together but not exactly not living together. She was very fond of him and in many ways loved him but never gave her heart totally to him. It drove him crazy. Her lover knew about the drawing she kept hidden away, the drawing she did when she was twelve. He hated the ridiculous dream she had and often scolded her, telling her she was wasting her life.

She always answered saying that her babushka had shown her the man she was to marry and she had drawn him. She never showed the drawing to him - she never showed it to anyone. She only told him he was not the man in the picture.

It drove him wild with jealousy to see her waiting for this mysterious stranger, this dream of a drugged child, this ghost of a rival suitor. He pleaded with her to forget that nonsense and marry him. He told her he loved her like no other man could. He had a fine career and would take good care of her and their children. Why was she being a stupid woman? He got down on his knees and begged and cried like a baby. But she would not give in.

The final showdown came when he received word that he was being transferred to Irkutsk, a large Siberian city to the south. He walked into the apartment, put his briefcase down, and poured himself a large glass of vodka. He took a long drink and sat down beside her. She was embroidering a heavy wool shirt for one of her cousins.

”Natalya, my love, I am being transferred. I want you to come with me as my wife.”

“No,” she said, quickly enough to truly wound him.

He leveled his eyes at her. “Natalya, I love you more than any man will ever love you. I am asking you to be my wife. Why do you refuse me?”

She continued to work. Without looking at him, she said, “You know why I refuse you.”

He stood up and flailed his arms. “Why do you persist in this ridiculous dream? Those were the ravings of a crazy old woman! She gave drugs to a twelve-year-old girl and now you’re waiting to see a face you saw in a dream. But let me tell you, that was not the face of a real man! That was a face a young girl wanted to see!” He put both hands on her face and jerked her eyes level with his. Then he yelled at her even though he was only inches away. “That man is not real! Do you hear me? What you saw was the fantasy of a girl – nothing more!”

Natalya threw down her work and pushed his hands away. She was livid. “Do not tell me what is real and what is not real!” she yelled back. “You know nothing. Nothing! What I saw is real! He is my husband. Not you.”

He threw up his hands and turned his back on her. “You crazy Yakut bitch! What is wrong with you? I love you! Do you hear me? I love you!”

“And who are you to tell me anything?” she shot back. “You are just another drunk Russian bastard - just like my father. He left me alone when I was born and I have never even heard from him. For all I know, I will give you a child and you will leave me, just like my father.”

He looked at her, sorry he showed his anger. He knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. “I am sorry, Natalya. I know you have been hurt. But I am not your father. Not all Russians leave. I will never leave you. Never, never, never. I will die first. I love you.”

She searched his eyes. She was sure he loved her, but she would not marry him. She looked at her babushka sitting in the corner. The old woman’s eyes were dark and piercing and spoke volumes. There was neither question nor discussion - she would wait for the man in the picture.

Natalya’s eyes went back to her lover. Her voice was kind but firm. “I will never marry you. That is all I have to say.”

Tears came to his eyes and he took her hands and kissed them. “Please, Natalya, my love. Please. I beg you.” Tears were streaming down his face now. “Do not refuse me. Do not break my heart. Marry me. We will have beautiful, fat babies and live happily for the rest of our lives. Please.”

Natalya looked into his eyes.

He thought maybe she was weakening and softened his voice. “Please, my love. I beg you. Please.”

She continued to search his eyes. Then one word came from her mouth. “Neekogda - Never.”

When he left Yakutsk, she said goodbye at the Blue Diamond air terminal and watched him board the plane. That was three years ago and she had not even kissed a man since then. They still wrote each other, exchanging news about their lives – nothing more. The letters were becoming less frequent.

As Natalya left her school, she bundled up in her furs to protect herself from the cold. It was January and her world was in almost perpetual night. The hours of darkness were very long and very cold. The days were very short and very cold. The sun, hanging low on the horizon as if it were only making an appearance out of politeness, rose about 10am and set about 2pm.

She stepped off of the concrete stairs into the snow, hearing and feeling the crunch under her small reindeer boots. Moving with natural grace and femininity, she walked through the very dense white fog caused by so many people living in close proximity in such extreme temperatures. As she walked, a tunnel trailed behind her that slowly closed in on itself. She saw other tunnels where people had recently walked, the tunnels crisscrossing in a network of surreal honeycombs. It was a strange phenomenon. A person could easily lose his or her way in such a fog but she was sure of her direction. Occasionally, people got lost and froze to death. Most frequently, drunken men wandered into the surrounding areas and the bodies were not found until the spring thaw. Siberians called such finds ‘snow flowers.’

Natalya didn’t mind the winter. Why hate it? It was a hard fact of life, like so many other things in her world. She just lived with it. Life was hard in Yakutsk. She was a college graduate, a teacher of English, Russian, and art, and made the equivalent of forty-five dollars a month.

Sometimes food was scarce. Her cousins would often bring her reindeer, horse, and beef, as well as mare’s milk and soft potatoes and other vegetables from their storage. They were wonderful people who came from the northwest driving sleds pulled by their tough Siberian dogs. She was very lucky to have such a good family. She sometimes became a little weary of listening to them go on about her finding a husband. But she was very patient with them because that’s the way she was - very patient.

Her babushka still lived with her. The old woman had told Natalya that she thought she was about seventy-five years old but wasn’t sure. Her mind was still sharp but her leathery skin looked like she was frozen in time. She hobbled around on her toeless feet and cackled at everything. Natalya loved her babushka and did everything she could to make her happy and comfortable. She still chewed food and fed her like a bird.

As Natalya walked to her apartment on the edge of town, she stopped by the post office. There was a letter from her cousin in California. Her cousin lived a fairytale life: she had a big, beautiful house and a good husband who loved her. She had a beautiful little girl and plenty of money to do whatever she wanted. Natalya wasn’t jealous. She was happy for her cousin. Ludmilla was a good and honest woman and deserved her happiness.

She picked up the letter and then walked the mile to her apartment. She was fortified against the cold with thick furs and wool scarves. The only part of her which could be seen was her beautiful almond-shaped eyes peering out into the frozen world.

Her apartment was a small wooden building with a high pitched roof to allow gravity to shed the abundant snowfall. There were four separate apartments in her building, two upstairs and two downstairs. Natalya and her babushka shared a downstairs apartment. It consisted of a kitchen, a living room with some functional furniture, a bedroom with a small bed where both of them slept, and an open area containing a metal stool which served as a toilet. The landlord paid a boy to bury their human waste which was caught in an old fifty-five gallon drum cut in two and placed under the floor where the metal stool was. The cold kept the smell down in the winter, but in the summer, since the boy only came once a week, Natalya would often open the insulated trap door herself, drag out the heavy drum, and bury the contents.

There was some storage area in the apartment for food and personal things. Most of their clothes, however, hung from hooks and nails on the walls. She also had a telephone. It was old but it worked, most of the time. There was no bathtub or shower. Natalya and her babushka used one of the public baths in town. The baths only operated for women on Thursdays. They would go and undress in the large dressing room and then bathe in the wonderful hot water and talk with other women about local scandals. They each took two sheets provided by the city and dried themselves before dressing again. Natalya always looked forward to Thursdays so she could feel clean.

Natalya’s one indulgence was clothes. She owned a small Russian sewing machine and made clothes for herself and her babushka. She also bought clothes at second hand stores selling items donated from Germany. She knew she spent too much money, but she loved to look nice and noticed men’s heads turn as she walked by. Good, she always thought, my husband will like the way I look.

Her husband was her dream. She still had faith, believing that her husband would one day find her. She often took out the drawing she made so many years ago. She had retraced it many times and drawn it again and again. The later drawings were much better and were expertly rendered. Often, when no one could hear her, she would look up into the sky and ask in her native Yakut, “Where are you, my loved man? I am still waiting for you to find me.”

She would speak to him sometimes in Yakut, sometimes in Russian, and sometimes in English. She knew he would love her voice - all men did. It had a deep, sexy tone which drove men wild. There were many men interested in her, but she kept them at bay. She encouraged no one; she would wait.

But the owner of her apartment building was a problem. He was a fat Yakut with a fatter wife and little fat children. He owned several apartment buildings in the city and some small businesses. He always collected the rent from Natalya in person. She was the only one he came to on a constant basis; and, when he did, he was always offensive.

“Natalya Ivanova,” he would say. Her father’s name was Ivan and the name meant, literally, Natalya, daughter of Ivan. “Natalya Ivanova, if you do things for me you can live here without charge. I am a reasonable man. All I want is for you to be nice to me. You are a beautiful woman and I dream about you. If you are nice to me, I will let you live in the beautiful place for no money.”

The first time he said this, she asked, “What do you want?”

“Something very easy for you. I want you to lie down and spread your beautiful legs for me to enter you. It will be ten minutes of easy work for you. What do you say?”

Natalya used every ounce of self-discipline to not throw a pot of hot borsch on him. She handed him the rent money, the equivalent of seventeen dollars, and opened the door for him.

“No,” was all she said.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “But next month your rent will rise to twenty dollars.”

Natalya closed the door behind him and cried. She would not do that thing. She didn’t care what happened. She’d heard about women doing things like that for rent. A woman alone in Siberia is an easy victim. She was no stranger to sex being forced on her because her Russian lover had sometimes demanded sex acts when he came to her after an evening of drinking vodka. It was just something women had to do, like washing clothes by hand. But she would never do any of those things for that fat pig. She didn’t want any part of him touching her, let alone his evil seed squirting inside of her. That would make her a whore, and that was one thing she was not. So she paid the twenty dollars a month. Sometimes when he came he made the same offer, touching her as he left. It turned her stomach.

She did all of the extra work she could find to make up the three dollars. She sometimes was able to sell drawings to American mining and livestock specialists. She also worked as a translator, speaking fluent English, Russian, and Yakut. She also spoke some German, although she struggled. She just didn’t have the opportunity to speak it. Whenever she talked to her cousin on the phone, she practiced German with Rolf but was soon lost. He was very patient with her, however. She hoped her husband would be a good man like that.

Her other problem was Jakob, an evil that had plagued her most of her life. He was the only son of the man chosen to be chief after her uncle died. At the time, the village thought that the oldest son of the dead chief, her cousin Wolf Eyes, was too young so the people chose Jakob’s father as the new chief. Jakob’s father was not a bad chief, but his only son was the most evil man anyone had met or even heard of. Jakob was obsessed with Natalya because she was the woman he wanted and she refused him. His father had recently died and Jakob made himself chief. One man spoke against him and Jakob broke both of his arms.

Jakob was tall for a full-blooded Yakut, six feet four inches. He was powerfully built, easily the strongest man in the region. He could pull down a reindeer at a full gallop and run for twenty miles without stopping. He could lift a horse and feared nothing. He had the reputation of being the best fighter around, Russian or Yakut, and, when he was fifteen, beat a man to death during a dispute over a wolf pelt. His father had to pay a fine to the family but he was secretly proud of his son.

If Natalya told Jakob about the fat pig, he would probably kill the man. But, if he did, he would expect the same thing from her. Why were some men like that? She knew not all men were like that – her cousins weren’t, Rolf wasn’t. But there were enough men like that to cause her concern. She hoped her husband did not treat women badly.

She could tell her cousins about the Yakut landlord, but her cousins would hurt the man also, maybe kill him, and the man was rich and important enough for the militia to come after her cousins. She did not want that so she would say nothing.

Jakob wanted to marry Natalya. He was already married but told her he would divorce his wife when Natalya said yes. She was afraid of him because he bragged about forcing women to have sex with him, acting like it was a very funny thing to watch. She could only do her best never to be alone with him. She only saw him when she went to clan gatherings - maybe two or three times a year. She just had to be careful and stay close to her cousins.

When she arrived at her apartment, her babushka was making borsch for dinner and the smell instantly made her hungry. She had not eaten since that morning when she had a thick piece of black bread, mare’s butter, and coffee.

Her babushka smiled, showing the gaping hole of her mouth. “Hello, Little Bird. How was your day?”

“Normal, Dear Heart. I taught English and art. It went well. How are you?”

“I’m thinking of getting married again.”

Natalya laughed. “Anyone I know?”

“I was thinking I would find an ugly, stupid minor with a sword like a Siberian bear. What do you think?”

“I think that’s a very good idea, Dear Heart. Maybe that would make your arthritis go away.”

“That’s what I’m thinking, too. I have no teeth in my head so maybe that will be a plus. Nyet?”

“Babushka,” said Natalya, blushing. ”The things you say.”

The old woman cackled. “Sit down, Little Bird. The borsch is ready.”

As she sat down on one of the two chairs at the kitchen table, she said, “We received a letter from Ludmilla, today.”

“From America?”

“Da. We will read it after dinner.”

They ate borsch and coarse bread. It was delicious. They talked merrily, loving and depending on each other. After dinner, they cleaned up and sat down to read the letter.

As Natalya opened the envelope, two pictures fell out. She thought they were more pictures of Greta. They would look at them together in a minute. When you live a hard life, each thing is enjoyed by itself.

The letter was in Russian. Ludmilla spoke fluent Russian, Yakut, German, and English, but she always wrote in Russian. Natalya read it to her babushka; her babushka spoke good Russian but never learned to read in any language.

Dear family,

How are you? I hope and pray…

The letter went on as usual. They read about California and the fog, about Rolf’s job and Greta’s school. They talked about normal things. Then Natalya read.

We have a new neighbor - a native Sacramentan. He is an excellent man of thirty-one years. His wife and daughter died two years ago and now he lives alone. His brother and family and his parents are close by and see him often. He is wealthy and a very kind and pleasant man. To occupy his time, he boxes and does karate. He is very good at it.

I am sending a picture of him with Greta. They have become excellent friends. I have been helping him decorate his house. It is a big beautiful house with lots of room and a swimming pool.

When they concluded, they looked at the pictures. The first one was of Rolf, Ludmilla, and little Greta in their achingly beautiful living room. The other picture was of Greta standing beside a kneeling man. Natalya forgot to breathe. The man had brown hair and sky blue eyes. He was the man in her drawing. He was her husband.

“Babushka,” she breathed, “it’s him.”

“Who?”

“The man you showed me in my dream.” She hurried to her hiding place and retrieved the drawing, forcing her shaking hands to work properly and not tear the paper in her haste to open it. She held it up to the picture.

“Eeeeyeee,” whispered her babushka. “It is him.”