Dimanche and Other Stories (17 page)

It was true that Nina was never ill. She ran barefoot over the cold floors and wet grass; she ate what she wanted; she went to bed after midnight; she was beautiful and strong. Sometimes I stayed in the house for a couple of nights. It might be raining and I would have caught cold going home in the evening, or the rising wind meant the coming of a storm: any excuse was good enough for my aunt and me, and I was always happy to pretend to have a sore throat or to feel tired when convenient. It was wonderful living there! I slept in Nina’s room; we would get up at dawn and run through the sleeping house; we hardly ever washed. When the grown-ups weren’t playing cards or sleeping, they were
rather vaguely tidying up. Visitors would turn up throughout the day, for morning coffee, dinner, supper, tea after supper, at midnight, it didn’t matter when. Friends would sleep on sofas. Toward noon you might meet a tousle-headed boy wandering around the corridors in his nightshirt, who would introduce himself, “I’m one of your son’s friends.”

“Hello, make yourself at home,” would come the answer.

The table was never cleared; the food was heavy, but it was excellent. Some of the guests would be finishing their dessert as others were beginning their soup. Barefooted servant girls were constantly running between the dining room and the kitchen, bringing plates and taking them away. Then someone would exclaim, “I’d really like something sweet …”

“Nothing could be easier,” the mistress of the house would reply affably and, yet again, cakes would appear, then an omelette, a cup of hot chocolate, or some milk for the children. “Some more borscht?” And people started to eat again, as cigar smoke swirled around them, while in the same room a game of whist would start up and the sounds of a piano and violin would filter in from the next room.

“Don’t these people ever work?” asked Mademoiselle who, being foreign, had strange ideas about life.

But these Russians expected to get their daily bread from the czar, from their land, or from God. It was he
who conferred good fortune and poverty, just as he conferred health and sickness. What was the point of worrying?

Sofia Andreïevna, my friend’s mother, seemed old to me; she could not have been more than forty, but she did not use makeup and did not wear a corset; she was a plump, faded blonde, soft and white as cream. When she pulled me toward her to greet me with a kiss, I breathed in a smell that reminded me of a high-class pâtisserie—orange flower water, vanilla, and sugar.

The father was very tall and thin but, perhaps because of his height, I don’t remember his face. I would have had to lean my head right back to see him properly, and I wasn’t interested enough in him for that. He lived a little remotely from his family, often having his meals taken to his room on a tray. If he happened to see me, he would stroke my cheek with his large cold hand. He had known Chekhov well; I don’t know why, but I remembered the grown-ups mentioning it one day. On his desk he had a box of letters from Chekhov. He had ordered them to be burned after his death. He was ill and knew he was going to die. That was the reason he had retired.

“Why burn Chekhov’s letters? They belong to posterity,” a young man once said in my hearing.

Looking at him grimly, the father said, “Trampling on a man’s soul with their big boots, that’s what they like doing. No, everything precious must be a secret.”

Friends, poor relations, elderly governesses—they all lived in this house. A student had come ten years before, as a tutor for the two boys, Lola and Nina’s brothers; he was supposed to stay for a month, but he had never left and was still a student. He didn’t have a room of his own; the old house, although enormous, was completely full. He had been sleeping for the last ten years on two chairs in the hall, and this surprised nobody.

The second place at the table, near the samovar and next to the mistress of the house, was reserved for a certain Klavdia Alexandrovna, one of Sofia Andreïevna’s childhood friends. She seemed to me a pale, ageless woman, but one day I saw her doing her hair—in the garden.

“These people,” said Mademoiselle, “sleep in the drawing room, eat in the bedroom, and get dressed on the terrace.”

On stormy days the rainwater was collected in tubs, and all the women of the house would wash their hair in the open air, then let it dry in the sun; that’s how I saw Klavdia Alexandrovna’s hair. It was like a golden cloak. I stood quite still admiring it. Her hair came down to her knees, and it shone in the light. Sofia Andreïevna was there, too, half-stretched out on a wicker chaise longue; she was wearing a lilac housecoat, which fell open to show her deep, creamy bosom. She caught the look on my face and started laughing. When she
laughed, her chin quivered slightly and she looked nice—gentle and wise.

“You should have seen her twenty years ago,” she said, pointing at her friend. “She was so young; she had her hair hanging in two long golden plaits, and when she leaned her head back a little she could stand on them with the heels of her shoes.”

She sighed and turned toward Mademoiselle.

“Life is simpler than you think. When Klavdia and I were young, we both loved the same man and he was very … yes, he was very fond of her because of her hair and her lovely figure. But, you see, she didn’t have a dowry. What can you do when God refuses to make you rich? The young man’s parents would not hear of their marrying. There were quarrels, tears; his mother went to see Klavdia and said, “Make my son happy. Go away. Make a sacrifice.” She appealed to the finer feelings of the girl she had brought up in her own home. It was no use. So one night she called all three of us together, told us she was going to die, ordered her son to marry me, and told Klavdia to give up her love; but she made us both swear before God that we would never abandon the orphaned girl, that she would live under our roof. And in the end that’s what happened. I married the young man. You know him: he’s my husband. We kept the promise we made to his dying mother and Klavdia found a home with us.”

I saw Klavdia Alexandrovna turn toward her friend.
Tears were running down her face. She wiped them away and, in a voice breaking with emotion, said, “You are my benefactress, Sofia. You know that I’d give my life for you and your children. I’ve been so happy. What would have become of me without you? No home, no food, possibly even compelled to give lessons in order to survive! Ah! One day I’d like to return your kindness.”

Both of them were crying now, and Klavdia took Sofia’s hand and kissed it. Sofia gathered Klavdia into an embrace and traced the sign of the cross on her forehead. “May God watch over you! You help me so much keeping this house in order.”

It was true that, when cakes were brought to the table, Sofia Andreïevna would seize the silver knife and, with a deep sigh, plunge it into the middle of the thick crust; but then the effort seemed too great and she pushed the plate toward Klavdia, who finished what she had started and said to the guests, “Eat. You haven’t eaten anything yet. Please eat …”

And when people helped themselves, she added, “Bless you.” The same as when one sneezes. That’s what Russians do.

Klavdia Alexandrovna had other talents. She could read tarot cards. She knew all sorts of superstitions and strange rituals … On the eve of Twelfth Night she would slip mirrors under young girls’ pillows so that in their dreams they would see the man with whom they
would fall in love. On the same evening she would shut herself away with Lola and my aunt, and they would throw burning wax into a basin of water: the wax would take on the shapes of rings, crowns, rubles, or crosses, and these would predict the future. Sometimes she would teach them how to do table-turning. A saucer was placed on a sheet of paper covered in letters, signs, and numbers; you touched the edge of the saucer with your fingertips and it would race across the table, forming words and sentences, sometimes skidding about so quickly you had to catch hold of it with both hands to stop it from falling off. Nina and I, the youngest of the children, would watch these séances, and I was never able to discover their secret. Klavdia would recite incantations that, she said, were for the dead, or to make thunder go away. I wondered how much she believed in them herself, but for us she was surrounded by an aura of mysterious charm. We respected her; children were drawn to her. At her age, and in her position as a poor relation dependent on others, she could have been despised; but, on the contrary, there was no fun without Klavdia.

“She knows a spell to attract love,” Lola said to my aunt.

“She knows a spell to attract love,” little Nina repeated, mimicking the grown-ups even though love held no interest for an eight-year-old child.

My half-French education saved me from believing
in the supernatural, and I was the only one to respond skeptically. “That’s what you think! If she really knows the secret of finding love, then why isn’t she married?”

I will leave you to guess how many times young girls tried to persuade Klavdia to reveal the secret of her spell. But she shook her head. “Later, my little ones, when you’re older.”

It was winter. The garden was buried under deep snow. A lamp on the terrace lit up the lower branches of the trees with a soft, white, shimmering glow.

The dogs would come in covered with snow. In the drawing room people played cards, drank tea, or played music. I remember a tall lamp on a bronze base with a red shade. Klavdia would read the cards, a large, fringed silk shawl draped over her shoulders. This shawl was almost the same color as the lamp shade and, to my eyes smarting for lack of sleep—for at home I was not used to going to bed so late—the drawing room ended up seeming a dark, rather frightening place, with two burning flames. I would doze off, then wake up, and surreptitiously play with the crimson silk, holding it up to my eyes so that the light in the room took on the delicious color of raspberries and wine!

All this time Klavdia would shuffle the cards, muttering, “What is in the mind, what is in the heart, what happens in the house, what was, what will be …”

Another regular visitor was a man we called the doctor; thin and fair, he had a short, pointed ginger beard
that he would stroke with a distracted, dreamy air. He had a peculiar but attractive gaze: his heavy eyelids were always half-lowered and the expression in his eyes was thoughtful, ironic, and sad.

I wondered when he went to see his patients. One saw him at the house at all hours of the day and night; in fact, we saw him more often than we did the master of the house, whose seat at the dining table was often left empty. Nina called the doctor “Uncle” or “Uncle Serge,” although I knew they were not related in any way; but he was an old family friend and, in any case, Russian children called the adults they met at their parents’ house “Uncle” and “Aunt.” And, it is true, I would not have suspected anything about the doctor’s constant presence at Sofia Andreïevna’s side, their long conversations, their silences, had it not been for my aunt’s stifled laughter when she mentioned it, or Mademoiselle’s frown as she discreetly gestured in my direction, saying, “Oh for goodness’ sake, be quiet, that’s ridiculous.”

Poor Mademoiselle! She was curious, as well as being scandalized and, above all, she was astonished: this mature woman trailing around all day in a rumpled housecoat, this courteous, silent man, absorbed in his thoughts, were not, it seemed to her, a likely pair for an adulterous liaison. And then there was the husband, so clearly in the know yet resigned to it! Ah! Where were the Parisian bachelor flats, afternoon assignations, the suitably elegant setting for civilized love affairs? The
most virtuous of women, Mademoiselle searched for descriptions of such scenes in novels, much as an exile listens to songs of his homeland. These people, in this part of Russia, were uncivilized. In fact, I think she and my aunt were wrong and that the doctor and Sofia Andreïevna had never had an affair. Though it’s certainly true that these people
were
uncivilized. Perhaps through laziness, or realism, or an innate coolness, or some other reason, they were perfectly content with platonic relationships; yet it was clear that there was real love between Sofia Andreïevna and the doctor. Even as a child, once I was aware of it, I recognized it. Sofia Andreïevna’s voice would crack, then become higher and more resonant when she saw the doctor. It was customary in the Russian provinces for a man to kiss the hostess’s hand after a meal, whereupon she would lightly put her lips to the man’s bowed head. When the doctor approached Sofia Andreïevna, she would look at him with … oh! I can’t describe that look … An inexpressible tenderness was mingled with a sorrow that I guessed at without understanding, but she did not kiss him. She would smile and he would move away from her. My aunt would observe the performance with great curiosity, while Lola seemed to see nothing; her magnificent green eyes were bright and indifferent.

So the winter passed and spring arrived. How lovely spring was in that part of the world! The streets were lined with gardens and the air smelled of lime and lilac
blossoms; a soft dampness rose from all those lawns and from the trees that grew close together, their sweet perfume filling the evening air. Slowly the sun would set. Out in the open the heat was intense, and in May there were frequent thunderstorms. How good it was to run around in the wet garden afterward! Nina would take her shoes and stockings off, flattening the soaking wet grass with her bare feet. We would shake the branches of the syringa so that our hair was sprayed in a shower of water.

Sometimes a storm broke out at night, and then we ran out onto the terrace to watch the sulfurous lightning as it suddenly lit up the garden. Once we were out there when it was almost dark, and we happened to be just outside the drawing room; the rain had stopped but we could still hear a gentle rumble of distant thunder, moving away toward the river Dnieper. I heard my aunt saying to Klavdia, “Klavdia Alexandrovna, didn’t you say that the spell works the night following a storm in May?”

All the girls, all the young people who were there, surrounded Klavdia, laughing and pleading with her. Sofia Andreïevna had stayed in the drawing room, but the doctor followed us outside.