The Hottest Dishes of the Tartar Cuisine (20 page)

Sulfia planned to stay two weeks. She said any longer was impossible—she couldn’t leave Kalganow and his teacher of Russian and literature in a lurch. She had all the necessary paperwork for the marriage with her, though. She threw her arms around Dieter’s neck, stroked his cheek, and said how much she had missed him. Aminat likewise threw her arms around Sulfia’s neck and hung on her for a while, until I reprimanded her. Even a blind man could have seen how tired Sulfia was. She could barely keep herself upright.

I had cooked a chicken, potatoes, and vegetables and made a salad to go along with the meal. And for dessert I baked a torte. Sulfia didn’t eat much. She smiled the entire time, but I found her smile deplorable.

I wanted Sulfia first to marry and then to recuperate a little. She hadn’t had a vacation in so long. I gave her all my vitamins. Sulfia said thank you to everything. But she was listless. Even her own wedding didn’t interest her much. She lay down often. And then out of nowhere she told me she didn’t want to marry Dieter because she couldn’t be a good wife.

“You’re crazy,” I said. “You are the best wife ever.”

She squinted.

The appointment at City Hall was two days before her return flight.

Beforehand I had rummaged around a little in Sulfia’s suitcase. It was very messily packed. I took everything out, washed it all, ironed it, and folded it. By chance I had also found a cosmetic bag in which Sulfia kept all her medicines. There must have been a pound of one particular concoction, and a few others besides. I wrote down the names on the packages. That way I could take the names to one of my clients, a specialist in internal medicine, and show him what Sulfia was taking.

My employer, quite a good looking man with a goatee that made him look younger than his fifty-five years (I had cleaned up his home office many times and knew his birth date), shook his head and said that putting her on these medicines was negligent. The original drug, the one no longer manufactured in Russia, couldn’t be replaced with these. No wonder Sulfia was so listless.

“I need the correct medicine!” I said. “Is it available in Germany?”

Everything was available in Germany. My client wrote out a prescription for a one-year supply. I took his hand and kissed it. I was so happy that my work put me in touch with people like this.

Then he said it would be a good idea for Sulfia to have a thorough examination. I asked whether he could do it. He asked about her health insurance. I asked whether she might be able to come by his office. We could figure out the payment later; he should have a look at her. The man stroked his goatee. The kiss on the hand was perhaps a little too hasty. I prayed to God for help. It worked: the man gave me his business card and said I should make an appointment at his office.

The year’s supply of medicine cost more than the driving school and plane ticket combined. The pharmacy had to order it specially. I was very happy my job had allowed me to make so much money. I emptied all my envelopes. It didn’t matter. I could make more, because unlike Sulfia, I was healthy.

“You shouldn’t have done it, mother,” said Sulfia. But she immediately started taking the tablets and said they made her feel better.

What she didn’t want to do was to go to the doctor. She said that she didn’t have the time and that her travel insurance would cover only emergencies.

“Look at yourself—you’re a walking emergency,” I said.

But she was as stubborn as ten mules. I just couldn’t convince her to go to the doctor. I should have done it, but it was beyond me.

It was hard enough to get her to marry. For that I used Aminat. She needed to stay in Germany, and everything had its price.

I wanted to go shopping with Sulfia for the wedding. But she said she couldn’t manage it. She lay on the couch breathing heavily. I looked at her and wondered how she had managed back at home to take care of someone bedridden. I had a strong desire to fly to Russia and put a pillow over Kalganow’s face because barring that, I thought, Sulfia would never be at peace.

I went to a secondhand boutique and bought a cream-colored silk dress for Sulfia. It was a valuable, finely tailored piece of clothing. I didn’t buy anything new for myself. I planned to wear a striking red dress that showed off my legs.

The ceremony was set for ten in the morning. We got up at seven. I combed Sulfia’s hair and put it up, put makeup on her sallow skin and a little rouge on her cheeks. She looked a bit more alive that way. I touched up her eyelashes.

“You look pretty, mama,” said Aminat.

Sulfia smiled.

Dieter put on a gray suit that he’d probably inherited from his grandfather. We went by foot to City Hall in the little village where Dieter lived, thus forcing us to live there as well. It was a small wedding. Just the four of us. It took ten minutes.

Afterward we went to an ice cream parlor. Aminat had a huge sundae with strawberries; the rest of us had coffee.

I was proud of myself. My daughter Sulfia, once the ugliest girl on the block, had her third husband.

Two days later I took Sulfia, the wife of a German, to the airport in Dieter’s car. She seemed terribly sad. She said that since she’d been taking the medicine I got her she felt better. I hugged her and kissed her—almost willingly.

“A bachelor for a while again, eh?” I said to Dieter when I came home from the airport. Aminat was lying on her bed with her face pressed to the pillow. I couldn’t help wondering why she loved Sulfia so much. She could get everything she needed from me.

Dieter sat down next to Aminat and put his hand on her head. I watched from the hall. I wanted to make sure he didn’t forget who he had married.

I started working like a dog again. I had a goal. Only a blind person could fail to see how sick Sulfia was. I needed money for her treatment.

I had an address for a new client. He had a very nice name: John Taylor. I didn’t like Dieter’s name anymore. Just a normal German name. Sometimes I thought perhaps I shouldn’t have rushed it with Sulfia’s marriage.

John Taylor was just ten years older than I was, but already an old man. A widower. His wife had just died. It was a problem for him. His daughter had hired me because he couldn’t do anything anymore. Not that he was physically incapable—he was still strong. But psychologically he just wasn’t able.

He was an English teacher. He was out on medical leave for the time being because he was suffering from depression. I found him interesting because he was English and had a nice name.

He was an educated man and had a lot of books. Shelves from floor to ceiling, and many of the books were old. The spines of the books were dusty. It would have made me depressed, too. I started to dust them immediately. John just said, “Please be careful with the books. I love those.”

He had such a nice accent. It was a little hard to understand. I asked, “Who did you say you love—Rose?”

He looked seriously at me and said: “Not yet.”

I didn’t see much of him while I cleaned. He was in his bedroom most of the time. His daughter said he was afraid of people. Oh, yes, so am I, I thought to myself. People just didn’t notice it in my case. I started going there two days a week, for four hours per day. The house had been neglected. John’s daughter said I was worth my weight in gold. I knew that, of course.

At first I just cleaned up. There was enough work. John’s wife had been sick for a long time. I was curious to know what she had looked like, but there weren’t any photos. John’s daughter said she had taken them all away because they made it more difficult for John.

One day John came out of his bedroom. He asked me if it would bother me if he sat in the living room. I said, “Not at all, it’s your living room after all.”

He sat down on the couch. I dusted and then wiped the wood flooring. It didn’t bother me that John was watching me. But when I turned to him I realized he wasn’t watching me at all. He had taken out a book without my noticing and was reading.

He didn’t even look up from his book when the doorbell rang.

“Do you want to get that?” I asked.

When he didn’t react, I went to answer the doorbell myself. In front of the house stood a young man. He handed me a tray with food on it—like on an airplane.

“Meals on Wheels,” he said as he helped me balance everything. I must have looked pretty confused.

“Aha,” I said, as if I understood. I wanted to go back inside to get money to tip him, but he was in a rush.

“John, Meals on Wheels is here for you,” I said, placing the tray on a small wooden coffee table in front of him. He looked up from his book. I lifted the plastic cover.

“Here is . . . uh . . . soup, and here . . . um . . . looks like some kind of meat.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asked.

I didn’t really know either.

Later I found out that his daughter had arranged it for him. She couldn’t cook for him every day. And he needed to eat. Meals on Wheels, I surmised, was something like a pizza delivery service for old people in Germany. I shared my thoughts with John.

“Yes, except without the pizza and without the service,” John said, laughing for the first time.

He never touched the yoghurt on his tray. I always took it home with me because Aminat loved it.

“If you’d like, I could cook something for you,” I said.

“Not necessary,” said John.

“You haven’t tried my cooking yet,” I said.

When I resolve to do something, I follow through. That’s the way I am.

One Sunday at eleven, I stood in front of John’s door with a sack of groceries. I rang the bell. Nobody answered. Then I jiggled the door. I had a key. I had told him I was coming. I knocked with my fist. Then I unlocked the door.

Everything was clean. I’d been there two days before. I went into the kitchen. Several trays of food were there. I lifted the tops and found them completely untouched. I put down my bag.

“John, Rosa’s here!” I called.

Silence. I ran up the stairs and tore open the door to John’s room. It was the only room I hadn’t been in. Not yet. You could see right away: it was a dreadful space, full of books, papers, and garbage. An empty bed with sheets that were none too fresh. I should have had a look in here long ago.

“John!” I called.

Next I went to the bathroom. The door was locked. I shook it and put my ear to the keyhole.

“John!” I called into the silence.

Fortunately, nothing phased me. I’d been in a lot of houses and knew which ones had doors that could easily be opened even when locked. This was one of them, thank God. I found a coin in my pocket, put it into the slot, and turned. The door opened.

John lay in the bathtub. His long body barely fit. His head was above water, but it was hanging worryingly to the side. The water wasn’t bloody. He didn’t look good. I braced his head and tried to pull him out. Then, on the spur of the moment, I decided to hold his nose closed. That’s how I woke him. John coughed, shook his head, tried to free himself from my grip, and cursed—first in English, then in German.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Are you a nightmare come to life?”

He still seemed disoriented. I felt the water. It was cold. I didn’t expect any thanks for saving him.

“Why don’t you get out,” I said, looking around, finding a large towel, and offering it to him.

He slowly stood up. Yes, his face was the oldest thing about him. I couldn’t resist looking at him. I hadn’t seen a man in a long time. And an Englishman—never. He stood there and water streamed down off him. Then he stepped still dripping wet from the tub. A puddle formed at his feet. He ripped the towel out of my hands and wrapped it around himself.

“I fell asleep. Do me a favor and get out,” he said.

“I need to mop up,” I said.

I grabbed a cleaning rag and wiped the floor dry. John didn’t wait around for me to finish. From his bedroom he asked, “What are you doing here anyway?”

“I told you I was going to cook for you today.”

“You’re a pain in the neck,” said John. “Get out of here.”

“After I cook.”

He closed the bedroom door. I heard the key turn in the lock. He was stubborn, but his stubbornness was nothing compared to mine.

I ran the cold water and scrubbed the bathtub clean. And all of this out of the kindness of my heart.

I went to the kitchen and started to cook. It had been ages since I had a proper kitchen at my disposal. Today John’s kitchen belonged to me. There hadn’t been a woman in here for years. Everything was clean—I’d polished it myself—but it had been a long time since the kitchen’s contents had been caringly handled and used. That was something I had in common with the kitchen. I wanted to warm it up again and bring it back to life with my hands.

I rinsed a chicken in cold water, took out the needle I’d brought, and sewed the body cavity shut. At the neck, I carefully separated the skin from the meat and blew into the gap. Anyplace air came whistling through, I stitched the hole closed. I beat eggs and cream with a little salt and pepper and poured that mixture between the skin and meat. Then I tied off the skin at neck of the chicken, wrapped the whole thing in a cloth, and placed it in boiling salt water.

This chicken was called
tutyrgan tavyk
, a dish that Kalganow’s country relatives used to make. It had occurred to me today—at just the right moment. Not by accident, but because Dieter and I were discussing it. Or to be more precise, because Dieter reminded me of the recipe. He knew both what it was called and how to make it. The things he mentioned brought it to mind, and I realized I knew what he was talking about but had simply forgotten about the dish.

The chicken took an hour and a half and was a genuine traditional Tartar dish. I set the table in the living room. I already knew where everything was. I got out starched napkins and dusty glasses that I washed and polished by hand while the bird cooked. I turned off the stove and freshened up in the bathroom. My face was slightly flushed from cooking. I cooled it with water and applied fresh makeup. Then I knocked on the door to John’s bedroom.

“Go away,” said John.

I put everything back where I’d found it and left. Indeed, things didn’t always work out on the first try.