Nizhni Stories

I wrote these a while back as part of a writer's workshop.  They detail a few episodes of my time living in as a student in Nizhni Novgorod, Russia in the fall of 1998.  I posted them to my Facebook page last week, but thought they might be a good read here as well.  Apologies if you are seeing these twice.

Ludmilla (Mama), Masha, Masha's husband Sasha, and Katya

            “GEE-ELL!  Zaftrak!”  My Russian mama’s high voice rudely pierced my sleep-addled brain.

            “Okay!”  I called back.  I rolled onto my side, staring at the mille fleur pattern of the Persian rug on the wall across from the bed.  Groaning a little, I got up, smoothing the blanket encased in the top sheet, trying the make the diamond shaped hole in the middle lie smooth.  I pulled the rug-like bedspread up over the large square pillow and headed down the dark narrow hallway, past the pink leather padded inner front door to the kitchen on the left. 

            Mama was dressed in her at-home robe, the salmon colored ruffles hanging limply where the halves crossed her body.  Her short faded blond hair was sticking up at odd angles and again I felt guilty for displacing Mama to the fold-out couch for half a semester.  I never had anything to say about it, however.  Mama had installed me in Katya’s room, Katya in her room and taken the couch for herself before I even arrived to stay.  The couch was a typical Russian foldout—the precursor to the futon.  It was padded and covered with a brown fleecy slipcover and unfolded flat for sleeping. 

            Mama bustled around the kitchen finishing breakfast.  Mama cooks very different than my mother, but I like nearly everything Mama makes.  My own mother measures most things with teaspoon and cup measures.  Mama throws a little of this, a pinch of that, a saucer of flour and voila— a dense dough results.  Mama pats the dough into little balls, flattens them with the palm of her hand and fries in them in the skillet.  Five minutes later, the golden glistening disks sat on my plate, smothered in homemade blackberry jam and smetana, the thin kind of sour cream that Russians eat with nearly everything.  

           Mama went to the pantry closet in the hall that also doubled as a coat closet and pulled down a new jar of compote, the tiny Russian apples preserved and floating on the top.  Mmm, my favorite.  Mama poured me a glass and then sat down in the opposite chair to eat her own breakfast.  Mama didn’t speak any English, but tried to speak slowly for her American daughter and they had a halting conversation about the planned activities for the day.  I was nearly finished when Katya shuffled in, wearing a T-shirt and underpants, her gangly legs bare and her feet shoved into a pair of ratty slippers.  I stood up to make room for Katya at the small table and brought my dishes to the sink.  Picking up the baking soda from the sink, I poured a little in my hand, made a paste and added mustard powder from the box perched precariously on the sink ledge.  I set about washing my dishes with the paste in my hands.  Soap of champions, I thought.  As I washed, I remembered the conversation with Mama the night before.  

         Mama had come home from her job at the bank, and was rummaging in the freezing balcony for some item of food that was stored there because the refrigerator was too small. Emerging from between a stack of pots and pans with a home-canned jar in hand, Mama asked me if I would like to have kooreetsa for supper.  Kooreesta, kooreesta, I thought frantically.  I know I should know the word, but blank on the meaning.  I look desperately at Mama.  Mama asks again and tries hand motions.  "Minutchko," I say, and run into my room for dictionary.  K…ka…kee…kooreetsa: chicken!  Holding my finger on the entry I show Mama and say yes, kooretsa would be fine.  Mama giggles like a schoolgirl and tries out the English word on her tongue.  “CHEE-ken.”  She grinned, her blue eyes twinkling.  I smile now, rinsing off the gritty residue from the plate and my hands and heads for the shower. 

** 

Marjory came over for supper and Mama made pizza.  Or, at least Mama’s version of pizza, which was more like a pirogi with toppings.  She thinks the only thing Americans eat is pizza.  I kept thinking I should introduce her to a good old-fashioned casserole.  She was giggling in that high-pitched chortle of hers as she pulled the long pan out of the oven.  “PEE-tsa!”  she kept exclaiming with glee, followed by peals of laughter.  Mama was pretty proud of herself. 

**

            After a long and hard search, I finally bought a coat.  It was camel colored wool and ankle-length with a big floppy hood.  The matching camel lining was quilted and made the coat sit heavy on my shoulders.  It had eight matching buttons up the front in a neat rectangle, a ninth button holding the collar together.  I had an ivory beret and a hand-loomed crocheted scarf that I’d bought from a babushka selling them along the road.  Mama had been asking for days if I had found a coat yet—my old pea coat had been deemed insufficient two weeks ago.  In the interim, Mama pulled an old fur beast out of the closet and made me wear it when I went out.  I hated it.  I stepped up my search for a coat in short order after that.  I gleefully wore my new coat home, the beast stuffed into my satchel. I nonchalantly hung the lovely new garment in the coat closet.  I was studying in my room when Mama came home from work. 

            “Ooohh!” she exclaimed from the hallway, her voice piercing the stillness.  I jumped a little.  It had been silent in the flat for hours.  I poked my head into the hallway.  She was standing in front of the hallway vanity examining my coat, her own coat still on her back and her feet still shod in outdoor boots.  She giggled and asked me where I got it.  I remembered the name of the store but told her the street it was located on instead.  She ran a hand over the quilted lining in approval.  “Will this be warm enough—maybe this is a fall coat.”  She mused more to herself that to me.  “Oh no,” I put in.  “This is very warm.”  I shoved up my sweater sleeve a couple of inches to reveal two layers of long underwear.  “I wear many clothes.” I got out.  She smiled at me again and hung the coat in the closet.  Turning she said,

            “How much did you pay for it?”  Uh-oh.  Numbers weren’t my strong suit in either language.  I tried and failed to say it in Russian.  Mama tried to tell me how much she had paid for her last coat and I blinked dumbly at her.  Mama went into Katya’s room for a minute and emerged with a calculator.  I grinned with relief.  Something I could use!  I punched in the price of the coat and converted it to dollars.  She did the same to tell me the price she’d paid.  About the same.  I felt good about that.  She smiled at me again, the language barrier making things awkward again.  She congratulated me again and I mumbled thanks and went back to my room to study.

 

Me and my lovely coat, outside the flat, November 1998

             The phone rang a lot that evening. Mama’s voice trilled in the hallway.  Her sister called, her daughter called, some friends called.  Everyone got to hear the whole story of my coat, including the price.  I gave up studying and listened in, smiling at her mother’s pride.