Mother Russia Read Online Free Page B

holds open the door. “What’s the lowdown on the building?” he demands.
    “There are a couple of drips on this floor,” Ophelia replies. “The man who lives there is an embalmer.” Her face screws up in disgust. “They say he’s the one who bathes Diadya Lenin every other week. A genuine general has that room. A limousine with the tiniest flag on the fender you ever saw comes to get him every morning. That must mean he’s important, mustn’t it? And the weatherman lives there with his girl friend who’s not here now because she’s having marital problems with her husband. The weatherman is neat; he’s the one on television every night with the weather report, the one with the cute mustache. Upstairs there’s Mother Russia and Nadezhda. And you. Mother Russia is a super lady.”Ophelia leans toward Pravdin’s ear. “She’s a bit off her head actually, but it’s nothing serious. She believes in flying saucers and visitors from outer space and things like that. You’ll get along with her just fine if you know what she likes and what she doesn’t like. She’s kind of old and fussy and fixed in her ways, if you know what I mean.”
    Pravdin, a collector of idiosyncrasies as well as things, settles down on a suitcase. “What does she like and not like, then?”
    Ophelia thinks a moment. “She doesn’t like germs, telephones, the Singer Sewing Machine Company, knocks on the door, starch in shirts or sheets, General Shuvkin,”—Ophelia indicates the General’s door—“meat, sneezing because it lets the soul escape, insane asylums, lightning and electric samovars. As for what she likes: there’s fresh snow, getting letters and writing them, all things the color of absinthe, exotic tea, parrots, wood, Akhmatova, softness, craziness and me. She likes me,” Ophelia laughs happily. “And what is it you don’t like, Comrade Eisenhower?”
    Pravdin remembers some words from a poem. “What I don’t like is mist, bell sounds and brokenness,” he replies.
    “Hey, you’ll get along fine,” Ophelia concludes brightly. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Mother Russia. I’m dying to see how she’ll react to someone with a name like Robespierre.”
    Ophelia grabs one of Pravdin’s suitcases and drags it up the wooden stairs ahead of him. “Zoya Aleksandrovna,” she calls. “Come look—your new attic is here.” Laughing merrily, she tosses back at Pravdin: “Wait until she hears about your mist, bell sounds and brokenness.”
    Zoya Aleksandrovna Volkova emerges from her room and leans over the banister under a skylight. She is dressed in pleated trousers, sturdy walking shoes with low heels andlaces, a man’s shirt, wears two ragged silver fox pieces around her neck to guard against chills, carries a fly swatter tucked under her arm. Her hair, twisted into a bun, is gray.
    “Charmed,” she says in a suspicious voice, leaning over the railing to offer Pravdin her hand, palm down. He reaches up and takes it, is uncertain whether to kiss it or shake it; he is struck by her skin, which is soft with age and doesn’t seem to be attached to the bones.
    “Greetings to you, little mother,” he offers politely.
    Mother Russia draws Pravdin’s hand to her bifocals, raises her head to study his nails through the lower lens. “Good, good, you don’t at all appear to be communistical. Here, child, regard the paleness of his nails; it indicates melancholy for certain, persecution maybe. The broadness”—Mother Russia’s thumb polishes each of his nails as she proceeds along his hand—“is a positive sign, yes, it means he’s not, thanks God, ambitious. (Only fools are ambitious is what I think. But that’s another story.) Ah, the white mark is mauvais, mauvais , means misfortune, poor dear.” She looks up suddenly into his face. “What is your given name?”
    “Robespierre, little mother.”
    “Robes-pierre.” She tries it, then shifts the accent. “Robes-pierre. Yes, I like it better,