There Once Lived a Mother Who Loved Her Children, Until They Moved Back In by Ludmilla Petrushevskaya Page A

“You arrive: there’s chaos, kicking, screaming. But once you begin your story . . .” She is shouting over the roaring engine.
    Maybe Nina’s playing a practical joke? No, I’ve checked: tomorrow they are taking her away.
    “. . . folk tales,” Xenia finishes.
    “Excuse me, what’s your full name?”
    “Just call me Xenia.”
    “Well, it’s not really appropriate, is it? When did you retire?”
    “Me? I’m not retired yet,” answers the fatherless one, who looks like she should have grandchildren.
    “I’m retired,” I tell her. “When my collection of poems comes out they’ll recalculate my pension—I’ll be getting more. Tima and I live from hand to mouth, plus my mother is being kicked out of the hospital; my daughter stays home with two little ones, but she has child support for only one, and my son, he’s disabled.” I recite her a full list of my miseries like a beggar on a train.
    “And me,” this orphan informs me, “I won a car! I’m learning to drive.”
    “Right. I’ve heard about the lawsuits: people buy lottery tickets, then lie about winning; in the end they lose their prizes.”
    “We have a son,” she continues, her cheeks jiggling like jelly. “I’ll drive him to music lessons. My husband refuses to drive out of principle, because the lottery ticket was bought by my mother.”
    “I see, you must have had your son late. But it’s okay; by the time you’re eighty he’ll be all grown up.”
    “Mama”—sometimes he calls me mama, sometimes grandma—“I’m hungry!”
    “Your daughter, would she like a candy?” mumbles this unknowable.
    Tima licks the candy like a puppy and looks up at her.
    “Say thank you and put your hat back on; then the lady will give you another.”
    Tima freezes in disbelief.
    “You can’t get sick now—Granny Sima is coming home. Remember Granny Sima? She doesn’t allow you to go out without a hat. Put it on, and the lady will give you another candy!”
    The lady mumbles something about her ulcer and about her mommy, who makes her carry around imported candy everywhere. “He won’t have a reaction to chocolate? My son does.”
    “Unfortunately, he may.” We are not beggars!
    “I only have chocolate left.”
    Tima’s eyes shine like two diamonds. The tears will come in a second. But he turns away. He’s ashamed of these tears; this is the beginning of pride. Head up, my little one. His hand finds mine, and he pinches it painfully.
    The lady stuffs herself with chocolate.
    “All right,” I announce majestically. “Just this once. It’s not real chocolate anyway—mostly soybeans.”
    Tima chews with his mouth open, like his great-grandmother.
    They are expecting us at the camp. It’s dark out. After the city, the clean country air intoxicates. Snowy dust swirls in the yellow light of the streetlamps.
    “Do you want some tea?” they ask us. “The children have just had theirs.”
    I tell them no, thanks, we must get ready for the reading, but the bard interrupts me: Of course we’ll have some tea; it’s good for the voice!
    We are sitting in an enormous dining hall. I’m drinking cup after cup of hot tea with candy and have already pounced on two huge slices of bread—they serve big, round loaves here. I love bread more than any delicacy. The room is warm, and my nose starts running. I carry a clean rag in my briefcase, but I’m ashamed to produce it here, so I take a piece of scrap paper that they use for napkins. I can hear the children’s voices; they are being herded into the auditorium. Xenia and I quickly visit the bathroom, where she lifts her skirt and removes warm long johns. I glimpse her girdle. How often we forget our ugliness and present ourselves to the world au naturel, fat, flabby, unwashed. I’m sure her husband strays from her, repelled by the horror—for what’s to like in an old person? Everything’s bursting like an overripe orange; it’s not spoiled, not yet—it’s yesterday’s good milk.