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Voices

Karineh Arutyunova

Translated by Lena Mandel

    I used to wonder—how come my grandma has such trouble sleeping?
    Lengthy, rambling talks at the kitchen table at four in the morning, very emotional, subtext and pathos galore. You better believe there was always subtext. Life is not simple. But then again—there were hardships. Privations. Just remembering the war would chase sleep away. The apparition of Yasha from the shoe factory visits from time to time. So does the alcoholic neighbor, Auntie Pasha. The one who begged her on her knees not to leave, weeping. “Where are you going, Rozochka, and with the kid? Where? What if they start bombing? And what about food? Your kid is small and sickly. Here, we could all band together. We will survive somehow. A pie from one, a patty from another. But on the road—what will you eat? Oil cake, that’s what.”
    And sure enough—Auntie Pasha was right. Oil cake it was. And only oil cake. And the cold, and the lice. But they were alive. What it took, don’t even ask. She would wash floors for a plate of hot soup. She would steal, too, just to feed the kid. When they came back, Auntie Pasha’s whole family was installed in their six square meters of a semibasement room. The heavily drinking son-in-law, morose, scratching his beer belly. The daughter about to pop. That’s how they looked after the room. So that no stranger could take advantage.
    And so my grandma is at the kitchen table at four in the morning, gesticulating, addressing the Almighty with all possible deference—“Look, Heavenly Father, I have saved the kid and am still alive myself (albeit with a touch of tuberculosis), there are kind people in the world after all, a plate of soup here, some oil cake there, I have kept my side of the bargain. But what about you? How do we divvy up what cannot be divvied up?”
    I have no idea what the Heavenly Father had to say for Himself; it looks like He could not be bothered. He totally ignored Grandma’s pleas and entreaties. No wonder. Hundreds of windows must be open in His chatroom at any given time. Pulsing, beseeching, praising. Great and marvelous are Your works. He’s the Creator, what can you do?
    How do you measure some stupid square meters against this? Who can be so base?
    However, God willing (indeed), they managed to find a solution. How much joy can simple things bring! Such as a real bed. With springs and nickel embellishments. Such as a dress that fits. Such as being alive. Blood pulsing just below her smooth skin, her light, easy walk. Where are you hurrying, pretty lady? What a beauty! Lady, wait!
    In other words, there was always a lot of stuff my Grandma Roza could discuss with the Almighty. He shortchanged her here, pinched there. What an odd creature He was, forgetful old man, absent-minded.
    So she would sit in the kitchen gloom, not switching on any light or TV (who needs that?). My grandma was her own TV—as well as her own radio. Oh, what shows she watched! What faces and voices! They were all firmly stuck in her head. She’d be quite happy to get them unstuck, even for a little bit, but—no such luck. They clamored, made a racket. As if they had no place to be but her head. You would not believe the kinds of things they would say sometimes!
    If you only knew! God forbid.
    And then, thank God, it’s five o’clock already. And six is just around the corner. And as soon as it’s six, she can take her bag, creased slightly at the seams, put on her flimsy coat, her slippers—and go to the market. If it’s strawberries you want, nothing can beat the early morning ones.
    One would wake up of a morning, stretch (oh how sweet the morning slumber), open the window—and here she is—below. On a bench. Mumbling something, nodding. This way and that. With her bag. Full of milk and honey. She stretches her slipper-shod legs, waving away mosquitos with a twig.
    So that’s what did not let her sleep. Mosquitos. Damn bloodsuckers. Now to the kitchen, let’s switch on the light, put the kettle on. If biscuits are properly soaked, one can eat them after all. And the voices, thank God, are still there.

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