The Year of the Comet by Antonina W. Bouis

Author:Antonina W. Bouis
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781939931429
Publisher: New Vessel Press
Published: 2017-02-14T05:00:00+00:00

RUN IN FRONT OF THE BLACK CAR

If parents only knew what ideas they accidentally give their children!

Sometimes my mother took me to the medical clinic near the Kiev Station. She had lived there with Grandmother Mara and Grandfather Trofim before and after the war, so revisiting her childhood places, she grew younger, cheerful and free, liberated from Father and Grandmother Tanya, and happily told me stories: how they made a special hook to steal bread from the downstairs bakery’s truck; how in winter bandits used to throw dead bodies into the warm water seeping from the local steam baths; how German prisoners of war built houses and how they frightened her, she worried about who would live in them, who would be punished by being forced to move there. And at the same she wondered how Germans, who only killed and destroyed, knew how to build so neatly and deftly—maybe they weren’t Germans at all?

I liked being in that neighborhood; the huge glass canopy over the platforms was like a magnet—you could be pulled in under the canopy, to the ticket office, and then onto a commuter or long-distance train, even though you weren’t planning on a trip. Buses and trolleys pulled up and drove off, river ferries were docked at the landing, and Mother was energized by the hustle and bustle, she bought me ice cream and let me eat as we walked; we entered into a wordless conspiracy and didn’t tell anyone at home how good it was, just the two of us.

Soon after my falling out with Grandmother Tanya, Mother took me to the clinic. We were crossing the bridge over the Moskva River while a motorcade, surrounded by motorcycles, passed us on the embankment in the direction of Leninsky Prospect and Vnukovo Airport: three shiny black Chaika limousines with opaque windows. Traffic had been stopped and the Chaikas raced along the empty street, led by a highway patrol Volga, siren blaring, showering puddles and store windows with flashes of blue light.

I stopped, thinking that Mother would go on while I watched the motorcade and then caught up with her. The cars reached Sparrow Hills and I discovered that Mother, who was not interested in cars or privileged persons, was also staring helplessly at the now-invisible motorcade.

I wanted to go on, but she stood still, in the grip of some emotion. Down under the bridge at the corner by a traffic light a boy my age stood with his mother, impatiently stamping his feet, while his mother held his hand, pulling him away from the curb.

My mother was looking back and forth at the asphalt, the double white lines dividing traffic, and at the boy who was obviously chafing at the delay and would have run across against the light had he been alone. He would probably have pulled a prank trying to scare an inexperienced driver by pretending to run in front of the car. Coming closer I saw that Mother was crying, but only her left eye was tearing up, as if, being a righty, she had more control over that side.

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