Letters from Novosibirsk
familiar with my contributory articles to Letters from Novosibirsk, but I will allow myself a brief capitulation here, in order to clear the air for the ascension of our savior. You and Omar Bengzi have conceived a son in a town where such things are considered improbable, if not even (as one morose soul has just reminded us) destructive. It has been revealed to me, however, by means of which I am not quite certain, that this child shall restore the monarchy to our mini-state, and thence, hopefully, to the world. Our salvation from the dregs of democracy is near. We shall be elevated in spirit once again…”
At this point Az’s stomach was heard.
“But Todd,” Elsa interjected. “Remember the English monarchy, which is teetering on the edge of survival. Certainly very few can think of a reason to support it.”
“Yes, and your own Danish version, I suppose you would add.”
“That’s correct.”
“But these had devolved into nothing more than a shadow in the minds of those democratically-minded subjects, a dim hope they had wisely clung to, but ultimately let fail.”
Az found his own way to the pantry. Kolya had found a lovely old shoe to stomp around in.
“But he’s so little,” Elsa reflected aloud. “Such a burden to place on him already! I feel I should protect him. After all, I brought him into this world. What right does anyone else have to decide his future?”
“Indeed,” Todd returned, “what right have you? Or little Kolya himself for that matter? Certain things will come to pass, whether we decide them or not.” He paused, and caught her eyes. “Believe me, the time has come.”
Elsa grew quiet. Az’s crunching was all that could be heard. It seemed that no one would take the next move. But the quiet was soon broken by footsteps. Omar approached the door.
The ensuing conversation was watched diligently by Alexei, Nura, and Zofiya, who presented themselves invisibly on the mantel. What they heard was Todd repeating his homily to Kolya’s father, and Kolya’s father showing very little reaction. Todd believed he had won Omar’s support, but Omar was too busy trying to reconnect all the facts and topography he had ever known about the former United States of America, in hopes of understanding what could have produced such a character.
“I take it from your reserved response that you are in agreement with me on this?” Todd asked.
“It would be difficult to refute,” Omar answered. “Who among us would not want his son to be king?” He reflected for a moment, then added: “From a king’s point of view the earth would look different.”
And so would Novosibirsk.
“Excuse me?” Todd turned to Elsa.
“Nothing.”
Kolya had taken to Az; they sat together on the hearth rug, rolling an antique wooden truck back and forth to one another. Todd excused himself and headed home, misty-eyed with rapture at the thought of his dream come true.
A few cottages down the lane there sat another misty-eyed inhabitant of Novosibirsk: Wynnet, whose plans to bring new vigor to the ranks of the community had unpleasantly backfired.
Walidah and Orlin had taken up residence in Wynnet’s house, and he had already seen enough to indicate that he might not have invited the right people. For Orlin would barely speak to him, and Walidah’s nose was so high in the air she could not make eye contact. How should they be able to help him organize the revolt? It might be best to call on Karyne, the only other true believer in town.
He walked deliberately to the door and, without looking up, opened it, stepping right into Orlin.
“Excuse me, sir.”
“Yes.”
“Your front walk needed weeding, dusting, washing, and some mending. I’ll be happy to set you up on schedule, sir, if that would make it easier for you.”
“Easier for what?”
“Maintaining.”
“I don’t maintain walkways. I just walk on them. Have you seen the woman?”
“Walidah, sir. She’s taking a nap, I believe.”
“When she wakes, tell her there will be a meeting at four-thirty-seven.”
Wynnet walked past Orlin and bore right on Wild Goose Lane. Orlin finished the last stroke of his third horizontal sweep of the walk and carried his broom with him back to his room inside. Before ascending the stairs, however, he heard a voice:
What good is a swept walkway in front of a house full of clutter!
Orlin reflected for a moment, and said:
“I don’t know.”
The interior of Wynnet’s house certainly looked different to him now. Never having considered interiors before, the dilapidated mess before him stirred deep feelings of enthusiasm for transferring his exterior sweeping professionalism to the inside. He hardly knew where to begin.
21.
This may be my last contribution to the Journal; I have less and less time to think, and even less time to write. Or, rather, I am thinking too much. I am continually writing new articles in my head as I perform the thousand household chores I must tend to daily. And instead of struggling over words, I let them come freely, so freely that they make me stop to catch my breath, when I am not stopping to catch Kolya! I never thought that my life would be a living diary, that words could fill a day the way philosophers fill textbooks.
I no longer consider myself the Nun of Novosibirsk. I have a family now, and friends. The light on my breakfast table does not intrude and give me a cruel greeting to a world that is full of darkness; rather, that light gives me the time I need to caress my child, to take in the curls on his father’s neck, to throw the shutters open even wider and let as much of what’s out there enter into my home. I’ll take the good and the bad, the enlightened and the ignorant, the jaded and the sentimental, for now I recognize that they are what keep me in balance, and tied to the world community. I recognize a point of myself—a time and place—in every one, in my reflections of past acquaintances as well as in every new face I meet.
There can be nothing like being loved. If one can be loved, why forego the honor, the pleasure, the miracle? On your worst days, you will be loved the same; on your best days you will be praying with every step.
I have lost two children, and at one time I could not imagine that loss receding. I had thought I must be defined only by my loss, that it must be etched in my skin, on my eyes. But now my teacher is a child, a child of mine. I will know him completely, as much as I can, and I will never know him at all. His life is mystery; his heartbeat, hands, first words, glances—these tell me every day that I am a part of the mystery too. I am a part of it. I do not view it, contain it, tolerate it, and define it; unless I view, contain, tolerate, and define myself.
If I leave Novosibirsk, it will not matter where I go, or who I will meet. It will not matter what anyone is thinking, or what I think about what they are thinking. It will only matter that I know that the light of awakening is a good light, one not to be avoided, but bathed in, daily.
Rimpon had called together many of the most brilliant days to pour light onto Elsa’s house. A cone of brilliance illuminated the wood shingle roof, defined leaves of grass as they bowed to winter, caught flying bits of snow circulating near her windows. Rimpon did not wish anything that might be ostentatious to be bestowed on Kolya; the riches he would guide there would be his riches, the ancient and immeasurable riches of the spirit. The light he directed to Kolya’s eyes would begin his apprenticeship, even before the living could reach him with words.
Nura saw a storm brewing, and she was very excited about it. The others had noted it too, but with less enthusiasm: life had given them storms enough, and it could be considered bothersome to endure them after death. Nura, however, in her singular way, was able to paint a lively picture of the future for them. “We have a stake in this,” she impressed on them, “for without us the whole pot will fizzle, and anything we’ve done so far will amount to nothing.”
“Amount?” Zofiya entered. “Listen to her. She’s even stooped to conveying life concepts to persuade us to take a greater role in thi
s play.”
Then Alexei tuned up:
“Perhaps you are underestimating our role, Zofiya. After all, will we be driven out of our Earthland by this town’s newer ghosts? If we do not prevail now, we never will. The life concept of time will conquer us in its unpredictable manner. The newest inhabitants of Vydrino will bring their unguided souls along with them after they die, and they will be in direct conflict with us, unless we make them see first that life has a way that must be followed, a way that connects them to them and them to us—”
“Oh, how I miss our dear little Kolya!” Nura interrupted.
“Yes,” Alexei agreed, “and we wish him to be with us again, in the same way, the same Kolya we knew. It is our duty to be here to accept him when Earth releases him to us again. We shall not be changed…”
Zofiya, slowly and somberly, added: “Then let us begin our work, with more purpose than we have ever known, to save Vydrino for eternity.”
“For eternity,” thought everyone.
22.
“You’re a nice little specimen.”
Walidah peeked in through the doorway.
“Such pure eyes, and a steady gaze. And hair that shows no trace of confusion. I’d have to trace you to the Balkans—or no, perhaps the Pyrenees, though I wish you were native to Mediterranean Africa, so I could claim you to my continent.”
Kolya’s clear brown eyes saw past her to a kitten that had just entered the yard.
“And I see