Madonna of the Midland

Warning: All characters in this story are over 18 years old.

1

I hugged my crying mother one last time, stepped decisively across the threshold, walked down the short porch and was soon trudging along the dusty country road.

I can't stand farewells and long send-offs--they always feel like funerals. After all, I'm not going anywhere for good; once the expedition I've volunteered for is over, I'll be back home, sharp as a bayonet--and with more money than I could earn in five years at home. But that's for later. First comes the work, and it won't be easy. Vasilyich told me as much: "You need solid health, a sense of humor, mutual aid and a responsible attitude. So think twice and talk it over with your family." Vasilyich never wastes words. He's a well-known and respected man at the Arctic and Antarctic Research Institute in St Petersburg.

Vasilyich--that's Mikhail Vasilyevich Kazarin--stocky, built like a tank, about forty-five, veteran of several Arctic and Antarctic expeditions, virtuoso driver of every tracked vehicle, wizard of diesels and all kinds of machinery. And let me tell you, in high-latitude expeditions a diesel that keeps running is literally life itself.

I met Vasilyich under rather unpleasant circumstances. One evening on the outskirts of Petersburg I was making a hasty evacuation from a casual fling's apartment when her husband happened to come home. For some reason he wasn't thrilled to find me there together with his barely dressed wife. Instead of sitting down at the table and discussing, like civilized people, our little situation, he chose to wave his fists under my nose. I've never tolerated such treatment since childhood, and reflexively gave him an uppercut. His head met the wall with a wooden thud and he sat on the floor, staring at me with dazed eyes. My chance lady-friend--also the lawful wife--shrieked and rushed to defend her husband from me, even though I had no intention of beating him senseless. I suppose she acted correctly; she'd have to sort things out with him later, and protecting her man would count in her favor. I straightened my clothes and decided to leave the premises of such an inhospitable host.

I stepped out of the entrance, figured the general direction, lit a cigarette and had barely walked twenty steps when the newly cuckolded husband burst onto the street.

-- Stop, you bastard!--that's the polite translation of what he shouted as he ran at me like an express train.

I had no wish to meet his mass head-on. When he was already panting beside me I elegantly sidestepped, stuck out a leg and slapped him on the back for good measure. The man crashed to the ground, raising a cloud of dust and a torrent of curses.

-- Hey, buddy! Hold up--we need to talk,--I heard behind me and saw four more men trotting over. Evidently friends of my new horned acquaintance, and I doubted they wanted a pleasant conversation. Four plus the husband, who would soon get up, was too many even for a brawler like me.

Without a word I turned and sprinted in the opposite direction. For a while I dodged between houses, but the posse knew the neighborhood better and soon had me surrounded like Soviet troops around Paulus at Stalingrad. I had to accept an unequal fight. I only prayed none of them would think to stick something sharp and incompatible with my young life into my already battered body.

I was still fending off five of them instead of lying under their boots where they'd have trampled me like rhinos. There weren't many painful injuries yet, but I sensed my health was about to take a serious hit.

That's when Vasilyich burst onto the scene. He flew into the middle of our scuffle and--by some method I still don't understand--three of my five persistent opponents were suddenly lying nearby catching their breath. I knocked out another while he stared at his fallen comrades. The fifth took to his heels, realizing his choices were limited: lie down or run. Common sense won.

-- So, still in one piece, little warrior?--the man rumbled cheerfully. -- Let's get out of here. I know this gang. They'll be back like flies. You'll be swatting them all night.

-- But where to? I don't know this area at all,--I said, trying to staunch the blood from my broken nose.

The man looked me over and drew some quick conclusions.

-- Come to my place. I live nearby,--he offered. -- You're covered in blood and will raise a ton of questions from the cops you're bound to run into. And your friends might want a rematch.

I agreed with his logic and we quickly left the battlefield. Twenty minutes of brisk walking later we were in a third-floor apartment in an ordinary Khrushchev-era block. On the way we introduced ourselves. The man turned out to be Mikhail Vasilyevich; I simply said my name was Kostya.

Later I started calling him Uncle Misha, then Vasilyich--my parents raised me to respect elders. Frankly, I took it as the highest compliment when Vasilyich gruffly told me to stop "sir-ing" him. But that came later, when I was already working under him on more than one expedition.

I won't bore you with every detail of that evening. Suffice it to say that for reasons still unknown to me Vasilyich decided to take me under his wing. We talked all night and in the morning he drove me in his Volga to one of the Petersburg railway stations, from which I headed home to the middle belt of Russia.

The main thing was that Mikhail Vasilyevich told me, without delay, to collect and send him a set of documents according to a list he gave me.

--I'll try to get you a good job,--he said thoughtfully. -- And you'll test yourself: are you a man or just a flower drifting in a hole in the ice.

He added the phrase I quoted at the beginning of this story.

2

My train rushed me home to my parents' house. I sat by the window thinking about the twists of fate. I also wondered why Uncle Misha had taken a liking to me, offering work on an expedition that doesn't take people off the street. Sure, I'd served as a tank driver-mechanic, now worked as a mechanic in a repair shop for all sorts of tracked machinery--tractors, bulldozers--and knew a bit about electrics. But I was no super-specialist. What attracted me most was the pay with all the high-latitude bonuses. My patron didn't give exact figures, only said the money would be "more than decent." And of course I wanted to test myself--whether I was a man by Uncle Misha's yardstick or merely a "flower in a hole in the ice."

I won't take up your time describing how I gathered the required documents and sent them to Uncle Misha. Two months later an official letter arrived from the AARI inviting me to appear at such-and-such a time at such-and-such an address. Clearly Uncle Misha carried weight at the institute and badly needed a diesel mechanic and driver for all kinds of tracked vehicles. I quit my shop, took all the leave I was owed, and reserved the last two days for my parents--without the boisterous company of friends, girls or bottles. Both Mom and Dad were pleased I'd landed such a job. They had been brought up in Soviet times, when the profession of polar explorer ranked almost alongside cosmonaut. Dad and I cracked open a farewell bottle of vodka with Mom's good snacks. Mom, laying the table, kept sitting beside me and hugging me, trying to hide the tears that kept filling her eyes.

And so I am again returning to what I said at the very beginning--that is, unhurriedly trudging along the country road to a small town three versts from home. It's already dusk when I approach a small grove separating me from the wide field that stretches to the town itself.

Suddenly in the darkness ahead I saw a pale patch moving toward me. As we drew closer I saw it was a girl in a light dress. It turned out to be Alya, who lived a few blocks from my house. I only knew her name and that she was a couple of years younger. We'd crossed paths at parties maybe twice. She had the reputation of being a bit odd--very quiet and shy, unlike my rowdy girlfriends.

-- How good that it's you, Kostya!--Alya said with relief once she made out my face in the dark. -- I was scared at first when I saw someone coming toward me.

I too was oddly glad to meet her, despite her reputation for timidity. I had plenty of time and happily chatted, spreading my peacock tail.

Before we knew it we had drifted to a haystack near the road. I pulled my jacket from my backpack and spread it over the hay so we could sit comfortably.

Need I say that very soon we had shifted from sitting to lying. The hay yielded softly beneath us, as if the earth itself had decided to play along.

Alya trembled--not from the cool night, but from the unknown. I felt the rapid pulse in her wrist as I traced the inside of her palm with my fingertips.

-- Don't be afraid,--I whispered.

She answered without words: simply lifted her eyes, and in them was everything--shyness and readiness to trust. I lay down beside her, and the silence grew so dense you could hear the hay rustling against fabric.

Then, as happens at midnight when time stretches, we found ourselves breathing as one. Her dress slipped from her shoulder like a shadow, giving way to light: skin like moonlight, hair like dark water. I brushed my lips against the hollow of her collarbone; she shivered but did not pull away.

A thin, trembling arc of tension sprang up between us. I felt her warmth--moist, living warmth of a July night when grass gives back the day's sun. Alya arched as if under an invisible breeze, and her hand found mine--fingers twined like young willow branches.

When we came together she suddenly trembled: a fine, almost imperceptible shiver ran through her body. I froze, feeling inside her not only her heartbeat but mine. She drew a short, quiet breath--more a sigh of relief than a moan--and drew me to her, as if to say: further--only forward.

The shy Alya turned out to be music in which I had long been unable to keep time. We learned together: every movement a note, every pause a hidden chord. The hay rustled like sheet music, and above us hung the full moon--the only witness.

So we lay until dawn began to paint the clouds rose. Between us there was neither embarrassment nor haste, only warm, calm silence, as if everything that needed saying had already been spoken by our bodies.

The sun had not yet edged over the horizon, but we both knew it was time to part. A slight estrangement settled between us, as often happens. I didn't want to give the girl any promises or swear eternal love, since I had no idea how things would turn out. Apparently she felt much the same. She had been good with me, and no more. And for her it had been a pleasant surprise to part so easily and painlessly with her virginity.

-- Well, I'm off!--Alya lifted her big eyes to me. It was both question and statement. -- See you, Kostya.

She brushed my lips with hers, turned and walked home. I watched her, trying to fix in memory her slight figure and dancing walk. Thirty meters on she turned, waved and blew me a kiss. I waved back.

3

As the saying goes, "the tale is soon told, but the deed is not soon done." So fate decreed that I could reappear in my native haunts only almost five years later. I had acquitted myself pretty well in the new job, and Vasilyich maintained an approving silence about me. Believe me, with that stingy-with-praise man such silence was better than any compliment from anyone else. When the term of my first Arctic wintering drew to a close, Uncle Misha simply said, "You'll stay another season. You've no replacement." He didn't even ask for my consent--he knew I wouldn't refuse. After two seasons in the Arctic heights, two more winterings in Antarctica followed. It was devilishly interesting and very hard. There were moments when I felt we were on the brink of death. But the god of Antarctica took pity and granted us life. At last we were relieved and sailed home on the diesel-electric ship Lena. It was then that Uncle Misha and I had our first drink together. And he allowed me to call him Vasilyich and to address him as "you" (informal). I felt as though he were knighting me, and I was fiercely proud. I understood that I was a man, not "a flower drifting in an ice-hole," although Vasilyich never once said so.

Finally I stood on the threshold of my parents' house. Mother flung herself around my neck, laughing and crying at the same time, while my stoic father fumbled with a Belomorkanal cigarette he'd meant to light. I myself felt like crying along with Mother.

At last the bustle and excitement of the first minutes of reunion were over. We sat at the table again, the three of us, almost like five years before. I could see how my parents had aged.

-- Well, son, tell us about your adventures!--Father said with a smile that concealed a proud glow. Mother looked at me with eyes full of happiness.

And I began to talk about the oceans I'd had to cross, about the icy silence of the Arctic and Antarctica, about the hellish cold, about my polar comrades and much else. Mother and Father listened without interrupting.

-- And now you tell me about your life,--I said.--I'm getting calluses on my tongue from all the talking.

-- What's there to tell?--Father muttered.--I'm no storyteller. Let your mother bring you up to date.

Mother, in her homely way, began to tell me who had been born, who had died, who had married and who had divorced. I listened with pleasure, as if warming myself at a small but cozy stove.

And suddenly a familiar name flashed in Mother's story.

-- Wait, Mom,--I interrupted.--Which Alya are you talking about? The one who lives on Podolskaya Street

-- Yes,--Mother confirmed.--You once said she was a bit out of this world, remember?

-- I remember,--I mumbled.--So what about her? Did she marry?

-- No, son. That quiet girl got pregnant by God knows who and had a baby girl. She never even told her parents who the father was.

-- And when was the baby born?--I tensed slightly.

-- Wait, let me recall exactly,--and Mother gave the approximate date.

Damn it! The timing matched. So it looked like I'd been a father for almost four years without knowing it. What a turn-up.

It was already too late to go anywhere, so I cowardly postponed my visit to Alya until the next day.

4

And so I stood next to the house where Alya lived with her parents--and now with her daughter. My daughter. In my hands was a bag with several boxes of expensive candy I'd bought at our local store. For the child. For Alya I had a pretty blouse bought with hard currency in Cape Town; I'd meant to give her something when I arrived. Turned out there was also a gift waiting for me.

The door creaked and Alya appeared on the porch.

-- Kostik!--she smiled when she recognized me.--Why are you standing there? Come in, don't be shy.

Behind her lurked a four-year-old girl. She was thoughtfully sucking her finger and solving the eternal question: nasty uncle or nice. When she saw me looking at her, she ran into the house just in case.

I walked up to the young woman. Indeed, the bud had opened and become a beautiful flower. The girl Alya had turned into a beautiful woman.

-- You've changed. Grown prettier,--I blurted out.

-- Thank you. Come on in.

We went inside.

-- Here, these are for you,--I remembered and handed Alya the gifts.

-- Where did you buy so much candy?--Alya laughed.--Too much for a child.

-- Give her a little at a time. You have some too. And your parents...--I was thoroughly flustered.

-- And thank you for the blouse,--Alya read the label.--Made in South Africa. South Africa, right?

I nodded.

We started talking about this and that. I can't even remember what we talked about now.

At last I plucked up the courage to ask Alya about the child.

-- Alya,--I swallowed.--Is she--my child?

-- What difference does it make!--the woman laughed.--The main thing is that Masha is my daughter. I adore her. And her granny and grandpa adore her too. But if you really want to know, Masha was born (Alya gave the date)

She was clearly enjoying the situation. And I became absolutely certain that Masha was the fruit of our love in the haystack.

I dropped to my knees before Alya and buried my face in her legs. She began stroking my hair.

-- Uncle Kostik!--Masha had already warmed to my presence. She ran up and hugged me around the neck.--Why are you kneeling and tickling Mommy?

The End

Author's Note to the Reader: This is my first publication of my story on this site in English translation. I would be very happy to hear your feedback and/or comments.