This Narkomfin was built in the late 2030s, one of a series of communal homes modeled on a Russian prototype from the early twentieth century. Eva liked the place, with its yellow plaster walls and curving concrete balconies. She liked to stand inside the building and look out through the front-facing wall of windows, hundreds of square panes in metal frames looking out over the rough grass and untidy hills. She liked to stand outside in the bitter wind and watch the late winter sun burning yellow in the glass’
reflection. She liked the way that she could step out from her apartment and gaze down the long corridor at the round pillars on her left, marching off into the distance. She liked the way the doors of her neighbors were patched and painted with flowers and faces. The smell of warmth and damp clothes drying, of cabbage and beetroot soup, was comforting, even mixed with the sickly tang of used diapers from the adults and children who lived in the crowded rooms. It made the whole place seem homely and welcoming.
And then there were the various sounds: of music playing from speakers or scraped out on a violin; of people laughing or talking or squabbling; the gurgle of the pipes or the hiss of the heating; and the rush of the rain on the windows when she was safe and warm inside, drinking tea or pepper vodka. But best of all was the press of the people. Eva had lived her early life in South Street and had spent so much time alone in the middle of the city, with only the saccharine comfort of Social Care for company. But here in the Narkomfin she cared and was cared for.
She cooked ham and pease pudding for others, and she shared their kvass and borscht. She accepted rides in the community’s cars and britzkas, and in exchange she pushed the handicapped through the corridors in their wheelchairs. She helped in the nursery and took her turn accompanying those with Down’s syndrome, and in return she was regarded with warmth and respect. And then she had met Ivan.
He answered the door to his apartment with a sheepish smile and showed her into the neat living area.
“You look so pretty,” he said.
“Thank you,” Eva said, trim in her calf-length brown skirt and yellow patterned sweater. Her white hair was clipped back in a ponytail; on her left wrist she wore the gold chain bracelet her long dead husband had bought her.
On the table in the middle of the room, Ivan had laid out dishes of salted cucumber and little roast potatoes. The shelves were already cleared of his and Katya’s belongings, stacked neatly now in a set of silver cases set in the corner, but truth to tell, the apartment did not feel much emptier than usual. Ivan led a neat, Spartan existence, constantly cleaning up after the mess of his teenage daughter. They made small talk, and Eva found herself becoming tipsy on black currant vodka. Ivan’s cheeks were flushing red, and she could tell he was getting ready to ask her to accompany him when he left the Russian Free States.
He led her to the table and served her hot salted beef and horseradish, which she ate with special care. Afterwards there was green shchi with sour cream and then honeyed baklava.
“Where did you get all this from?” Eva asked. “It must have cost a fortune.”
“Special occasion,” Ivan said, avoiding the point.
They ate their meal with relish, passing each other morsels to try, wiping imaginary spots of food from each other’s cheeks.
Afterwards, they sat on the thin sofa and drank coffee with warmed-up cream on top. From somewhere below, the sound of a practicing brass band swelled and fell in the background. Finally Ivan got to the point.
“Eva,” he said, flecks of cream on his mustache. “You are a flower that blooms unnoticed in this wilderness. You should not stay here alone. Come back with me, Eva. Come with me.”
Eva felt her dinner settling like a stone inside her.
“You know I can’t,” she replied, looking at her feet. “Why not stay here with me?”
“You know I can’t. Katya should not grow up here. It has been a fine holiday for her, but the people who live in this place have no sense of responsibility. No sense of their duty to each other.”
The lounge was filled with the golden glow of late evening. There was a hazy, otherworldly feeling to their conversation. Ivan made to wipe his mustache with his hand, paused, and drew a handkerchief from his pocket.
“Eva,” he said, wiping himself clean, “what is wrong with the real world? Look at the people whom you have chosen to live with! Dropouts, the handicapped, the stupid, the stubborn.”
“You don’t mean that, Ivan. Your own daughter is handicapped.”
Ivan was hot now with nerves and vodka. “I don’t blame the handicapped,” he said thickly. “But what sort of mother would bring a child with Down’s syndrome to live in this place? Out there in the real world there is medical
