feed a neighbor’s aged child. Here, they share their porridge with a pigeon. Here, the girl walks to school where she learns from schoolbooks about cookbooks and from cookbooks about constitutions.
She walks. Her mother whispers: Cook, little pot, cook.
The pot cooked as the mother ate, the pot cooked. The mother ate and became full and asked the pot to stop—
But she had no words to make it stop.
Her slender girl knew the words. But she was at school learning of theorems and tomatoes and generals who liked tomatoes. The pot kept cooking. The mother kept eating. And the porridge kept bubbling over the top. And it cooked into the next paragraph and the next. And the kitchen floor was soon covered with porridge and the tables covered with porridge and the chairs. Then the stove covered, and then the bedroom where lights were on but the porridge put out even the lights. The town darkened.
And the pot did what pots do.
The porridge began to drip on the cobbled sidewalks, on the splintering staircases. The next house was covered with sweet porridge, the nearby street covered: its barbershop and its tailor shop and its bakery. And the neighbors sat on the pavement, eating biscuits and breads and sweet pies covered in porridge. The baker said, eat! eat! While his money-till filled with porridge.
The porridge was sweet.
And it rose to the branches of birch, the branches of ice, and the birds landed, and swam, and washed themselves. And they ate. And dogs swam, and ate. And the chickens made tiny noises. And then they began to drown. Everyone prayed for the pot to stop cooking, and everyone ate.
No one could stop.
Only one house remained that was not covered with sweet porridge to its copper roof. One house. All the neighbors sat on its roof and ate, their feet dangling in porridge. It was heavy on their feet. It was hard to pull their feet out, but they pulled. At last. The girl returned from school. A little girl swimming in the porridge on two large books. She yelled: Stop, little pot, stop! The townspeople all looked at one another and shook their heads.
This is how I remember my childhood. First a fantasia of plenty, yes: but then; eating my way back through time.
The second tale begins: eighteen-year-old peasant girl Talia and her husband, a White Army officer, had a baby girl, six months old. They walked the streets of Odessa with a cradle and ate chocolate cakes at Deribasovskaya. He bought her an umbrella and she was learning French. In the seventh month the government changed. The White Army officer had to escape because the color of his uniform was politically incorrect. Or perhaps something else about him was incorrect. He escaped from this story. But Talia stayed, her baby girl was seven months old.
In the eighth month the government closed the borders. Talia began to sew blue dresses so she could buy milk. She sewed day and night for the opera singers, she walked behind the stage after the performance taking measurements, giving compliments, taking measurements. They loved her. Talia was sewing, the opera was singing, the soup was in the little pot, the baby was turning nine months old.
In the tenth month the government prevented the food from coming into our province. It was an easy month. The opera was still open, the audiences still arrived. But soon the audiences began to walk out of our streets. They thought they could find food in the neighboring villages. But there was no food in the neighboring villages. There was no food in the farthest villages, but they did not learn of that. They died midway. And the borders remained closed. And there was no food on the table, there was no table, and there was no food even in the little pot. And the bellies began to sing, and then the singing stopped.
And the baby began its eleventh month. The opera singers left. Talia did not leave. Talia ate the earth. She dug a hole in the earth, she put the body of her baby girl into the box from the sewing machine and dug the earth. She dug the hole herself. She did everything herself. She even survived on her own somehow. She even married somehow. She even managed not to have another child — holding out till she was forty-two years old. That she did herself, against her new husband’s wishes. When she was forty, everything changed. Everything changed.
She adopted my father. Everything changed. She told my father the story of the little pot when she taught him how to cook, how to chop vegetables, how to pinch the spices into the little pot. Her finger would weave through the air as she spoke. It landed on my father’s forehead. “You must remember this.”
Here the page turns. There was once a man who lived in an empire preoccupied with food. It was said of him that he opened an underground business that sold soups so good that when government officials tasted them, their eyes lit up and they carried that light into the higher offices and courts but could no longer pretend to be loyal to the system that ruled us — and they all lost their offices. But the soup factory kept going, tomato soups and spinach soups and onion soups with fish. His name was Vitya. He was of middle height, and at the time of my birth, his second son, he was middle-aged.
Tomato soup was not merely of a physical world — not as far as my father was concerned. What we put in our mouths feeds not only our bodies, but also what lives inside our bodies. There was something strange about that illegal soup factory of Sovetskaya Militsiya Street, everybody said so, but nobody knew for sure.
I heard Hans Christian Andersen’s “Little Pot” from my grandmother, who never finished grade school, but learned to read in her sixties so that she could read fairy tales aloud to my cousin and me. When she finished, her finger would land on my forehead: “You must remember this.”
Years later, in the United States, I saw “Little Pot” in my wife’s Andersen volume and was surprised by how different it was from the story I knew. [In most volumes, the tale is called “The Teapot.” —ed.] Imagination is just some remembering, from the other side, of course.
MICHAEL MARTONE. A Bucket of Warm Spit
ONCE’T, YOU COULD SPIT ON THE GROUND AND GROW WATER.
They said back then that the rain would follow the plow. They lied.
Our plows were painted grass green, and they broke open the green grass prairie hereabouts. Where it split and opened up, I swear, you could hear it leak, spitting a little spit, spitting a hiss-like hiss.
Spit of steam here, spit of steam there, the ground a rolling boil, all that steam boiled up into a smoke of steam.
The water rained from the ground pouring into the sky sighing as it went. The water, it up and went.
After a while all that water emptied into a big ol’ cloud wall that hanged down from the sky and hugged the ground that fed it.
That big ol’ cloud wall, it was made up of all these little drops of steam-water and seeded inside each of all these drops of steam-water were itty-bitty grains of dust that got carried away, snug, that the water would stick to.
When that big ol’ cloud begun to move with the big ol’ wind a-pushing it over the land, the grains of dust inside, they sanded the dry ground beneath it into more dust.
More more dust.
More dust got swallowed up by the dust and soon it was just dust in the big ol’ cloud. That and a little paste of mud.
The land was wore away.
