on the bed.
“That is not the way to fold them,” Lydia said, arms folded.
“It will be fine,” Sasha said, the first sign of impending defeat in his tone.
“You fold along the seam, sleeves back,” she said. “The way you are doing it …”
“Would you like to pack for me?” he asked, closing his eyes.
“Yes, why don’t I pack for you?” his mother said, stepping to his side.
Sasha stepped out of the way and watched her fold, invade his drawers, select items from the bathroom and closet, and keep up a running commentary on each item.
“This is worn at the cuffs. See? Frayed. You need a new jacket. I will get you a new jacket.”
He did not argue.
“What size are you now? You’ve lost weight. You do not know,” she said with a what-am-I-going-to-do- with-you sigh. “I used to know. Don’t worry. I will figure it out. Shirts, you need shirts. Who ironed this shirt? Maya?”
“You did,” he said, leaning against the wall, defeated.
“I will iron it again. When you have worn a shirt all day on the train, do not try to clean it. Do not wear it again. Put it in a plastic bag.”
“There will be no room in the suitcase for clothes in a bag. You are stuffing it full of things I don’t need.”
“Change your socks every morning,” she said.
“You are packing enough for a month,” he said. “It will weigh as much as I do.”
“In the other room, on the table. I brought you a book to read so you don’t get bored.”
“I will be working,” he said before he could stop himself.
“It is about learning to relax,” she said. “I read it. It has done wonderful things for me.”
She scurried around, looking for more to do, taking one thing out and replacing it with another.
“I look forward to reading the book,” he said.
“We have forgotten something,” Lydia said. “I know! A small plastic bag to keep your toothpaste in so it doesn’t squish out and ruin your clothes.”
“I will get one,” he said.
“Go see if you have one,” his mother ordered.
He escaped from the bedroom and took his time bringing the plastic bag back. He had called Maya, told her what had happened. She had asked if he could find some way to keep his mother away from the apartment for the first few days while he was gone. He said he would try.
“I do not dislike her, Sasha,” she said.
Sasha was not sure he felt the same way about his mother.
“She wants to see the children,” he said. “How can I? …”
“Tell her I will call her soon, that, that I have had a breakdown … no, she will come with doctors. I do not know what you can tell her.”
“I can tell her anything,” Sasha had said. “The problem is that she will not listen.”
“I know,” Maya said.
They had spoken a few minutes longer, holding back, putting away till they had face-to-face time together the important things that had to be dealt with, the important things other than the omnipresence of Sasha’s mother.
And now Sasha stood watching his mother stuff the suitcase beyond its reasonable capacity.
“And this is last,” she said, holding up a pair of binoculars. “They were your father’s. You can look out the train window with them.”
“Thank you,” said Sasha, having no intention of using the binoculars. Were she returning to her own apartment that night he would have considered removing half of what she had packed and hiding it. But that would probably not work. His mother was certain to search the two rooms to be sure he had not done just that.
This was madness. He was thirty-five years old.
“Mother,” he said as she struggled to zip the bag closed. “For the first few days, when Maya and the children come back …”
“Tomorrow,” Lydia said, standing back to examine her handiwork.
“Yes.” He had promised Maya he would try and so he would.
“I won’t be here,” his mother said, turning to Sasha. “I have to go to Istra for a while.”
“Istra?”
“You do not know where Istra is?” she asked, looking at her son as if he might be feverish.
“I know exactly where it is,” he said. “About forty kilometers from here off the Volokolamsk Highway.”
“On the bank of the Istra River,” she said. “That is right.”
“Why are you going there?” he asked, his curiosity replacing for the moment his pleasure at having achieved instant success.
“To spend some time with Matvei,” she said, walking past him into the room that served as living room, dining area, and kitchen.
Sasha followed her quickly.
“Matvei? Who is Matvei?”
“Matvei Labroadovnik, the famous painter,” she said, looking around the room for something to straighten or at least change.
“The famous … I’ve never heard of … why are you going to spend time with this Matvei La …”
“Labroadovnik,” she supplied. “He is very famous. We are considering marriage.”
Sasha felt slightly dizzy. He reached back for the arm of the couch, found it, and sat heavily.
“He is living in a dacha in Istra while he helps with the restoration of the Cathedral of the Resurrection,” she said, finding a chair that had to be moved a few inches to satisfy her sense of decor.
Sasha’s mother had retired from her government job four years earlier. She was now nearly sixty years old, and as far as Sasha knew she had had nothing to do with men since his father had died when he was a boy.
“How did you meet him? How old is he?” asked Sasha, bewildered.
“You want some tea? Pepsi-Cola?” she asked.
“Water,” he said.
She nodded, moved into the kitchen area, and got him a glass of water from the noisy tap.
“Matvei is fifty-six years old. His mother lives in the building where I have my apartment. We have met frequently. We have much in common.”
“Like what?” asked Sasha.
“Art,” she said.
“You have never shown the slightest interest in art,” he said.
“You haven’t noticed,” she said, sitting across from him, continuing to scan the room for imperfection.
“Art?”
“And movies.”
“You don’t like to go to movies. You can’t hear them.”
“You are wrong,” she said. “I love movies.”
Sasha had an insight, or thought he did.
“And he is famous?”
“Very.”
“And he is well paid?”
“He has a great deal of money. He is in great demand.”
Sasha sought desperately for a reason why this man might be interested in his mother. If it wasn’t for her money, then what? Lydia was no beauty. Lydia was no aesthete. Lydia was a meddler and a tyrant.
“He is healthy?”
“Like a swine,” she said with a small smile. “Tall, robust. When we get back, you can meet him. I’ll see that he dresses up.”
There was a mystery here for which Sasha did not have the time, energy, or proper source of information. He recognized the possible blessings of seeing far less of his mother, but he was a detective and the evidence sat
