The smell of freshly baked corn galettes wafted up the stairs from where he was sitting. When the General left his room to get some fresh air, she did not glance at him. With an indolent wave of her stick, she had continued to fan the fire of the oven. Every night, as if by unspoken agreement, she visited him. She tended his wounds like an overly caring mother. Then, resting her head on his knees, she would listen to the verses of poets he knew by heart. At times, she raised her innocent dark eyes towards this lover of Russia. She listened without saying a word. Moved by the same reflections that had shaken him. And despite their obvious hostility, they found a common love in their hearts. Like parents who would love a child. By day, they were complete strangers. Not a glance, not a word. Nothing betrayed the silent understanding that bound them together at night. Fiodr Semionovich sat next to him.
“Your Excellence, I must untrust you with my farm for a couple of weeks. My boy and I will attend the fair next to Gorchkin village. We go every year. Even with the war going on, people are still expecting me to come. They have a spot for me and my oxen. But we shall bring goats this time. There are not many oxen alive nowadays. Eat and drink whatever you want. It is your home now."
The General crushed his cigarette on the stairs.
“You bring Tverskov with you. The roads aren’t safe.
“Thank you, your Excellency. It pains me to deprive you of your companion. But the roads aren’t safe, and that’s a fact. I would prefer to have a brave man like Nikolai Sebastianovich watching over me and my boy."
“The boy remains here."
“I regret to tell you Sir, but my boy and I cannot part ways. It could have been a great idea, to preserve the boy. But I need to make a man out of him. And from the day he was born I made a pact with God. Where I go, he goes."
“Didn’t I tell you that the roads weren’t safe Fiodr Semionovich?"
“You did, your Excellence."
“The roads aren’t safe, and folks are not what they pretend to be."
The old man turned pale at the allusion. From the back of the courtyard, they heard Tverskov arriving.
“Fiodr Semionovich has to go to the fair in Gorchkin. Go with him."
“Don’t look so sad old man! I see you haven’t come to enjoy my company yet. We will have so much to tell one another. You know the roads and I know the tales. How sweet would it be to see the fields under the summer rain? Your Excellence, I think you’ll envy me."
Two weeks had passed since Fiodr Semionovich, and lieutenant Tverskov had left. Two weeks during which he had cast nervous glances down the road. He expected the whites to show up at any moment. He smoked constantly, imagining that Tverskov could not find anyone from their battalion. He imagined himself trapped in that farmhouse until he was found and then shot. Two weeks had passed, and they had barely exchanged a few words. She no longer came in the evenings to listen to poems. Everything about her had change, even the taste of her lips. As if this new intimacy had made them uncomfortable. In the mornings, she would change his bandages and tell him about her chores. In the evenings she would lock herself in her father's bedroom while he slept in the living room above the empty goat paddock. He would draw the curtains and find himself in a suffocating half light. He remembered her soft words and eager caresses. It was as if she had disappeared. One morning at dawn, when he had barely slept, she quickly drew the curtain.
“We must go to Ouvarovo. The fields will soon begin. We need men."
He grabbed his stick and they set off on foot for Ouvarovo. In front of each of the huts he saw a small group of men, whom he took to be his comrades. A feeling of pride overwhelmed him. But none of them recognized him. He was a stranger to them. Yet he wanted to shout that he was one of their comrades. They wouldn't have believed him. Dressed as he was, he looked more like a hostile Cossack than a Soviet General. More than once he had caught suspicious glances from her. She had quickened the pace in front of the group of Reds. While she looked for men to hire, she left him on the dusty road. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of a head behind a curtain, the friendly gaze of an old man. Who did he think he was? Eventually, they had made their way back through the forest.
“I have seen the rebels at Ouvarovo."
“Why do you call them that? Who knows if they're patriots and you're a rebel? Only God knows whom He has chosen to be the savior of Russia. Don’t you ever call them rebels again. They are you, me and they are a part of us. It is that simple. No one is ever bad enough to be redeemed. And no one is too good to ever sin."
“But they don’t know Russia."
Once again, she raised her genuine eyes at him.
“If you wish to know a land, you have to love it first," she continued in a voice that betrayed no emotion as they moved deeper into the plains. The only way to know it is to walk through it. All they ever did was sit in a palace and talk about ideas. That is not what Russia needs."
She gave him a quick glance, watching cautiously as he walked down the path she pointed out.
“You can't love a country just by hearing poems. Your foot must sink into the mire, and you must lose yourself in it. You must lift the mud with your bare hands, praying that the land will produce fruit. Dawn must be your companion. Twilight will be the one that rescues you from your labor."
The plains stretch out before them, merging with the grey skies, heavy with humidity.
“Let your eyes see no horizon."
She instinctively avoided the cracks in the plain that might have made her walk more difficult.
“Your feet must not fear getting lost."
They reached a river with a turbulent current. He dipped his hands into the pure water and splashed it on his face. Droplets trickled down his long beard and the cool breeze kissed his cheeks. She stood further away, crouching beside a hidden chamerion.
“We'll have tea tonight," she said, smiling.
She laughed as she placed the plucked flowers into the General's hands. The smell of fresh earth pleased him. Suddenly, an overwhelming desire to have her on the ground made him shiver. How full of life and blossoming she was!
“Talk to me. Tell me about Russia."
She rose from her knees, a solemn expression on her face.
“Do not mock me, then. I am no poet. Only this I know: loving Russia is my soul’s only purpose. She will make it impossible to love others. You'll feel insignificant, ridiculously small compared to what She can give you. If you love Her, know for certain that she will make you die. You'll think you know her, but soon she'll reveal more secrets. You'll never forget her cold merciless winds. Is it possible to forget the face of your own mother? When she's calm at last, she'll want to introduce you to all the faces that inhabit her blessed soil. You'll stroke a little Cossack horse; you'll drink in their house. You will wave at the docile serfs who will worship you, Master of their happiness or their misfortune. The colors of the scarves worn by laughing women will fly through your mind like colorful birds. In the evening, in front of the stove in your house, you'll weep for the springs that are gone. You'll feel guilty for being happy. You'll feel guilty for being so good, for only having room in your heart for God and His Russia. You'll wonder if this love is real. You'll try to leave her, but she'll have already trapped you with her sad, shining eyes.”
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