Sobornost

SOBORNOST

by

Austin Wimberly

Published by Austin Wimberly at Smashwords

Copyright © Austin Wimberly, 2012

The image on the cover is Mother and Child by Christina Miller, and her work is available at http://www.iconfusion.com/. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, businesses, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious way. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U. S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

FOREWORD

HER

NADEZHDA

THE OTHER

NADEZHDA

LYUBA

NADEZHDA

INTEGRATION AND THE DERIVATIVE

LYUBA

VERA

FAMILY PLANNING

NADEZHDA

PLUSES AND MINUSES

NADEZHDA

MYSTERY

NADEZHDA

NORMAL

NADEZHDA

ACCUSATION

NADEZHDA

DRIFTING

NADEZHDA

MATERNAL INSTINCT

NADEZHDA

CONCEPTION

BORIS

THE BEGINNING

LYUBA

VERA

LYUBA

HOME STUDY

LYUBA

VERA

CONTAGION

BORIS

LYUBA

TO DO

VERA

GIFTS

VERA

NADEZHDA

LYUBA

BORIS

ACCOMPLISHED

LYUBA

VERA

LYUBA

PATIENCE

VERA

SUMMONS

LYUBA

ARRIVAL

LYUBA

TOURISTS

LYUBA

VERA

LYUBA

VERA

REUNION

VERA

DUCKLINGS

VERA

THE SWAP

VERA

FIRST MEETING

VERA

IMMORAL LIVES

DA

LUNCHES

LEAVING

WAITING

VERA

REBIRTH

INTERSTICE

CREDO

PAKA

THE PARTS

THE WHOLE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am grateful to Jasmine Hodges for applying her prodigious talent to my manuscript. Sobornost could not have been realized without her. I am also indebted to Christina Miller for allowing me the use of her Mother and Child icon.

Anders Thompson provided valuable editing on an earlier draft. Ashley Norred, Lauri Soong, and Bonnie Mathews Vacik did me a great kindness by reading early drafts of my novel and giving honest feedback.

I must also thank Father Edward McLean whose soulful wisdom ignited my creativity. Father Emmanuel Isi re-kindled the flame when it nearly flickered out.

Maris encouraged me to keep writing during the many difficult times and gave sound guidance as she always does. She is the worthy pilot of our ship.

FOREWORD

While the title page of this edition makes clear that this is a work of fiction, nevertheless I felt obligated to reiterate that this book is not a memoir. The events depicted here did not happen to me, my wife, or our children.

I hesitated to write this foreword because I strongly believe that it is not my place to tell a reader how to read my work. The reader’s interpretation is sacred and is a necessary part of the creative act of novel writing. If the reader chooses to assign a biographical interpretation to this book, who am I to say that they are wrong?

However, as a father, I have to think about my children and try to act in a manner that is best for them. It’s not that I think that there is anything in this book that would negatively impact my children. If I had those reservations, I wouldn’t have written the book in the first place. No, my purpose in writing this forward is simply to protect what fundamentally belongs to them—their stories.

To Maris. I love you.

To Max, Ty, Galina, and Ivan. Ya vas lyublyu.

For our others.

sobornost – freedom in unity, the integration of individuality, love in action

HER

She lived an immoral life. That’s all they said about her. They never told us what she did, but left her sins nameless. Illegitimate. Orphaned. I never told you what they said. It didn’t seem right. Whatever else she did, she gave birth to you, my greatest joy. I couldn’t call the source of so much good immoral.

You asked why she couldn't keep you, and I said she was sick. You asked what she had, and I said I didn’t know. You asked if I would ever get sick like that, and I held you tight and said, no, of course not. That tamped down your wondering for a while, but the questions remained, smoldering.

It’s been over fifteen years. Years in which I’ve watched you grow, watched you become. A steady stream of firsts. Steps. Words. Another one last week, when you got your driver’s license. All of it happening so fast that it seems like I put you down in the crib one night and awoke to find you shaving. And after all this time, the same questions. Questions that deserve an answer. Answers I can’t give.

I'll never know why she couldn't keep you. I’ve tried to understand, to attach some rationale, but it will forever remain a mystery. The only thing I know for certain is that she loves you. She always has. Deeply. She made it clear, hoping that I would pass her love on to you. It’s taken me this long to figure out how.

NADEZHDA

Dmitri was effortlessly handsome with slate eyes like the dawn and chestnut hair that flowed straight to his shoulders. His face was lean and articulated like a German’s and his arms were ridged with veins. He was older than Nadezhda by almost a year and was part of the new generation of liberated boys. Steeped in machismo, they swaggered through the streets and tried to outdo each other in throwing off old taboos.

Their parents fretted about the loss of culture among the youth, but what the teenagers knew and the parents couldn’t understand was that drunken minds, clanging music, run-ins with police —all of this was the new culture. Western, sophisticated, free. But the parents worried. Some of their children would go on to good jobs in Moscow or St. Petersburg, Western Europe or the United States, while some would only subsist. The rest would drown in the flood of liberty, and there was no way to tell who the strong swimmers were.

Most people who knew Dmitri were sure he would succeed. There was something about the way he carried himself —not arrogance, exactly, but stronger than confidence. Perhaps it was his easy stride or the way he looked directly into the faces of the people he was speaking with, never breaking focus, never showing excitement. Or it might have been his voice, so deep that it drew people in but so clear that it penetrated all other noise. At school he was one of the top students. At parties he was surrounded by friends and hangers-on. His machismo was sincere.

When he was with Nadezhda, he always talked about his plans. After university, I’ll spend a year or two getting experience, and then, we’ll go to America or Canada or England… Ireland, France, Germany... somewhere else.

Nadezhda loved it when he spoke of that place in the not too distant future. It meant she was part of his grand vision. It meant that he loved her. The idea of the two of them far away from here was like a quilt she could wrap herself in and feel secure. Sometimes, though, the surety of his plans made her forget to take care of the present. Just the other day, she got back a history test that she had almost failed. Her mother lectured her for an hour about it, ending with screamed reprimands about how Nadezhda should be studying instead of going out with Dmitri all the time. How she was throwing away her future on some boy who didn’t care about her, but Nadezhda knew better. What did grades matter? What did lectures matter? In a few years, she would be somewhere else. Beyond lectures. Beyond grades. Beyond rebuke.

~~~~

Sasha’s parents were out of town for Labor Day, and he always took advantage of these opportunities. Only a few people showed up to the party, which made it seem more like friends hanging out together than a bacchanal. The table was bare except for two plates, one with pickles on it and the other with a few gray sausages. Nadezhda eyed the tubes of meat, trying not to stare but unable to concentrate on anything else. It had been so long since she had eaten one, and the sight of them made her stomach twist with hunger.

Want one? Sasha asked.

Nadezhda smiled, embarrassed to have been found out, No, thanks.

Don’t you like them?

I like them, but I’m not hungry, she lied. Thanks anyway.

Sasha went to the table and poked a fork in a sausage. He brought it to Nadezhda, and placed it in her hand, closing her fingers around it. Here, he said.

Thanks.

Why do we do that? Dmitri asked.

What? Eat sausages? Sasha said. Because they’re delicious.

Dmitri rolled his eyes. You know what I meant. Why do we go through all these stupid pleasantries to get what we want? Why make you force food on us? You have food out. You expect us to eat it. Why not go ahead and eat it?

Because it’s impolite, said Nadezhda through a mouthful of food.

So what? It’s more efficient. Instead of spending all that time saying no, why not take it if it’s offered?

Maybe we should, Nadezhda said. Let’s try it, and she snatched the bottle of vodka. Who wants a drink? she said. If you refuse, you won’t be offered any more, so speak up.

Wait, this is my house, Sasha said. I make the rules.

It’s your parents’ house, Nadezhda countered.

Sasha grinned and pulled the bottle from her hand. He took a long draught then passed the bottle to Dmitri. Around the circle it went until it was empty.

Nadezhda’s head felt heavy, like she was on the verge of falling, and she leaned on her boyfriend for support. Dmitri glanced at Sasha who understood everything and said, Well, I’m going to run to the store and get more vodka since we’re out. Do you want anything?

No, said Dmitri.

Chocolate! yelled Nadezhda. Bring me chocolate!

Sasha winked at Dmitri. Fine. Chocolate, he said and left on his quest.

As soon as the door was shut, Dmitri took her hand, and pulled her close. His kiss on her ear was light as gauze, and she leaned her head to one side to give him better access to her neck. His kiss became more urgent, and he slid his hand down her arm to the top of her hip as he kissed her full on the mouth. She tasted the ashy residue of cigarettes. His fingers roamed from her hip to her stomach, coming to rest on the button of her jeans.

Let’s go to the bedroom, he whispered.

No, she said, politely refusing.

He kissed her hard, thrusting his tongue in her mouth like a battering ram.

She pulled away. Not now, she said, bracing against his shoulders. She was serious. He studied her like a cat following the movements of its prey.

She hated to disappoint him because she loved him, but this wasn’t how she wanted it to be. Not in some friend’s apartment while his parents were away. Not in someone else’s bed. It had to be right. He bowed his head, accepting defeat once again.

THE OTHER

Gesso coated linen. Sanded. Polished. Blank.

I’ve never done a work like this. Never trained for this style. Never had to fast and pray. Still, this piece is so familiar. I know what it’s going to be before I’ve traced a single line.

Beginning. The hardest part. White space pregnant with potential. So many things it should be. So many ways to go wrong, but I’m not afraid. All I need to do is conjure my other. That’s what Doc Spielman always said.

I can still see him wearing that faded Red Sox jacket and reeking of cigarettes, intense and demanding in class but outside just one of the students, a burning Camel always on his lip, poetry on his tongue, the last of the Bohemians. Good ol’ Doc.

You have excellent technique, he told me while reviewing my sophomore semester project, a realist still-life depicting a yellow-green banana bunch, three red apples, and a cluster of green grapes that draped over a glass fruit bowl. Balance, perspective, texture, all of it, but you can’t be so tight. Loosen up a little, Elise. Create.

I nodded even though I didn’t understand. Create? Wasn’t that what I was doing?

A forger has great technique, he said, his voice raspy and thick. "But a forger isn’t an artist. Anybody can take what already exists and rearrange it. That’s deterministic. Creating is bringing what doesn’t exist into being. It takes courage. Discipline. Yes, technique, but most of all, it takes an other. You know what I mean?"

No, I said. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you want me to do.

Look, he said, rubbing a bright razor-burned splotch on his neck. It’s a conversation. What would you think of me if you saw me talking to myself?

I thought of Doc wandering through the academic quad deep in conversation with no one. The truth is he sometimes did walk around like that, quoting some poem or singing, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. That you were crazy? I said.

"Right. Because talking to myself isn’t conversation. It might be therapeutic. It might make me stand out. But, it’s not creative. Creation requires a relationship. It requires an other. Next time, before you even start, find out who that other is. Brood over it."

That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about what he said, and I realized that all my work to that point was about capturing personal success. The only others I had ever listened to were those who validated my talent. It started when I was a little girl. I doodled all the time: dogs with big black eyes and lolling tongues, rainbows that ended in fluffy clouds, trees, trains, butterflies. My mom was always impressed.

She isn’t an artist, but she wanted to nurture my talent as best she could. So she made a point to take me to at least one museum a month. We would drive down to Milford and take Metro North to Grand Central for a day tour of the Metropolitan Museum of Art or the Whitney or MoMA. Other times, we’d drive up to Boston and browse the Museum of Fine Arts. My favorite was the Yale University Art Gallery. There I could find an example of every style of art from the past five thousand years.

My mom liked the High Renaissance paintings with their idealized bodies and the visions of heaven and hell, saints and sinners, all in sumptuous red, blue, and green. She whispered to me about perspective and emotive faces and humanism and taught me due reverence for the masters. As I listened, I pictured some future work of my own framed with a brief description to the side: "Elise Boucher: Little Girl with Kitty in Pink Blanket". I even began scouting where it would hang, settling on a space to the left of Seurat’s Study for A Sunday on La Grande Jatte.

It wasn’t just Mom who encouraged me to pursue my talent. In high school, I became interested in the early Renaissance, Giottos and Fra Angelicos, works that still carried an aura of Byzantium. Too rare for most museums, they surfaced in books, and when I found them, I gazed for hours at these fountainhead works, the faces breaking free from flat surfaces, spirits captured in oil. In art class, I tried to imitate them, copying frescoes in miniature, crowning Madonnas, crucifying Christs. My masterpiece was a scene of high school friends, robed in blue, purple, green, and saffron, at lunch in the cafeteria, golden halos upon their heads. I called it Mercy High Last Supper.

I hope you’re planning on entering it in the art show, Sister Bernadette, the art teacher, said.

You think I should? I asked with false modesty.

I do, she said.

When I took first prize, Sister Bernadette said, You’ve been given a great gift, you know. A great gift. I think you’re going to touch many lives with it.

I believed her as I did all of those who praised me. And now Doc was telling me that I wasn’t really an artist until I found an other. I closed my eyes and searched for candidates. A love interest would have been obvious, but I didn’t have a boyfriend. Scanning the guys in my life, I could find a few cute ones, a few nice ones, but none who inspired me.

Maybe I could substitute some big idea like Love, Freedom, or Joy, I thought, but I didn’t have much experience with those things. The most exciting thought remained Sister Bernadette’s prophecy that my art would touch many lives, but my faith in it never pulled out of me what Doc wanted. He tried a different approach.

Be here. Right now, Doc said. Breathe in and out. Notice your breathing. Acknowledge this moment. Be in it. Let it exist in you.

I breathed in and out, in and out and let my brush go where it wanted. It flicked up and down the canvas, kinetic, chaotic, yet leaving fluid forms in its wake. My subconscious remembered balance and the color wheel, and, at the end of the experiment, what was on the canvas was at least interesting.

Doc agreed. It’s better, he said.

It was my first foray into freedom, and I was surprised that what came out was as good as it was, but I wasn’t sure that it was beautiful. Interesting, yes, but art? I needed to find a way to marry form and freedom. Maybe finding Doc’s other was the answer, so I continued my search.

Tease an image from the canvas. Sepia on white. Beginning.

This work requires strict adherence. It demands that I pray with every stroke, Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God. Have mercy on me, a sinner. Every line, Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God. Have mercy on me, a sinner. And, I will stay free within this form as long as I remember my other.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Invite the other.

NADEZHDA

The building loomed over the edge of Yekaterinburg like a tombstone. In its shadow, Anna Konstantinovna stood at the end of a row of kiosks, searching for the vendor she needed. Here was a bundled man next to a bookcase filled with shoes. Here was a wooden booth with glass windows plastered with magazine covers of topless, pouting women. Here was a simple table stacked with icons, some of them very old. Next to that sacred space was another glassed-in booth, and through its windows, Anna Konstantinovna could see gold chains dangling from wooden trees. She crunched over trampled snow to the jewelry kiosk and took her place in line behind the patron who was being served.

As she waited, Anna Konstantinovna glanced at the newsstand next to the jewelry booth. From one of its papers, a headline blared of another murder. God, she thought, the fourth one this month. Every week somebody is being killed, and for what? Nobody could say.

Next to the newspaper, a magazine cover showed a picture of one of those reformers running for the Duma. Anna Konstantinovna recognized him. This man was responsible for policies that had unleashed a pandemic of inflation that had swept across the country, leaving dead or dying bank accounts in its wake—Anna Konstaninovna’s life savings among them. What was supposed to carry her and her husband through a comfortable old age was left with only enough strength to buy a loaf of bread. He should be in jail, she thought. Instead he’s on the ballot. There’s no shame any more, that’s the problem.

But it’s worth at least twice that, she heard the man in front of her say.

I’m sorry, the vendor behind the glass said. That’s the best I can do.

Fine you don’t have to give me what it’s worth, but how about… Anna Konstantinovna sighed, and her vapor breath rose in the icy air like a phantom. It’s no use bargaining, she thought. We have nothing they want, and they have everything we need. And you want to negotiate?

She remembered one of the first times she tried to bargain. She and her daughter Nadezhda had enough food for maybe two more meals, and food prices kept rising. A speculator showed up at their door wearing a pin-striped, suit and apple-red tie. His fingernails so clean and even. And the gold… so much gold on his fingers. Such a show. The shows that people put on, now. He offered thirty thousand rubles for her apartment—the apartment that her husband Boris had slaved all his life to provide them, the apartment where Nadezhda had spent her childhood, the place where Anna Konstantinovna had thought she could live until she died. And this man offered her only enough to eat for another three months. Anna Konstantinovna had to accept.

The patron in front of her and the vendor finished their transaction, and Anna Konstantinovna stepped to the window, pulling a gold wedding band from her pocket and giving it to the vendor to examine. He held it in the tips of his fingers and studied it through his loupe, giving the gold circle a slow quarter turn, seeking imperfections. Anna Konstantinovna looked at her naked, chapped hands and awaited his verdict.

Fifteen thousand, he said.

Anna Konstantinovna bowed her head and tried to appear meek. But, I have a daughter, she said. Could I get maybe twenty thousand? That’s still half of what it’s worth. You’re still getting a good price.

The vendor frowned and glanced at Anna Konstantinovna through his loupe as though trying to determine her quality. She put forth as honest a face as she could. He shrugged. Okay, he said. Twenty thousand.

Thank you, she said. The jeweler put the ring on the ledge, opened his cash box, and began counting out the bills. Anna Konstantinovna stared at the ring and remembered when Boris put it on her finger over thirty years ago. I’m sorry, my love, she said in her heart, and in her mind, she saw her proud Boris, powerful arms crossed over his swelled chest. She could hear him consoling her. She could hear him cursing the vendor.

Twenty thousand, the vendor said, shoving the bills at Anna Konstantinovna.

Thank you, she said, counting the money before pocketing it. The business complete, she turned away from the stand and walked toward the tombstone building where she and Nadezhda had been squatting since losing the negotiation with the speculator. She fingered the bills in her pocket as she walked home. Be grateful you died, Boris, she muttered. Everything is lost.

~~~~

The ground beneath her feet seemed to pitch to the left, and she stumbled into the rough cinderblock wall. Why hadn’t she stopped when she felt buzzed and left it at that? She leaned on the wall—prickly flotsam that she clung to on these rough seas. They would have never let her stop. You don’t refuse a drink. Everybody knew that.

She swallowed hard to quell her nausea, but it wouldn’t be put down. Rising up it toppled her and she fell on hands and knees with a retch that echoed through the corridor like a shrieking ghost. She spat out the last of the vomit and crawled to a cleaner spot in the corner where she curled up on the floor. She almost drifted to sleep, but she didn’t want to awaken to the screams of the supervisor, so she pushed herself up and stood in rancid darkness.

The soles of her flats scraped across concrete as she shuffled to the stairwell and heaved open the steel door. It sounded like a gong behind her as she made her way up the urine-stained steps. At the second-floor landing, her vertigo returned, and she had to stop. Leaning against the banister, she gazed over the railing into the rectangular abyss beneath her. In a year or two, after she finished school and he was off to university, she would go live with him. They would get married. After he settled into his career, they would have a family. Just a few more years. Not long.

It was quiet. Nothing. She stood still, closed her eyes, and listened. Floating. Stopped. Am I still here? she wondered. Did I die? She opened her eyes. No. Still alive.

The dizziness passed, and she was ready to soldier on. Gripping the banister, she pulled herself up the steps like a mountaineer approaching the summit. At the fifth-floor landing, she pushed open the door and the sound of metal scraping against concrete made her grit her teeth.

In the hall, a fluorescent tube flickering in death throes cast enough light for her to stumble to number 517. She closed her eyes again and, this time, hoped that, when she opened them, she would find herself in her own bed and not forestalling her mother’s immanent upbraiding. She opened her eyes. The doorknob flickered in the fluorescent light.

When she opened the door, the brume of stale cigarettes engulfed her and settled on her hair and shoulders. The room was dark,