Russian Terms
Russian terms of endearment are different from English ones. Here are the translations for the ones that are used in this series.
lyubov moya” (my love), “kotik” (pussycat), “kotyonok” (kitten), “zaika/zaichik” (bunny), “malysh” (baby), “lapochka” (sweetie pie), “zvezda moya” (my star), “zolotse” (my gold). “rybka” (little fish), “myshka” (little mouse),
‘YOU DON’T OWN ME’
‘Yes, I fucking do”
– I’ll tell you just how much a dollar costs
it is the price of having a spot in Heaven –
One
Aleksandr Malenkov
(Training)
I let their names fall away a long time ago. They are still here in the graveyard of my soul, dragging their dismembered bodies, cursing and swearing at me, but I don’t hear them. I have mastered the art of pretending the blood dripping from my hair is my crown, my liquid crown. But she came, and like a spade slicing into the earth she is turning up forgotten thing, buried things. I have started to hear their voices. Faintly, but getting closer …
‘Aleksandr,’ my father calls from his tall leather armchair that is as big as a throne.
I leave my toy soldiers in their battle formations on the floor of my room and run to stand next to his knees.
‘Yes, papa.’
I am in awe of papa. He is tall and strong with forearms as meaty as ham shanks. He can lift mama with just one hand as if she weighs nothing more than a bottle of vodka. Not taking his shiny black eyes off me, he brings his large hairy wrist up to his right ear and listens to his watch.
‘Looks like my watch has stopped working again.’ He takes his hand away from his ear and puts on his thinking face. ‘Hmmm … I can hear mama making a cake in the kitchen, but it’s not my birthday, and I don’t think it’s hers either.’ He raises his bushy eyebrows. ‘Is it yours?’
‘Yes, papa. Yes,’ I cry excitedly.
‘Well then, how old are you today, my son?’ he asks.
‘Seven. I am seven today,’ I tell him, standing as straight and tall as I can.
There is a hint of a smile playing about his lips. There is something familiar about that smile. I don’t know why, but the apartment suddenly becomes strangely quiet. Even the noises of mama cooking in the kitchen stop. It is so quiet I can hear papa’s watch ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. I start to remember something from long ago. Something horrible. Mama is bleeding and I am hiding under the bed. How could I have forgotten such a thing?
Frightened, I take a step back.
Then my papa grins at me, and it is the happy grin from before his accident. From when I was still a small boy and we used to huddle up together in his big chair and drink sweet black tea from the same mug. I realize it must have been just another bad dream. Mama was not bleeding and I was not hiding under the bed. I grin back at papa. I love my papa. I’d do anything for him. I wish we could drink tea from the same mug again.
Papa leans forward. ‘Shall we try on the gloves?’ he whispers.
I nod happily. When I was born papa bought me a pair of boxing gloves and every birthday since I can remember we try them on to see if they fit. Until now they have not.
‘Go fetch the boxing gloves.’
I run to papa and mama’s room and open the drawer where they are kept. The battered ones that are bigger than my face belong to papa, and the small, bright red ones, shiny with newness are mine. I run back to papa with them.
‘Take your T-shirt off,’ Papa says.
I quickly pull it over my head and the winter air makes me shiver.
‘Brrrrr …’ I say, purposely making my teeth chatter and my body shiver.
Mama would have laughed and called me a clown, but papa doesn’t. I stop chattering my teeth and shivering and stand still while papa puts my gloves on my hands and binds them securely around my wrists.
‘Papa, they fit,’ I tell him with a whoop with joy. Finally papa is going to teach me to fight. He has been waiting patiently for this day to begin my training.
‘Yes, they do. You are a man now, Aleksandr,’ he says.
‘I’m a man now,’ I echo as I look at my gloved hands. Papa says if I train everyday I will become as big and strong as him.
‘And what do men do?’
‘They fight,’ I shout proudly.
‘That’s my boy,’ papa says with a big, happy smile.
I am so happy my heart feels as if it will burst in my chest.
‘I hope you ready to begin your training.’
‘Yes, papa,’
While papa puts on his gloves I hold my fists in front of my face and start dancing on the spot the way the boxers on TV do. Feeling powerful and happy-I’m a man now-I even throw a few jabs in the air with my right hand.