Lara's Gift Page 4

  If only I had been born a boy. Then Papa would have the son he wanted and would leave Mama alone.

  It didn’t work out the way Papa had wanted.

  I glanced at the icon again.

  Please, give us a little girl.

  I prayed my prayers would be answered. I couldn’t imagine a life without the dogs.

  I was about to kiss the icon again when Papa entered through the front door, carrying a tray painted in flowery reds and golds against a shiny black background, courtesy of the Count’s kitchen. Set within it was Mama’s midday meal: a bowl of cabbage soup, a lump of buckwheat kasha slathered in butter, a glass of black chai, and a clay jug of honey to sweeten the porridge.

  Papa scowled at Zar like he was rat poop in Mama’s cabbage soup. “With the baby coming so close, we can’t have Zar in the house anymore.” He opened the door and ordered Zar outside.

  Zar looked confused, but left.

  “Tyatya, nyet!” I expected Papa to notice the bandage around Zar’s neck, not kick him outside.

  “Enough, Lara. You shouldn’t be here, either. Your mama needs her rest for when the baby comes.” Papa’s voice was laced with genuine worry. Ever since Mama announced she was with child, he treated her like a delicate rose from Countess Vorontsova’s greenhouse garden that no one was allowed to touch.

  Not even me.

  “No harm’s come,” Mama reassured him. “Lara got to feel the baby move.”

  Papa’s goose-gray eyes brightened. He bent down on both knees and clutched the gold cross that hung around his neck, just like the one Mama wore. With his eyes on the icon, he kissed the pendant. “God pray this one’s a healthy boy.”

  “He’s a kicker just like his sister. That’s worth more to me than a bag of gold rubles.” It warmed my heart whenever Mama spoke of me, too—and not just of the baby.

  “What’s this?” Papa pointed to Mama’s sewing basket.

  Mama’s face turned to one of guilt. “The work isn’t strenuous, and it keeps my mind free from worry, dear husband.”

  Papa shook his head. “I thought we agreed. No more work until after the birth.”

  “I can’t sit and do nothing,” Mama said. “The Countess must be dressed in the very finest.”

  Before Mama’s meal turned cold, I scraped the last of the honey from the clay jug and let it dribble off the wooden spoon into a thin golden stream over the kasha. With the honey I drew a silhouette of a borzoi running. Slowly the image melted away into the hot brown porridge. As I stirred to even out the sweet taste, vapors of steam rose and the scent of linden flowers wafted in the air.

  “Mmmm … looks tasty!” Mama licked her lips, and then opened her mouth wide.

  Papa grabbed the spoon from my hands and wagged it at me. “I’ll take care of your mama. You’ve got chores to do and Zola needs your attention. The other dogs are stealing her food.”

  Papa surprised me. Ever since Zar took it upon himself to breed with Zola, Papa paid her less attention. He had wanted to breed her with Borei and she had refused him. So when Papa stepped away, I didn’t stop Zar from mating with Zola. And just as I had seen it in a vision, Zola took to him right away. Papa was furious when he returned to see Zar mounted on Zola and complained that her litter wouldn’t amount to much. Sometimes I wondered what Papa had against Zar. The way Papa ignored Zar seemed as if he went out of his way to do so, like Zar was some kind of threat.

  Under a darkening, late-afternoon sky, I collected Zar, who had been patiently waiting for me outside the door. Along our way to the kennel we passed by the bell tower. Some of the church bells were centuries old, covered in motifs of icons and other saintly images. Underneath the bells stood the Count’s official bell-ringer, cloaked in a priestly black robe, busy polishing and readying the bells for Sunday mass. Through the orchestrated peals and the clanging of the bells’ clappers, field-workers easily followed mass during a busy harvest when every set of hands was needed.

  “Our only hope is to light a prayer candle before it’s too late,” I said to Zar, and headed into the old wooden chapel. I hated to make Zola wait and resolved to give her extra meat to wipe away my guilt.

  Hundreds of candles glowed against the gold-leaf background of the icons that covered the walls. I approached the Virgin Mary, bent down on both knees, and crossed my chest. A sea of candles, cradled in glass perched on iron stands, surrounded her. I lighted one more candle.

  Please, I prayed, give me a baby sister.

  Footsteps, heavy and hurried, came from the direction of the Count’s private sitting room. With his hands at his hips in a smock covered in paint stood the artist the Count had commissioned to paint a mural of iconic images for his wife. His eyes were glued on Zar. “This must be a borzoi. Is it true they can catch a wolf? He looks so thin and small.”

  “Oh, yes.” I glided my hand along Zar’s side. “His brother, Borei, has pinned plenty of them. He’s the Count’s top dog.”

  The painter took a step closer, wiped his hand clean against his trousers, and then extended it to me. “Name’s Ruslan Sergeyevich Savin.”

  “With pleasure.” I shook his hand. “I’m the kennel steward’s daughter, Lara Ivanovna Bogdanova.”

  Ruslan squatted in front of Zar and reached out to him, his palm up, for Zar to sniff. Playfully, Zar nudged Ruslan’s hand, and then frisked around him with his front paws splayed, his head down, his rump in the air, and his tail carried low in the shape of a sickle.

  “Zar likes you,” I said.

  Ruslan patted Zar on the head. “Such a regal dog. Look how much he resembles the Count, with his long, aristocratic nose. And the way he moves is with the grace of a ballerina dancing for the Tsar.”

  I nodded in full agreement and added, “A borzoi is to dogs what Pushkin is to poetry.” I didn’t need to know how to read to appreciate Pushkin. His rhythmic lyrics made it easy to memorize my favorite lines.

  “That says something about borzoi,” Ruslan said. “Pushkin lies at the soul of every Russian.”

  “Like your icons.” My eyes wandered from one icon to the next. “Which ones are yours?”

  “Nearly all of them. My specialty is faces.”

  “There must be hundreds.”

  Ruslan smiled. “One hundred and sixty-nine, to be exact. But I’ve never done a mural so grand in scale as this one.” He pointed to the mural on the far wall. “I wanted to understand the way the natural light would fall on it. So here I am.”

  I took in the details of each face he had sketched out so far. What impressed me most were the eyes. They captured the emotional essence of each figure, such innocence in the child, such compassion in the mother. My eyes returned to the Virgin. Hers was the image I liked best. I could feel the motherly bond she had for the child in the expression Ruslan had created on her face. “The Countess will be pleased, of that I’m certain.”

  “Let’s hope,” he said. “Hers is a critical eye.”

  “I could never paint the way you do. I’m all thumbs,” I said.

  “With the right training you could be taught how to paint iconic images just like these,” Ruslan said. “Of course, you’d have to cut off your braid,” he added. “And wear trousers.”

  “Everything would be simpler if I were a boy,” I said.

  “Be careful what you wish for, especially for things that shall never be,” Ruslan said. “We all have hardships we must bear. Artists, for one, never know where they’ll find work. Most of us travel too much, moving from project to project, chapel to chapel, church to church … and we never spend much time with our families. Some of us don’t even bother to start one.…”

  His voice trailed off.

  “I’d dislike anything that took me away from my family. That’s why I want to become the next kennel steward, but my papa won’t permit it if my mama gives birth to a baby boy.” My voice rose with each word.

  “Maybe this is God’s way of steering you down a different path.”

  I sat a little taller
. “The dogs are just what God intended for me. I know it, as I know my own name.”

  Zar lifted his head from the floor and let out a soft cry.

  “Looks like Zar thinks so, too,” Ruslan said.

  “He knows so,” I corrected. I reached into my pocket, touched the golden borzoi running across the handle of the knife Alexander had given to me, and carried my chin higher.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Red Door

  I bid farewell to Ruslan and hurried to the kennel with Zar to tend to Zola. Along the way the cold, early-evening air slapped my face and the gray sky hinted of snow. Once inside the kennel, I couldn’t help myself and ran from stall to stall, peering into each one, to greet every dog. “Hello, Borei! Hello, Taran! Hello, Buyan, Bistri, Buran, Lovkiy, Rossak, Ryss, Volan, and Vlast! Hello, sweet Zarya, Zvezda, Umnitza, Babochka, Bronya, Raduga, and Shaika! And hello to you, too, Dobraya, Skoraya, Snigurka, and Sila!”

  In the last stall, where we kept our breeding dogs, I found Zola tucked in a corner, quietly resting on a bed of straw settled under the stone that hung from the ceiling to ward off evil spirits. Zar greeted Zola with eager little bites on the neck while the other dogs in her stall quickly surrounded me, nosing and nudging me for attention and pieces of meat. I put a lead on Zola and led her through the kennel into the birthing area. Zar followed beside her, his head held high like a protective rooster.

  Zola explored all four corners of her birthing stall, sniffing and digging as she went, until she settled herself just underneath the stone that hung from the ceiling in a corner closest to the stove. Zar nestled up next to her.

  “Such a smart girl.” I curled up next to her and Zar, imagining what their pups would look like. Before I knew it, I was fast asleep.

  Early the next morning Alexander woke me from a sound sleep. “Isn’t it a bit too soon to put Zola in a birthing stall?”

  “Papa said the other dogs were stealing her food,” I said.

  “Poor girl,” Alexander said, stroking Zola’s head, and then his eyes fell on the bandage I had tied around Zar’s neck. “Is he all right after yesterday?”

  “He’s fine. I wanted Papa to notice him,” I said. “Have you talked to him about giving Zar some training?”

  “Not yet, Larochka.” He patted his chest with both hands. “Up, Zar.”

  Alexander caught Zar’s paws and waltzed him around the birthing stall. “Are you ready to become a father, boy?”

  It pleased me that Alexander wasn’t disappointed by the mating.

  “That looks like splendid fun, Sasha. Zar’s never jumped up and danced with me like that.”

  Alexander let go of Zar’s paws. “Give it a whirl.”

  I patted my chest. “Up, boy.”

  Zar sat down.

  I patted my chest again. “Zar, up.”

  He lifted his paw.

  “He’s afraid to hurt you,” Alexander said.

  “Please, Zar.” I pounded my chest this time. “You won’t hurt me. I’m strong enough.”

  Zar gently pawed at my leg.

  “I can see in his eyes that he wants to obey,” Alexander said.

  My cheeks burned red from embarrassment. “He doesn’t think I can do it.”

  Just then, Papa barged into the birthing area. “Your mama’s about to give birth!”

  “Hurry,” Alexander said. “I’ll watch over Zola.”

  Papa and I rushed home. Again, Zar was forbidden inside and curled up on his sleeping pallet, now positioned by the door. My knotted stomach waged a tug-of-war between my fear of Mama giving birth to a boy and my excitement at welcoming a sister into the world.

  “The baby’s coming. My water broke,” Mama said between moans. With a strained face she kissed her cross three times. “Fetch the village midwife. Tell her the cow needs tending and offer her a payment that’s customary, not a kopeck more.”

  “Tell her I’ll give her an extra gold ruble if she delivers a healthy boy,” Papa added.

  “Remember to look for the red door,” Mama said.

  When I finally reached the village, where rows of log homes sat along the river’s edge, women in dark dresses wearing colorful, flowery scarves over their heads were busy collecting buckets of water. Their small children toddled behind them in bare, muddy feet. I quickly found the log house with the red door situated on a prominent corner in the center of the village. I pushed open the gate made of woven twigs, walked past a patch of dying marigolds and a spotty garden of herbs, and knocked on the red door. A hawkish-looking man with clawlike hands opened it just a crack.

  “What do you want?” He put no warmth in his voice.

  “I’m looking for the midwife.”

  He forced a black, toothy smile on his face that looked as natural as a wolf cradling a lamb.

  I stumbled backward in fear.

  Zar suddenly stepped from behind me and stood between us.

  A look of fright flashed across Hawkman’s face and he slammed the door shut.

  I approached the red door again and banged on it. “I’ve come for the midwife. Open up!”

  An old woman with a hairy chin, bright red cheeks, and spectacles perched on a prominent nose opened the door. She wore her long gray hair in two thick braids that hung down her back and nearly swept the floor. “My nephew doesn’t much like dogs. He’s afraid of them,” she said. “I am the midwife you seek. What can I do for you?”

  “I came about our cow.” I didn’t like calling Mama a cow. But secrecy was necessary to ease her labor pains.

  “The payment for receiving the baby?” the midwife asked.

  “That which is customary,” I answered. “Two loaves of bread—one rye, the other of sifted flour—a cotton shawl, and ten kopecks in cash. If the baby is born a healthy boy, my papa will add a gold ruble.”

  “Davai!” she said, shooing me out the door like a pesky flea. She collected a basket full of herbs and a small ax and was quick to lock the door behind her. From the window, I felt her nephew’s eyes bearing down on me, like a hawk approaching its prey in a shallow glide before snatching it with a quick swipe of its talons.

  “We must hurry,” I said to the midwife.

  For someone so old, the midwife moved nimbly along the path and through the woods up to the grassy grounds of the estate. The air had become suddenly much cooler and the late-morning sky had turned a steel-gray color that threatened an early and long winter.

  “What happened to him?” the midwife asked, pointing to Zar’s neck.

  “A hunting injury,” I answered.

  She seemed puzzled by my response. “Does such a noble dog truly earn his keep?”

  I thought it a silly question. “Of course he does. Why would you think otherwise?”

  “Things of beauty can be deceiving,” she said.

  Zar was no doubt a handsome dog. For me, what existed inside of Zar was beyond beauty. Perhaps it was the bond that connected him to me and me to him—a bond I was certain would never break.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Birth

  The moment we stepped inside our home, the midwife faced the family icon and genuflected. She put her basket down by Mama, lifted her bed dress, and peaked at Mama’s private parts. I couldn’t bear to watch and shut my eyes.

  “How long has she been this way?” the midwife asked.

  “Since early morning,” Papa answered.

  “I need to progress the birth,” the midwife said.

  “What can I do to help?” Papa asked.

  The midwife pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose and eyed Papa with surprise. It wasn’t common for a man to be present at a birth. “You’re eager for a son, I suppose.”

  Papa nodded. “We’ve all prayed for a boy.”

  Not everyone, I thought.

  The midwife turned to me. “You shouldn’t be here, either.”

  “I need them both,” Mama said. “She’ll be married as soon as a suitable husband is found.”

  The midwife ogle
d me from head to toe, like a sack of beets at the market, and then turned to Papa. “My nephew would make a fine husband.”

  I gasped. “Our focus should be on Mama.”

  “Yes, of course,” the midwife said. “Let’s help your mama up from the sleeping bench.”

  Like obedient dogs, Papa and I pulled Mama up and supported her.

  The midwife poked my arm and pointed between Mama’s legs. “Crawl through three times.”

  I got down on my hands and knees and with my eyes closed scurried through Mama’s legs, not liking it one bit—each time praying, Please be a baby girl. I worried something might drip down on me. And even worse—what if the baby came out and landed on top of me?

  Each time I crawled through Mama’s legs—back and forth, back and forth, back and forth—Mama moaned, “Tell me my baby’s coming.”

  The midwife got down on her knees and looked again. A frown appeared on her face. “Your baby’s a stubborn one. We’ll have to hang you from the rafters.” She pulled bands out from her basket and instructed Papa and me on how to attach them to the beams above, then she told Mama to twist the other end of the bands around her wrists and to hold on.

  Mama hung by the beams, like a butchered pig, for several long hours, moaning and groaning.

  I didn’t envy Mama one bit.

  By early evening, the moans and groans were coming one on top of the other and the bands had stretched so much that Mama no longer dangled in the air.

  And then, at last, Mama announced, “The baby’s here!”

  “The head is starting to crown!” The midwife sprang up from her knees so fast her glasses fell off.

  Papa took me in his arms and danced me around our long, whitewashed table. He looked like a young boy under the spell of his first crush.

  The midwife moved Mama back to her bench and encouraged her to push.

  And so did Papa. “Push, dorogaya, push!”

  We all watched on—everyone praying for a son, everyone except for me. I was clutching Alexander’s knife, wishing it had magical powers to deliver me a little sister.