The Folveshch

4. The Folveshch

In 1930 I celebrated my twenty-second birthday 'round about the same time Renkassk cheerlessly opened the kabina: a small institution for our lost souls to exist where they were not a burden. By then, eight of our men had fallen ill over as many winters, never to recover, and the kabina was a place to house them – a place to forget them.

That is, except for Viktor Malenhov, who stayed at home with seventeen-year-old Aleksy. Not by choice, you must understand, as it was his frail, mousy son who insisted Viktor remained in his care. As for my poor, crippled father, the kabina became his new home. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't shed a tear while the volunteers shaved his head. They dressed him in a gown with a hole in the rear and gauzed over his bedsores.

My father, once a dignified man in his prime, was now reduced to a permanent feature at the kabina who could not even feed or toilet himself. His skin sagged, his muscles turned to mush, his frame withered to the bone and his teeth fell out one by one. He'd been Renkassk's best builder – resourceful, reliable, working closely with Viktor Malenhov – and now any mention of his name brought sorrow to the villagers' faces.

I visited him once a week to put my mother's mind at rest, for the news of his decline had nearly killed her. I wish I could speak of it figuratively, but she'd sunk into a depression so deep that she never fully roused from it, not in all the winters since. First her son, then the man she loved. My mother's heart broke beyond repair, but despite it all she still had me, her boy with the nice smile, and that was her salvation.

Of course, I won't sit here and pretend that losing my father didn't affect me too. In public I accepted it much the way Papa might've: chin up, chest out, and the villagers said I was always to be seen busying myself with whatever jobs needed doing.

When I visited Papa I still spoke to him as though nothing had changed, as I had when the grief of losing Rusya had still been raw. I admit: I felt as if I was slowly losing a grip on my own sanity by hoping there was a spark of life still inside him, since my father did nothing but stare blindly through me as though I wasn't there. For those first couple of years back in '22 and '23 I'd wondered with what kind of mental affliction Aleksy suffered to have held onto hope so strongly, only to find myself inwardly posing the same question.

"Have you heard from Pyotr at all?" I asked Papa one day in November. I crouched by his legs and rested my forearms on his bony knees, grateful we were alone. "It's okay if you don't remember too well; you had a lot of work to do this week. Avgustin wants me to tell you the repairs on the choir house look great, Papa."

What might he reply? Da, I heard him say in my head, tell Avgustin he owes me nothing for it. And of course I've heard from Pyotr. Your cousin comes to tell me all the latest gossip floating around Renkassk like it's his goddamn right.

My face broke into a smile before I could stop it.

"He won't be able to see you for some time, in case you're wondering," I continued. "He probably already told you this, but he got married to Yuliya –" His outrage thundered in my mind. "I know you don't like her, but he sees something in that city girl, at least. We all went to the wedding ... Her family even has this shiny American car. The Frantsevs brought her folks some jellied veal to impress them, though I'm not sure they enjoyed rural dining so much. You ever tried veal?"