Канун Hового Года
[New Year's Eve]
He does not celebrate Christmas on December 25th. But he knows some of the others do. He wanders the nicer streets of his city at night, and looks up at the buildings and the quiet, quickening lights that tower above him and the thoroughfare.
His birthday is on the 30th. His presents arrive. A large package from Ukraine- delivered in person- for his birthday and New Year's and Christmas. Usually warm winter wear, or vodka and sweets, and a kiss and a tearful apology that she can not stay. Again. In addition there is a marriage certificate from Belarus, which he promptly discards. He goes to sleep early that evening.
The next day is New Year's Eve. He has nowhere to go. His people are celebrating now, with their families and friends. At midnight, he toasts to the health of his children and drinks. And he drinks. And he drinks. He watches time go by despite himself. The hands on the clock don't seem to move. Then he remembers the clock has been broken for sixty or seventy years.
It is Christmas: January 7. Belarus circles his house like a shark, demanding that he let her in. Sometimes, he almost does. Some company is better than none. But her flares of affection terrify him, as does her unbelievable brute strength. So he barricades the doors and the windows and waits. He knows when he opens the door tomorrow morning she will be gone, and a marriage certificate will be lying innocently in his mailbox, which he will promptly discard.
March 8 is Woman's Day. He has sent off gifts to his sisters ahead of time to make sure they get there. To Belarus he normally sends ribbons. To Ukraine he sends money and sweets. The money always comes back to him later, in April, untouched.
In March it will also be Easter, or maybe in April. One of the two. Some of his people will head off to church. Some of them will simply paint eggs and invite their friends over for lunch. Midday he will receive a phone call from Ukraine, announcing that Christ Has Risen. And he will reply Indeed He Has Risen as he has done, without feeling, for the past twenty years.
In June, his people celebrate Russia Day- the anniversary of his ambiguous transition from a Soviet Socialist Republic to a sovereign state. Often the weather is nice and he can sit watching the clouds in the park. It lets him forget things for a while. Oil. The economy. The riots in Chechnya. All of these things become fleeting like the high clouds of the stratosphere.
It is December the 30th again. The 25th went by without him noticing this year. A marriage certificate comes from Belarus, and is unhesitantly discarded.
This time, Ukraine does not come.
He wonders if she too has forgotten him.
So he waits.
And at seven o'clock the sky has turned black and the doorbell finally rings. He smiles despite himself as he opens the door. His heart nearly stops.
Lithuania stands on his doorstep with a package in his arms. From Ukraine, he stammers; she was too sick to make it this year, and she asked me to bring it instead.
Russia says nothing; he merely stares and he weighs the possibility of this being a dream. He has always been a very vivid dreamer and this may be no different.
Lithuania looks about warily. He offers him the large parcel. Russia remembers himself; smiles and murmurs a thank you. He hesitates. He wants to but he doesn't know if he should. He asks if Lithuania would like to come inside and have tea. Please?
Lithuania is expressionless. It's late, he protests, and he should get home before the snow makes driving impossible.
But Lithuania can stay the night if the weather is bad, Russia offers, Lithuania can stay as long as he wants, even! There is a long pause during which Russia senses he may have said something wrong.
...da?
Um. J-just tea is all right. Lithuania concedes.
Russia smiles. Come inside, come inside! he urges perhaps a bit over-enthusiastically, nearly yanking the other nation into his home.
He offers to take Lithuania's jacket, but the other declines. It's cold. he mutters, wringing his hands.
Russia had not noticed the cold. Nevertheless, he finds a thick woolen blanket hung over a chair and tells Lithuania to make himself comfortable.
In the kitchen, he sets down the package and digs among the pots and pans to find what he is looking for. There is a heavy old iron kettle which Russia uses for making tea. A resilient piece of engineering, with a steam whistle attached, it looks utterly misbegotten in his otherwise modern kitchen. He fills it with water, turns on the stove, and sets it to boil.
He pokes his head into the living room doorway. Lithuania is still there, his expression quiet and spatial, hugging his legs. Russia can't help but smile. It has been so long since he's had someone over.
Lithuania notices, giving them both an unpleasant start.
W-what is it?
I... was just wanting to ask if you would like something to eat- da? Russia laughs like an idiot, playing with the ends of his scarf. To his relief, Lithuania's expression softens a bit.
Um. Anything is fine. I'm not... very hungry.
Okay! he smiles, salutes, and disappears into the kitchen again. He checks the pantry and the fridge. Nothing but vodka; crates of it. Had he forgotten to buy something to eat...? No matter, he can do it tomorrow. Tomorrow, he suddenly remembers, will be New Year's Eve...
New Year's eve means gifts...
His eye falls on Ukraine's package sitting on the kitchen table and he smiles. Aha. With a filet knife in hand, he cuts off the tape and pulls out the newspaper filling and looks inside.
Marriage Certifica- into the bin.
He finds three parcels wrapped in brown paper, neatly labeled in Ukraine's feminine script: Hовогодняя, Pождество... And the last one- Россия. His own name. He opens it and finds chocolate. He smiles. Thank you.
He sets the box down and goes hunting for the tea. Tea... Tea... Ah! He sees it on a high shelf in the cupboard. His great height comes in handy at moments like this.
He reaches it easily. The tin is a bit old, but the tea leaves smell fresh. Ceylon. Should he set out the sugar, he wonders. Ideally, candy should be eaten with bitter black tea, but would Lithuania prefer something different? Should he ask? Is he expected to know?
A high pitched noise nearly deafens him. He flinches- his elbow knocks something askew- he tries to catch whatever it is at the last second.
There is an explosion of boiling water all over the floor. The alleged tea kettle crashes; hissing at Russia like a rabid beast. He responds with a string of muttered profanities, shoves his scalded hand under the tap, and turns on the water.
...Russia?
Lithuania is standing the doorway, the blanket still wrapped loosely around him, his eyes wide and flickering.
Is everything all right?
Yes, yes. he says, smiling. A very stupid accident. That is all.
Lithuania is looking at the tap where the water's still running. Russia turns off the tap and he looks down at the floor.
The tea kettle has rolled to a stop just a little ways away from his toes. Lithuania stares at it for a moment, loosening his grip on the blanket somewhat. He leans down as if he means to pick it up.
You should be careful, Litvachka Russia advises him timidly. It hurts.
But the other, giving no semblance of having heard him, calmly picks up the cast-iron kettle by the tips of his fingers, takes one or two steps forward, places it on the counter, and retreats until he is hugging the doorframe again.
Thank you.
Lithuania nods. …do you…?
Hmm?
…um. Nothing. Lithuania murmurs, wringing his hair.
Oh. Okay. I suppose I should try that again, da?
You don't have to…
But what else can I do?
The tea kettle sits quietly heating the counter while the small pond on the floorboards disperses. Russia searches Lithuania's face without really expecting an answer, but he has never been good at reading expressions, and Lithuania is avoiding his eyes.
Russia speaks. I am sorry. I frightened you, yes?
I was just- startled… by the noise. Lithuania glances briefly around at the kettle, the table, and down. And he looks up at Russia.
It's fine now.
Russia nods. You will have some tea, though?
I… the other looks dubiously at his watch. I did say I would.
You did. Russia smiles, throws a dishtowel down on the floor and scuttles it around with his shoe. You can sit, if you like.
Lithuania sits.
Russia digs another dishtowel out of a drawer and designates it the same place as the first. An unorthodox method for cleaning floors, certainly, but he does not particularly care.
Lithuania watches.
Do you need any help?
Russia looks down at the soggy dishtowels that lie on the floor. Maybe. Lithuania does know a bit more about this stuff than he does. Would it be all right to ask?
…no. he says finally, with some difficulty. Lithuania is a guest today.
A nod.
He picks up the rags and dumps them in the sink. He opens the cabinets, looking for more, quietly humming under his breath. He sometimes does that, though he doesn't know why. He doesn't find any more towels. He decides the floor is fine as it is.
His hand is still stinging and flushed where the hot water washed over, and he's not very keen on touching the tea kettle again. He takes the handle very carefully with his uninjured fingers, holds it under the tap, fills it halfway, and places it back on the stove.
The coiled iron hot plate is orange. He had forgotten to turn it off the first time, it seems.
Maybe the tea will boil faster this way.
He walks over to the table where Lithuania's sitting and sits down not quite beside him and not quite across; sort of on a diagonal slant in the aether. He folds his arms on the table, then he folds them over his lap, then removes the scalded hand and just lets it hang loosely off to the side. He smiles.
How have you been?
All right. Lithuania says.
That is good...
He thinks.
...a new year starts tomorrow. The thought strikes him softly at first. Very matter of fact. A new year means little.
A new year means something to some.
How do you celebrate? Russia asks, taking the ends of his scarf in his hands with a look of juvenile curiosity. What do you do?
Ah- Lithuania stutters. Same as everyone celebrates, isn't it?
No, not everyone is the same.
Lithuania traces the edge of the tabletop with his thumb. The tree. The tree is still in the living room. Left over from Christmas... Well, not left over entirely... He does not like to think of that beautiful tree as a leftover. It's just... there. All the color. The light. Fireworks over Vilnius.
Sometimes Poland comes over... And, well, sometimes... someone will be hosting a party... It's...
He shrugs.
It's different every year.
Russia asks- But does it always make you feel happy?
And Lithuania
smiles.
Very faintly.
It does.
He looks up at Russia.
What about you?
The tea kettle whimpers. Russia jumps to his feet.
Ah- the water is starting to boil. he explains cheerfully. I am going to take it off the stove now, before it starts making the noise it did before.
Oh.
Russia turns off the heat and fishes two teacups- chipped and mismatched- out of the cupboard. The kettle, still making soft noises, looks up at him threateningly and it occurs to Russia that he will have to hold it with both hands, one way or another in order to make the tea.
He looks in all the drawers nearby for an oven mitt and finds none. Surreptitiously, he snatches one of the cold, soggy dishtowels out of the sink, and uses that for a buffer.
He hopes Lithuania won't notice.
He adds tea to the water. Its strong, inky smell gives him a sense of nostalgia. He carries the cup over to the table and sets it in front of his guest.
Thank you. says Lithuania. There is that flickering smile again.
You are welcome.
Russia makes a second trip for his own cup. And a third for the sugar.
He sits.
He blows gently over the top of the mug the way Ukraine used to remind him to do. He takes a sip. Lithuania does the same, but only after the fact.
The previous conversation seems to have wilted away, and they find themselves staring at opposite walls, quietly drinking their tea.
There are many things Russia would like to able to say. But he doesn't. There are many things he would like to hear Lithuania say. But he won't.
Lithuania has set down his mug and is checking his watch once again. I'm sorry. I have to leave now. He says. He shrugs off the blanket, and he folds it, like he used to fold laundry, and sets it carefully down on his chair.
He looks down at Russia, and Russia thinks he can see a little smile there in his features again. Maybe.
Thank you, he says.
And thank you for the company. Russia responds. He means it. He means it as more than formality.
Lithuania turns to go and Russia follows him out, almost all the way to the door.
The world outside is in shades of grey like an old movie, and shadows are peaceful and still. There is snow, but it is only the same snow that has been there since morning, and the road appears disappointingly clean and well-traveled. The sky is clear and the air smells like iron.
Lithuania nods. Have a good night. And- and happy New Year's. Well, tomorrow… it is.
You too, Lithuania. he mutters, reflexively waving. He continues to wave even as Lithuania's car pulls out of the driveway. He only stops when he sees the taillights disappear to the west. Then he closes the door.
It is the 31st again, although Russia does not become aware of it immediately when he wakes. He stares up at the ceiling for a few minutes, trying to collect himself from the dust particles floating around.
The house is cold. The house is always cold; Russia simply takes it for granted. The room is dark, although the darkness is only playing for time behind the thick black-out curtains that he's never gotten around to removing since the Second World War.
He lies very still on the sofa, looking around him at the rugs on the walls; at the chair in the corner; at the wallpaper, peeling in places, and really, little has changed.
He rises.
It is New Year's eve- the last day of an old year giving way to the next.
He has nowhere to go. His people will celebrate soon, with their families and friends. At midnight, he will toast to the health of his children and he'll drink, and he'll drink, and he'll drink. And against his better judgment, he will try again to watch the time go by on a clock whose face never changes.
He opens the curtains and cringes as midday sunlight hits him full in the face. The clean crust of snow blazes. The icicles on the window twinkle like the baubles on an evergreen tree. The glass is like ice and grows cloudy from the warmth of his breath.
He doodles shapes in the mist with his fingers- squiggles and lines and old pagan symbols from the days of his childhood. He makes faces at General Winter. He traces a heart, stares at phlegmatically, then wipes the whole glass clean with his sleeve.
The doorbell
is ringing.
Russia stares at the door.
Is Belarus early this year, he wonders, or did Ukraine drag herself here, however late?
He opens the door.
Lithuania stands on his doorstep with a package in his arms. I'm sorry. he mutters unhappily. I didn't know it was yesterday.
Russia blinks.
It was your birthday... and I didn't know 'till she told me- Ukraine that is. And I'm sorry- that must have been rude of me- um- please. Happy birthday.
From me.
He offers him a medium parcel. Russia remembers himself; smiles and says thank you. He hesitates. Would-
No. I'm sorry. I can't. Lithuania says firmly. I'm really busy today...
Oh. Russia smiles. Well, thank you for coming.
Lithuania steps off the porch.
Happy New Year... again.
And to you, Lithuania.
Lithuania smiles.
Russia watches the car pull out of the driveway, standing still in the doorway. He waves, watching the vehicle disappear down the road. His hand still stings just a little bit; and this is how he knows he hasn't been dreaming. It wasn't a dream and it really did happen, and Lithuania really was here.
It is tangible: the package in his uninjured hand.
Curious, he peels off the gift paper to find a white box. Taped to the box he finds a note in Lithuania's handwriting. Россия, it reads.
Please stay safe.
In the box he finds an electric tea kettle. Complete with a cord.
Bubbles of laughter pop in his mouth, softly at first, in frank disbelief, then louder and louder, until he is helpless with mirth and hugging the doorframe; laughing and crying hysterically.
It is New Year's Eve.
Russia sits in the doorway, cradling his forehead, giggling and wiping his eyes. He is letting the cold in. He doesn't care.
Because next week will be Christmas.
And maybe he'll see him again.
Some times, words can mean much more than what is apparent. Thank you for reading. Respectfully yours, TarasTompkin.