Read Online The Complete Works of Isaac Babel Reprint Edition by Isaac Babel, Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine by Peter Constantine Isaac Babel Nathalie Babel - Free Book Online Page B
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Muscat-Lunelle that he had brought with him—he knew Barbara Stepanovnas weakness. They drank a glass each and right away had another. Their voices rang louder, Barbara Stepanovnas fleshy nose grew red, and the stays of her corset expanded and bulged out. Mirlits was telling a jovial story and burst out laughing. Rimma sat silently in the corner, wearing the blouse into which she had changed.
After Barbara Stepanovna and Mirlits finished the Muscat-Lunelle, they went for a walk. Barbara Stepanovna felt that she was just a tiny bit tipsy She was a little ashamed about this, but at the same time couldn’t care less because there was simply too much hardship in life, so everything could go to hell.
Barbara Stepanovna came back earlier than she had anticipated, because the Boikos, whom she had intended to visit, had not been home. She was taken aback by the silence that lay over the apartment. Usually at this time of the day the girls were always fooling around with the students, giggling, running about. The only noise came from the bathroom. Barbara Stepanovna went to the kitchen. There was a little window there from which one could see what was going on in the bathroom.
She went to the little window and saw a strange and most unusual scene.
The stove for boiling the bathwater was red-hot. The bath was filled with steaming water. Rimma was kneeling next to the stove. In her hands she held a pair of curling irons. She was heating them over the fire. Alla was standing naked next to the bath. Her long braids were undone. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
“Come here,” Alla told Rimma. “Listen, can you maybe hear its heart beating?”
Rimma laid her head on Allas soft, slightly swollen belly.
“It s not beating,” she answered. “Anyway theres no doubt about it.”
Tm going to die,” Alla whispered. Tm going to get scalded by the water! I wont be able to bear it! Not the curling irons! You don’t know how to do it!”
“Everyone does it this way,” Rimma told her. “Stop whimpering, Alla. You cant have that baby.”
Alla was about to climb into the tub, but she didnt manage to, because at that very moment she heard the unforgettable, quiet, wheezing voice of her mother call out. “What are you doing in there, girls?” Two or three hours later, Alla was lying on Barbara Stepanovnas wide bed, tucked in, caressed, and wept over. She had told her mother everything. She felt relieved. She felt like a little girl who had overcome a silly childish fear.
Rimma moved about the bedroom carefully and silently, tidying up, making tea for her mother, forcing her to eat something, seeing to it that the room would be clean. Then she lit the icon lamp in which the oil had not been refilled for at least two weeks, undressed, trying hard not to make any noise, and lay down next to her sister.
Barbara Stepanovna sat at the table. She could see the icon lamp, its even, darkish red flame dimly illuminating the Virgin Mary. Her tipsiness, somehow strange and light, still bubbled in her head. The girls quickly fell asleep. Allas face was broad, white, and peaceful. Rimma nestled up against her, sighed in her sleep, and shuddered.
Around one in the morning, Barbara Stepanovna lit a candle, placed a sheet of paper in front of her, and wrote a letter to her husband:
Dear Nikolai,
Mirlits came by today, a very decent Jew, and tomorrow I’m expecting a gentleman who will give me money for the house. I think I’m doing things right, but I’m getting more and more worried, because I lack confidence.
I know you have your own troubles, your work, and I shouldn’t be bothering you with this, but things at home, Nikolai, are somehow not going all too well. The children are growing up, life nowadays is more demanding—courses, stenography—girls want more freedom. They need their father, they need someone to maybe yell at them, but I simply don’t seem to be able to. I can’t help thinking that your leaving for Kamchatka was
After Barbara Stepanovna and Mirlits finished the Muscat-Lunelle, they went for a walk. Barbara Stepanovna felt that she was just a tiny bit tipsy She was a little ashamed about this, but at the same time couldn’t care less because there was simply too much hardship in life, so everything could go to hell.
Barbara Stepanovna came back earlier than she had anticipated, because the Boikos, whom she had intended to visit, had not been home. She was taken aback by the silence that lay over the apartment. Usually at this time of the day the girls were always fooling around with the students, giggling, running about. The only noise came from the bathroom. Barbara Stepanovna went to the kitchen. There was a little window there from which one could see what was going on in the bathroom.
She went to the little window and saw a strange and most unusual scene.
The stove for boiling the bathwater was red-hot. The bath was filled with steaming water. Rimma was kneeling next to the stove. In her hands she held a pair of curling irons. She was heating them over the fire. Alla was standing naked next to the bath. Her long braids were undone. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
“Come here,” Alla told Rimma. “Listen, can you maybe hear its heart beating?”
Rimma laid her head on Allas soft, slightly swollen belly.
“It s not beating,” she answered. “Anyway theres no doubt about it.”
Tm going to die,” Alla whispered. Tm going to get scalded by the water! I wont be able to bear it! Not the curling irons! You don’t know how to do it!”
“Everyone does it this way,” Rimma told her. “Stop whimpering, Alla. You cant have that baby.”
Alla was about to climb into the tub, but she didnt manage to, because at that very moment she heard the unforgettable, quiet, wheezing voice of her mother call out. “What are you doing in there, girls?” Two or three hours later, Alla was lying on Barbara Stepanovnas wide bed, tucked in, caressed, and wept over. She had told her mother everything. She felt relieved. She felt like a little girl who had overcome a silly childish fear.
Rimma moved about the bedroom carefully and silently, tidying up, making tea for her mother, forcing her to eat something, seeing to it that the room would be clean. Then she lit the icon lamp in which the oil had not been refilled for at least two weeks, undressed, trying hard not to make any noise, and lay down next to her sister.
Barbara Stepanovna sat at the table. She could see the icon lamp, its even, darkish red flame dimly illuminating the Virgin Mary. Her tipsiness, somehow strange and light, still bubbled in her head. The girls quickly fell asleep. Allas face was broad, white, and peaceful. Rimma nestled up against her, sighed in her sleep, and shuddered.
Around one in the morning, Barbara Stepanovna lit a candle, placed a sheet of paper in front of her, and wrote a letter to her husband:
Dear Nikolai,
Mirlits came by today, a very decent Jew, and tomorrow I’m expecting a gentleman who will give me money for the house. I think I’m doing things right, but I’m getting more and more worried, because I lack confidence.
I know you have your own troubles, your work, and I shouldn’t be bothering you with this, but things at home, Nikolai, are somehow not going all too well. The children are growing up, life nowadays is more demanding—courses, stenography—girls want more freedom. They need their father, they need someone to maybe yell at them, but I simply don’t seem to be able to. I can’t help thinking that your leaving for Kamchatka was
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