.
And with his dripping hands reaches up again and holds his brother’s. And soothes them.
. . . seven . . .
“ Kukareku !” the boys shout.
. . . vosyem . . .
Such a long call! So drawn out and furious!
. . . devyat . . .
Wavery as a hurdy-gurdy’s wail! Listen: a kolyosnaya lira keening!
. . . desyat . . .
Hear the whooping of the crowd!
Dima woke to a sound in his throat like a bow striking a fiddle string, some strand of joy reverberating in his chest. Music. For a moment, he thought it came from out on the street—how many years had it been since he’d seen musicians play?—and then the chorus burst in, breaking with static, and he knew his mother had finally found her folk songs on the radio. That morning, after working his twelve-hour shift, he’d returned home to find her still dressed in her Red Army uniform, her cap replaced by a flowered scarf, turning the dials, confounded by the absence of her favorite evening show. Now, from the kitchen, he could hear her accompany it with clapping.
He lay on his cot, his eyes still shut, coming back into the world as slowly as he could. Outside his bedroom, the song wound down. The radio crackled with heavy gongs: the clock bells in the country’s capital keeping everyone on track. One, two, three . . . Each peal shook the daylight against his eyelids. He knew he should go back to sleep—in a couple hours he’d wolf a bowl of soup, catch the tram, get back on the glass, maybe pass Yarik returning from work—but he was watching windows in the distance: the lights of the cultural house pulsing, a celebration shaking the dom kultura ’s walls. When he’d gone out to get the rooster, he hadn’t had time to travel farther down the road. Now, he was seeing it as it used to be: crammed with trucks and tractors, the fields to each side flickering with flashlight beams of farmers coming, the bonfire lighting all the faces of the kolkhozniki that swarmed the yard, clambered through the doorway into the hall. On his breastbone, he could feel their boot clomps, the beat of the double bass, and he kept his eyes closed, his breath quiet, tried not to leak out any of the air inside.
In the hall, it was thick with cigarette smoke, the waft of wet wool, alive with thuds of mud-matted boots as the crowd surged onto the dance floor, laughter in their eyes, vodka in their cheeks, whoops and cries and the guitar’s sudden strumming, the plucking of the gusli, the fiddler bending to his bow. Hands on hips and waists, boots banging down, the crowd began to dance. Barinyas and troikas, kamarinskayas and khorovods . The brothers wading in. Dima with his high-kneed stomps, Yarik’s horse-in-harness prancing. Until the musicians broke, the crowd cleared, the clapping began: the Cossack competition. Always, if the twins were there, they danced it. And if they danced it, they won.
At the bandleader’s call, the floor full of dancers would go still: crouched low, hovering on haunches, one leg stretched straight, the other bent beneath. The rules were simple: everyone at the same low squat, the same single kick per beat, the beats quickening, the legs tiring, the dancers collapsing until only one remained. There came the balalaika trill. The singer’s voice: long vowel swooping up and up. And the first beat would boom from the band, the second drowned beneath the crash of half a hundred heels hitting the floor as one, another hundred hands coming together in the rhythm-keeping clapping of the crowd. Everyone had their strategies: barefooters hitched heavy skirts high up their thighs; boot wearers padded their heels with hay; collaborators circled up, held shoulders for balance; singles crossed their arms, or pumped them, or flapped at the air as if hoping for lift. But Dima and Yarik would simply face each other, grip each other’s hands and, leaning back, lash their right legs out, their left, kicks so synchronized the muscles of one seemed to move the other’s, locked eyes
And with his dripping hands reaches up again and holds his brother’s. And soothes them.
. . . seven . . .
“ Kukareku !” the boys shout.
. . . vosyem . . .
Such a long call! So drawn out and furious!
. . . devyat . . .
Wavery as a hurdy-gurdy’s wail! Listen: a kolyosnaya lira keening!
. . . desyat . . .
Hear the whooping of the crowd!
Dima woke to a sound in his throat like a bow striking a fiddle string, some strand of joy reverberating in his chest. Music. For a moment, he thought it came from out on the street—how many years had it been since he’d seen musicians play?—and then the chorus burst in, breaking with static, and he knew his mother had finally found her folk songs on the radio. That morning, after working his twelve-hour shift, he’d returned home to find her still dressed in her Red Army uniform, her cap replaced by a flowered scarf, turning the dials, confounded by the absence of her favorite evening show. Now, from the kitchen, he could hear her accompany it with clapping.
He lay on his cot, his eyes still shut, coming back into the world as slowly as he could. Outside his bedroom, the song wound down. The radio crackled with heavy gongs: the clock bells in the country’s capital keeping everyone on track. One, two, three . . . Each peal shook the daylight against his eyelids. He knew he should go back to sleep—in a couple hours he’d wolf a bowl of soup, catch the tram, get back on the glass, maybe pass Yarik returning from work—but he was watching windows in the distance: the lights of the cultural house pulsing, a celebration shaking the dom kultura ’s walls. When he’d gone out to get the rooster, he hadn’t had time to travel farther down the road. Now, he was seeing it as it used to be: crammed with trucks and tractors, the fields to each side flickering with flashlight beams of farmers coming, the bonfire lighting all the faces of the kolkhozniki that swarmed the yard, clambered through the doorway into the hall. On his breastbone, he could feel their boot clomps, the beat of the double bass, and he kept his eyes closed, his breath quiet, tried not to leak out any of the air inside.
In the hall, it was thick with cigarette smoke, the waft of wet wool, alive with thuds of mud-matted boots as the crowd surged onto the dance floor, laughter in their eyes, vodka in their cheeks, whoops and cries and the guitar’s sudden strumming, the plucking of the gusli, the fiddler bending to his bow. Hands on hips and waists, boots banging down, the crowd began to dance. Barinyas and troikas, kamarinskayas and khorovods . The brothers wading in. Dima with his high-kneed stomps, Yarik’s horse-in-harness prancing. Until the musicians broke, the crowd cleared, the clapping began: the Cossack competition. Always, if the twins were there, they danced it. And if they danced it, they won.
At the bandleader’s call, the floor full of dancers would go still: crouched low, hovering on haunches, one leg stretched straight, the other bent beneath. The rules were simple: everyone at the same low squat, the same single kick per beat, the beats quickening, the legs tiring, the dancers collapsing until only one remained. There came the balalaika trill. The singer’s voice: long vowel swooping up and up. And the first beat would boom from the band, the second drowned beneath the crash of half a hundred heels hitting the floor as one, another hundred hands coming together in the rhythm-keeping clapping of the crowd. Everyone had their strategies: barefooters hitched heavy skirts high up their thighs; boot wearers padded their heels with hay; collaborators circled up, held shoulders for balance; singles crossed their arms, or pumped them, or flapped at the air as if hoping for lift. But Dima and Yarik would simply face each other, grip each other’s hands and, leaning back, lash their right legs out, their left, kicks so synchronized the muscles of one seemed to move the other’s, locked eyes
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