Read Online Who Is Martha? by Marjana Gaponenko - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marjana Gaponenko
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away for you like a cart-horse until my last drop of blood was spent. Oh, no matter what, I would have made your studies possible. What else can a mother do? My son, you made me happy back then, and now you have made me happy by coming here. Believe me, if you had not humored me, it all would have been for nothing, the life and death of your father, my life and death, the colorful dances of our ancestors, and your own life would have become a ghost ship. Believe your old mother. I, too, am taking the matter seriously.”
Levadski was glad he was sitting. Sweat was pouring down his back in icy streams. “Forgive me,” he said spitting out onto the plate the onion tart he had chewed to a pulp. “I can’t swallow,” Levadski moaned, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand. The more desperately he tried to remember the act of swallowing, the more unnatural it became.
Levadski’s mother drummed her fingers on the table and continued: “A catastrophe is on its way. The starlings and sparrows have disappeared from the surrounding villages, my son. And probably from the big cities as well, from Tarnopol, Stanislau, far away Cracow. Did you notice anything in Lemberg?”
“I can’t swallow any more!” Levadski sobbed.
“Then you will have to starve!” Levadski’s mother’s gaze drilled a hole in the plate with the spit-out puddle of pulp. Whether she was angry or deeply offended, Levadski could not say. His sudden inability to perform a basic reflex and this conversation that spelled disaster paralyzed him.
After an agonizing pause, she continued in a quiet voice:
“We need to get out of here.”
“Why?” Levadski asked.
“Because the Flood is coming,” his mother whispered, pouring him some tea. Levadski drank, and just as he realized that he’d managed to swallow without effort, his mother resumed talking.
“Where to, you probably want to ask. I am going to tell you what you already know. No, I won’t tell you. You can guess. So, where to, where is it that we are going to escape to, to get away from the Flood? What does history teach us?”
“You mean the fairytale from the Old Testament?”
“My son,” Levadski’s mother said, clearing her throat and smoothing down the invisible creases of her apron, “you may have grown up in a forester’s hut, but in an educated household nevertheless. If you are going to claim that the fairytales, myths, legends and sagas that have been painstakingly passed on from one generation to the next have nothing to do with reality, you are spitting in your old mother’s face.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, but Mo–”
“No buts! If you’re not familiar with the name Noah, think of the weaver birds in Africa. You will know them. The weavers that habitually build their nests on the riverbank sense the rain a year ahead and plan accordingly in case the river swells. If a nest is hanging high up in a tree there will be a lot of rain that year. It’s similar in the case of swallows in Japan who usually build their nests above ground level. If a typhoon year threatens flooding, they build their nests as high as they can. We too are going to move our nest to the hills. We are going to do the same as the birds. My suitcase is packed.”
“To which mountains?” Levadski groaned.
“The high mountains, my dear son.”
“I realize you are homesick and want to go skiing in the Alps,” Levadski laughed. His mother had gone crazy, there was no doubt about it. “The starlings and sparrows have disappeared, you say?”
“Great titmice, blue tits and coal tits and the ancient colony of jackdaws from the village church,” his mother said, listing them.
“I understand, I understand,” Levadski mumbled, “so where is the journey taking us?”
“To the Caucasus.” Levadski’s eyes widened. “You were thinking Mount Ararat? Your mother isn’t Noah. That would be uninspired. Have you ever heard of Chechnya?”
Levadski frowned. North Caucasus. Nothing came
Levadski was glad he was sitting. Sweat was pouring down his back in icy streams. “Forgive me,” he said spitting out onto the plate the onion tart he had chewed to a pulp. “I can’t swallow,” Levadski moaned, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand. The more desperately he tried to remember the act of swallowing, the more unnatural it became.
Levadski’s mother drummed her fingers on the table and continued: “A catastrophe is on its way. The starlings and sparrows have disappeared from the surrounding villages, my son. And probably from the big cities as well, from Tarnopol, Stanislau, far away Cracow. Did you notice anything in Lemberg?”
“I can’t swallow any more!” Levadski sobbed.
“Then you will have to starve!” Levadski’s mother’s gaze drilled a hole in the plate with the spit-out puddle of pulp. Whether she was angry or deeply offended, Levadski could not say. His sudden inability to perform a basic reflex and this conversation that spelled disaster paralyzed him.
After an agonizing pause, she continued in a quiet voice:
“We need to get out of here.”
“Why?” Levadski asked.
“Because the Flood is coming,” his mother whispered, pouring him some tea. Levadski drank, and just as he realized that he’d managed to swallow without effort, his mother resumed talking.
“Where to, you probably want to ask. I am going to tell you what you already know. No, I won’t tell you. You can guess. So, where to, where is it that we are going to escape to, to get away from the Flood? What does history teach us?”
“You mean the fairytale from the Old Testament?”
“My son,” Levadski’s mother said, clearing her throat and smoothing down the invisible creases of her apron, “you may have grown up in a forester’s hut, but in an educated household nevertheless. If you are going to claim that the fairytales, myths, legends and sagas that have been painstakingly passed on from one generation to the next have nothing to do with reality, you are spitting in your old mother’s face.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, but Mo–”
“No buts! If you’re not familiar with the name Noah, think of the weaver birds in Africa. You will know them. The weavers that habitually build their nests on the riverbank sense the rain a year ahead and plan accordingly in case the river swells. If a nest is hanging high up in a tree there will be a lot of rain that year. It’s similar in the case of swallows in Japan who usually build their nests above ground level. If a typhoon year threatens flooding, they build their nests as high as they can. We too are going to move our nest to the hills. We are going to do the same as the birds. My suitcase is packed.”
“To which mountains?” Levadski groaned.
“The high mountains, my dear son.”
“I realize you are homesick and want to go skiing in the Alps,” Levadski laughed. His mother had gone crazy, there was no doubt about it. “The starlings and sparrows have disappeared, you say?”
“Great titmice, blue tits and coal tits and the ancient colony of jackdaws from the village church,” his mother said, listing them.
“I understand, I understand,” Levadski mumbled, “so where is the journey taking us?”
“To the Caucasus.” Levadski’s eyes widened. “You were thinking Mount Ararat? Your mother isn’t Noah. That would be uninspired. Have you ever heard of Chechnya?”
Levadski frowned. North Caucasus. Nothing came
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