I cover my nose. From the doorway comes that reek I detest. It strikes me like a solid physical being. Old sweat, animal stink. Moldy, unwashed linens. Alcohol fumes. Badly cooked food with too much fat and too much salt. The vapor permeates my clothes. I used to smell like that—my hair, my skin. I used to not notice it. It infiltrated me to the bones. My eyes water. I blink and I see them.
They’re all standing there, waiting. Mama, Sonya, Lenochka, grandma. And Lyosha Kabansky. Kesha and Kasha yelp. Their floppy ears and fawn hides jitter from excitement. They wag their tails and jump at me and I give them my palms to lick and—
. . .
The beasts look at the mouse. The catfish, the two herrings, the cockroach, and the boar. It’s huge and hairy and—
. . .
I take a shuddering breath.
Mama flings herself on me. “Daughter! My sweet daughter!”
I reel under her weight, her clammy skin and flabby flesh. This affection she always displays in front of strangers, an exaggerated attachment diametrically opposite to the hatred she gives me one on one . Her hangover washes over my face.
Kesha and Kasha whimper and scratch at my legs.
“Get off her! Dumb dogs.” Mama kicks them.
They squeal, tuck their tails, and run off.
She strokes my hair. “Irka, my Irka. I thought you died. What’s the matter with you, huh? Don’t you want to kiss me?”
Would you want to kiss a catfish?
“Why? Why did you leave me like that? Have you no heart? Don’t you love your mama? You should’ve told them to call us earlier. I’ve gone all gray worried about you.” She lets go and rakes her greasy hair out of her face and purses her lips. “And now look at you, pregnant. If you would’ve stayed, none of this would’ve happened.”
I clench my fists so hard, my nails bite my palms.
She pulls me inside and I’m back in the shithole.
It didn’t change one bit.
Same narrow corridor. Same rotten parquet strewn with hairballs and soup bones picked clean and yellow dabs of cockroach poison. The cracked rotary dial phone sits on top of the dresser with most of its drawers missing. Above it the warped wallpaper is scribbled with phone numbers. Behind it steel hooks are driven directly into the cement wall and are overtaxed with hats, coats, and jackets. A dilapidated wardrobe yawns, its doors eaten through by woodworms, hinges broken. Numerous cardboard boxes are stuffed with rags and shoes. I see a pair of my ice skates sticking out from the same place where I put them years ago. The lamps on the ceiling have no shades, all smashed in the heat of drunken fights between mama and Lyosha, or mama and whomever she imagined while she battered the air.
There is the hustle and bustle of people trying to fit into the tight space. I edge away and lean on the wall.
“You look fat,” says Sonya matter-of-factly.
“Irkadura got knocked up! Irkadura got knocked up!” Lenochka bounces up and down. Sonya smacks her and she scowls and falls quiet.
“Come in, come in.” Grandma wipes her hands on her soiled apron. “I’ve just washed the floors.” She eyes the hallway. “It’s all those cursed animals. All that hair! The minute I clean up, it’s dirty again. Can you believe it?” She claps her hands and tips her head back and bursts into hoarse laughter.
I don’t want to see this, to listen to this.
There is breath on my back.
The boar! The boar! says the eaglet. I want my boar!
YOU ARE READING
Irkadura
Fantasy"My mama became a catfish when I was two, on the day I stopped talking." Neglected since birth by her mother, Irina Myshko hasn't spoken a word for most of her short Soviet life. Outcast as a mute idiot and abused by her mother's boyfriends, she esc...
