Chapters (59)
By the end, when Irina realizes that she will never see Moscow, when the actress’s voice becomes heavy and drained of hope, Sasha knows that no matter what happens, she is going to be an actress when she turns eighteen, and this feeling of certainty spreads around her chest like a cup of hot tea sweetened with two spoonfuls of Grandma’s black currant jam. She will spend her life onstage, her voice projected and her soul transformed; she will live the lives of others, and shed their tears, and die their deaths.
She will stow this secret inside her like a treasure, away from the neighbors’ inquisitive glances, away from her mother’s teacher’s voice and Grandpa’s blue stare. She will hold this secret on the back shelf of her heart, and no one will suspect anything, not even Grandma, who must have felt the hot touch of Theater when her retrograde father prohibited her from singing opera in Moscow. Sasha will pretend she wants to be an engineer, like Grandpa, or a doctor, like her mother, so no one will suspect anything until she finishes tenth grade and then leaves for Moscow to study acting.
5
5
“If you behave,” her mother says, “we’ll see about going to Moscow for the May Day parade.”
The if you behave phrase, she knows, is as deep as their drinking well, but for a few months, she can stay away from dangers and honor Grandpa’s house rules. She will behave. She will be like the three sisters from the play, dreaming and hopeful, waiting for Moscow, with its promise of another life.
On April 28, Sasha and her mother finally board the train at the Ivanovo junction. They stare at the birches and firs running behind the window; they drink tea out of glasses in metal holders the conductor with brass buttons on her uniform brings before they go to sleep, and then she wakes up in Moscow. The train lurches and exhales a cloud of steam, and she panics, afraid that she has slept through Moscow and now it’s too late. But her mother is folding up the blanket into a perfect square, and she realizes that her fear is silly, that Moscow is the last stop on the train route because there is nothing else beyond it.
They walk onto the platform in a crowd bristling with elbows. They walk past people sleeping on wooden benches, past a cistern with “beer” painted on its side and a woman in a white apron rinsing the only mug under a squirt of water, out into a street, as wide as a whole potato field but entirely paved.