5. The Baby

Перевод рассказа "Лялька" из сборника "Устная традиция"

The creativity of my older daughter Masha showed itself in yet another way when she was three or four years old: of all the fairy tales, she preferred our improvised stories.

In the evening, I put her to bed and start going through fairy tales:

- Do you want The Cat and the Sparrow?

- No.

- Then Ali Baba?

- No.

- Tom Thumb?

- No.

- Well, what do you want?

She would look around the room.

- About the little chair.

- How am I supposed to tell you a story about a little chair? I don't know any such story.

- No. Tell me.

She would pester me until I came up with something. Once I had finally gotten away from the little chair, she'd demand a story about a kitty. Well, I didn't know any story about a kitty either. Then, the next time she asked, I realized she wasn't going to let me off the hook, so I gradually started making up stories about the kitty too.

After that, she never doubted me. He'll tell it, she knew. Where could he possibly go? She could see that I was inventing the stories, and she was delighted. She would wait for them.

- Tell me about the toilet.

- I don't know.

- No, you do. You know.

How could I betray her faith in me? So I told the story. I made it up.

A toilet. Nobody in the bathroom liked it. Everyone turned away from it. By everyone else, I mean the other inhabitants of the bathroom: the bathtub, the shower, and the sink. They looked down on it.

Then, suddenly, a renovation!

Everything was covered up, hammered, broken, taken out, opened up. Now everything in the bathroom was different. Nobody knew anybody anymore. In place of the old sink there was a flower petal with a gilded faucet.

The only thing left from the old bathroom was the toilet.

And now the toilet fell in love with the petal-shaped sink.

And then came their conversations.

Or here's another one:

- Tell me about poop.

There's nothing particularly surprising about that subject. What other subjects are close to a child? The things he sees every day.

And so I would tell the story of the poop from beginning to end. I would start with its creation and take it all the way to its final moments: the water roars, it drops down at first, then shoots upward and plunges into the depths, its heart in its heels, rushing through the pipe, eventually reaching the collector. It's calmer there. Everyone around it is one of its own. Slowly, they all float through the pipe toward the place of their final rest—a settling pond, that is, a lake called Sor-Bulak.

Yes, a lake.

And there they all ended up in the lake.

- They ride around in little boats there, - my daughter happily added her own bright brushstroke to the overall picture.

Of course, for her, a lake meant the our Park on a sunny day. She hadn't seen any other kind yet.

I was telling her a tragedy, and instead she had found a happy ending for herself.

All that was missing was a continuation—a children's soap opera.

I quietly abandoned that story, just to be on the safe side.

Eventually she got around to the main question:

- Where had I come from?

Well, that had long been clear: We had been bought.

But where? At a store? Where was this store? What was it called? Who had gone there? How much had I cost?

Out of the answers to these questions, a coherent story gradually emerged.

So there lived a family: Mama, Papa, and Daughter.

Daughter was nine years old. One day she said:

- Mama and Papa, buy me a Baby.”

- Why do you need a Baby? Aren't you happy as you are? - Papa asked. - We go skating together, we go sledding in the mountains. Why do you need somebody else?

- I'll play with her, - Daughter said, - I'll dress her and undress her.

- But, - Papa said, - a Baby costs quite a lot of money, and we're not exactly doing well in that department right now.

- Then let's save up, - Daughter said.

In the end, they argued and argued, and Daughter managed to persuade her parents.

Papa put a one-galon glass jar on the kitchen table, and everyone began dropping money into it. Even Daughter put money in from time to time. They would give her money for ice cream, and she would put it in the jar instead.

They saved for almost a year. Eventually the jar was full.

Papa looked at it and said:

- Nothing else will fit. I suppose it's time. Let's go to the store.

They went to the store. It was a big store. It had everything.

Papa asked the saleswoman:

- How much are your Baby?

- There are different kinds, - the saleswoman replied, - How much are you planning to spend?

- What?

- How much money do you have?

- Well, we've got a full jar.

- Oh no. We have to count it.

- All right, count it.

Papa emptied the jar onto the counter, left Mama and Daughter there while the money was being counted, and went off to look around the store.

Everything glittered. There was so much of everything.

In those days of 1991, the main type of retail establishment in Alma-Ata was a kiosk, crudely welded together from sheets of steel, plus the bazaars that stood on every street corner. Even in the big old stores, each department looked like a fortress and was called a "komok".

But here I was riding the wave of my imagination, and my daughter was listening.

One department had clothes: little undershirts, caps. Everything covered in lace. Pink things for girls. Strollers. Bottles with nipples... Today it isn't even interesting to remember all this, but back then it fascinated us. After making his way around the store, Papa returned to the counter.

The money had been counted, and now the selection began.

There were all kinds of Babies—big ones and little ones, boys and girls, blonds and brunets. Then it turned out that the boys were cheaper.

Papa was thrilled.

- Then we'll take two! I'll drink beer with them and take them fishing.

- No, - Mama and Daughter said together, - We don't want any boys.

They all liked one particular little girl with light-blue eyes. She hardly had any hair, though. That came later.

- We want this one, - they said.

- Well, she's one of the most expensive ones, - the saleswoman said, - The manuals have been lost, unfortunately, but there's nothing complicated about it. You'll figure it out as you go. That will use up almost all your money. There's just a little left. I can give you a baby swaddling cloth with it.

And so they took the Baby.

The saleswoman deftly wrapped her in a baby swaddling cloth, and they went home.

At home they laid her on the sofa and sat down in the kitchen to eat something—not anything serious, just tea and sandwiches. Papa had already poured himself a little glass of something and made himself a sandwich. He spread a little butter on the bread, put herring on top, then some onion...

He hadn't even managed to bring it to his mouth when the Baby began to cry!

They all rushed over to her.

- What is it, Baby?”

But she said nothing.

She just cried.

- She's some kind of defective Baby, - Papa said. - They didn't even tell us at the store that she would cry. So what are we supposed to do with her now? And I told you we should have gotten boys. What do you want, Baby? Why are you screaming?”

But the Baby kept crying.

Then Mama had an idea.

- Let's call Grandma Galya, my mother. She's a doctor, after all. Maybe she can advise us what to do.

And Papa was already calling.

- Hello, Grandma Galya. So, this is what happened. We bought a Baby today, as you know—we've been planning to do it for a long time. Everything was fine at the store, but when we got home she started crying. We don't know why she's crying, and she won't tell us. She hasn't said a word yet. There's something wrong with her. Maybe we should take her back?

- Don't take her anywhere,” Grandma Galya said. “She just hasn't learned to talk yet. She's probably crying because she's hungry. Have you fed her?

- No, - Papa said, - Well, that's easy enough.

He flew into the kitchen, brought his sandwich to the Baby, and pushed it toward her mouth.

- Eat, Baby.

She wouldn't eat. She cried.

Papa called Grandma Galya again.

- This Baby really is defective. She won't eat anything.

- Strange. What exactly did you give her? - Grandma Galya asked.

- A sandwich with butter and herring, - Papa said, - What's wrong with that? If somebody gave me that more often, I wouldn't complain.

- But don't you feed children food like that? - Grandma Galya asked, - They need milk.

- We don't have any milk, - Papa said.

- And she doesn't even have any teeth yet, by the way, - Grandma Galya said.

- They sold her to us without teeth too? - Papa exclaimed indignantly.

- No, that's normal. Her teeth haven't grown in yet.

- How can that be? - Papa became increasingly agitated, - So we paid all our money for an unfinished product?

- Give the phone to Mama, my daughter, - Grandma Galya said, - I'll explain to her what needs to be done.

And she did. Mama got ready immediately.

Daughter went with her, as if the two of them had planned it together, even though Daughter hadn't heard a word of the conversation.

- We're going to the pharmacy. We'll be right back.

At first Papa was offended that they had decided something without him. Then he thought: Fine. Go. While they're gone, I'll have a couple of drinks in the kitchen.

But once they had left, he began to feel ashamed. What am I doing? The Baby is crying... And besides, the drinks weren't going anywhere.

He sat down beside the Baby and tried to comfort her. He stroked her head, held her little hand. But the Baby wouldn't calm down. She screamed and turned completely red.

Mama and Daughter came back soon. The pharmacy was nearby. They brought milk formula, a bottle, nipples, and some other things. In no time they had mixed everything, prepared the bottle, and gave it to the Baby.

The Baby latched onto the bottle and stopped crying. Everyone watched her with delight. She ate. Her little face was content.

Papa cautiously slipped a finger into her mouth and felt around. Sure enough, no teeth. Amazing.

- Pick her up, - Mama said.

Papa carefully picked up the Baby and admired her.

Suddenly the Baby gave a loud spit-up, and at the same time something warm dripped onto Papa. What was that?

Papa nearly jumped out of his skin. He handed the Baby to Mama, changed his clothes, and called Grandma Galya.

- I'll tell you again: there's something wrong with this Baby. I told you we should have gotten boys. Something came pouring out of her and dripped right onto my clothes. And they didn't tell us anything about this at the store. They lost the instructions. They said we'd figure it out ourselves... I think we should take her back.

- Wait before you take her back, - Grandma Galya said, - All children do that. Boys do it too, by the way.

- So what are we supposed to do now? - Papa shouted, - She's going to ruin the whole sofa! And my pants—I just put them on, and now they have to be washed!

- You need to put cloth diapers on her, - Grandma Galya said.

There were no disposable diapers yet.

- So she'll soil the cloth diaper too!

- Well, then you'll wash the cloth diapers.

- How? By hand? - Papa shouted.

- Wash them however you like, - Grandma Galya said, - By hand, in a washing machine, whatever. By the way, haven't you bathed her yet?

- What? We have to bathe her too?

Grandma Galya said:

- I can see that I'm going to have to come over myself. Wait for me.

And soon she appeared with a little bathtub and a large bag full of things.

Everyone sprang into action.

Papa, more or less, was free.

So he went into the kitchen and remembered the drink he hadn't finished.

But, of course, they didn't let him sit there for long.

- Go look at her, - they said, - “Go admire her.

He looked.

The Baby was lying there clean and rosy, asleep, breathing softly and sweetly. She was wrapped in something pink with lace. Her little golden hairs were shining.

- Yes, - Papa said, - She's a beautiful Baby.

- Oh, enough with this ‘Baby, Baby,’ - Grandma Galya said, - It's time to give her a name.

- What kind of name? - Papa asked.

- A human name, - Grandma Galya said, - Like all of us have.

- Well, then I want to call her Sonya, - Papa said, - Sonya was my best friend when I was a child—my cousin Sonya.

- No Sonya, - Mama said, - We'll call her Eleanor. At least the child can have a beautiful name, since apparently you couldn't find one for me.

- I gave her a name a long time ago! - Daughter shouted.

- What name?

- Kuska!

And that's when the argument began.

The Baby slept through the whole thing.

They argued and argued until they were exhausted. Then Grandma Galya said:

- Why don't we name her after my mother's mother?

- What do you mean?

- Masha.

And so, they named the Baby Masha.

And even though my daughter knows that this story is about her, I feel that at this moment she is smiling contentedly and nodding her head.

I told this story to my daughter from the time she was three, to her enormous delight.

When she was five, we moved to America, and for a while I continued telling her The Baby.

When she was six, her younger sister was born, and the older daughter very quickly came to be regarded as a grown-up. The stories changed too.

I remember translating Sesame Street, Mother Goose, and Amelia Bedelia for her straight from the page. At the time, we thought we had to hurry to master the new culture. Who could have imagined then that we would have been better off preserving and enriching the old one?

Eventually I stopped telling and reading stories to her altogether.

And soon I began telling all those same stories to my younger daughter. But The Baby hadn't been created especially for her. It was second-hand.

She took little interest in it.

Like a dress belonging to an older sister that you are simply expected to wear, without any particular joy. After all, nobody had given it to her as a gift. Nobody had chosen it for her in a store, tried it on her, turned her around in it, clicked their tongues appreciatively, or admired her in it.

How could anyone love a dress like that?

But the older daughter, hearing me tell the story, remembered everything at once.

She stood there listening attentively, with a doubtful expression, to the story that had been inspired by her, invented from the answers to her questions, the story she had once loved so much.

She listened and listened.

Then she said uncertainly:

- Papa, I think they're all kind of stupid.

Of course, sweetheart. They were stupid.

We were all stupid.

All of us except the Baby.