Chapter 6: Suzdal Hilltop—Zvezda Zvezda
Do I need to run any farther than this?
Resting on his elbows, Rudy turned his eyes up from the fire, tilted his head back, and watched as the stars swam into focus above and all around. Last night he had wondered about the stars when he rode to this hilltop on the west side of town. He saw now he was right. He was back on the hilltop, with the Russian girls and the whole American crew (except Marty, Brenda, and Elaine, who were asleep back at the dorm) and buckets of bottles and potatoes around a warm campfire. The stars here dwarfed Suzdal and its meager street lamps, its sparse yardlights, and its hushed windows with hushed warm kitchen bulbs, candles, and flickering blue TVs. His eyes adjusted, and the Milky Way materialized before him. Rudy could stare all night, never count them all, never name every constellation, draw every line from star to star to engrave his own hunters and eagles and heaven-diving spirits of hope and love on the celestial orb—all that, from this hilltop, every night, these short northern summer nights, more in the winter, if he could stay. From this one spot, a lifetime of wonder. Forget the Captain’s motorcycle, this trip to Galich. Forget the great jet-powered leap back across the ocean, or the farthest hemispheric leap any mortal could make: those stars would be… if not the same, at least as fulfillingly endless. Did place matter under such stars?
And I’ve had only one shot of vodka.
That, and half of the nearly empty bottle of strong pivo Yulia was sharing with him. Such wild thoughts—his mind didn’t usually work like this. He wasn’t worried—nobody at this campfire was, at least they didn’t look it, and he hoped Ksenia wasn’t—but he figured he would go easy on the spirits for the rest of the night. Yulia and the other Russian girls showed signs of their elders’ and their culture’s aggressive approach to alcohol and exhortations to all guests to drink like Russians, but the Russian girls knew he was taking their Ksenia to Galich on the Captain’s motorcycle; they seemed to go easy on him.
“Shto smotrish?“—What are you looking at? Yulia gently drew the bottle from his fingers as she asked. He, Yulia, and Ksenia at Yulia’s side had been drifting lazily from topic to topic—her and Ksenia’s school plans, Rudy’s lack of job plans (Yulia expressed particular exuberance for his consideration of starting his own business), the view from the bell tower.
Yulia’s curious tone suggested she would not think him rude for not meeting her eyes, for instead continuing to gaze at what she was asking about, what she, too, wanted to see. “Zvezda,” he said. Star.
“Tolko odnu?“—Just one? she asked playfully.
He had botched the grammar: the word was plural, called for a different ending. But the hard -y- vowel did not match the feel of that gentler -ah-, elongable, savorable, the very aaaahh that each one of those stars deserved. He picked out a star. “Da. Zvezda.” He freed an arm, pointed to another, and another. “Zvezda. Zvezda… zvezda… zvezda. Kazhdaya zvezda mnye interesuyet.” Each star interests me.
Yulia giggled. “Ksenia, be careful!” She made a joke in Russian he didn’t quite understand, turning a phrase with vodki and zvezdy, vodka and stars.
Ksenia, seated on Yulia’s right, said something about not having to worry about anyone getting too much to drink with Yulia around to keep it out of their hands. Another playful laugh. He glanced aside, saw Yulia set the empty bottle down near the fire and scramble up for another. As Yulia moved, his eyes landed squarely on Ksenia’s. She studied his eyes, then asked, “Zvezda zvezda… how are you?”
He knew full well he was not drunk. Even Russian vodka couldn’t do that to him in one shot. But he felt… the stars above, the fire at his feet, the cool grass on his forearms, potatoes still warm inside him, the gentle revelry around the fire, Yulia’s playful teasing… Ksenia’s question prompted a realization of euphoria.
“Kho-ro-sho,” he enunciated slowly. “Nyet: pre-kras-no.” Good…no, great—funny to have both English words expanded to three syllables in Russian. Three syllables made it harder to toss such answers off casually.
Ksenia raised an eyebrow at him.
“A ne po vodki“—And not from vodka, Rudy averred, emphasizing each word with his hand.
“I don’t know,” came Ashley’s voice. “Ol’ Rudy sounds like he’s gonna need some remont of his own before he can hit the road. Maybe you ought to wait for that bus.” Ashley sat down to Ksenia’s right, his face half-shadowed from the firelight. Where the effect was gentle, mysterious on Ksenia, it was merely grim on Ashley. He offered Ksenia a bottle of beer.
As clearly as he could see the Milky Way above, Rudy suddenly could read Ashley. Pow, in toto, unexpectedly, in every element of that moment, in Ashley’s tone, in the tilt of the bottle, the urging of his reach, the hawkish glint from the campfire turned grim in his eye, Rudy saw the entirety of what Ashley wanted.
And with the same surprising quickness, he saw in one glance at Ksenia her completely opposite desires.
Knowing she would keep herself safe didn’t make Ashley’s intent any more tolerable. Rudy took a deep breath, then sprang up, away from Ksenia and Ashley, and walked around the edge of the group. There were twenty of them crowded around the fire — silhouettes, fire, bright faces on the other side. A couple caught his eye; the others were engrossed in their conversations, the fire, the joy—how could anyone, even Ashley, not feel the joy that filled this night?
Yulia came up to him. She held a new bottle of beer. She took his arm, proferred the bottle. “Tol’ko chut-chut”—just a little—”amerikanyets—you have a long drive tomorrow.” Rudy took the bottle by the neck, the dark glass as cool as the night, tipped himself one polite swig. Without thinking, he put his free arm over Yulia’s shoulder, and she snaked an arm around his waist. She turned him away from the fire and walked him toward the edge of the hilltop, facing the town.
“Rudy,” she said, molding that long -u- in his name with distinct Russian care. “I know you are a good fellow. You will take care of my friend Ksenia.”
“Of course,” Rudy said.
Yulia turned, took the bottle from his hand, and looked right at him. They stood sideways to the fire, and Rudy could see her very dark, very serious eyes, taking in every flicker, every faint blink of far-off street lamp and nearer star, and every visible hint from his own face.
“Obeshchai,” Yulia said. Promise…again, three serious syllables in Russian.
Yulia, this 18-year-old girl, bottle in her hand, at least twice as much alcohol in her system as Rudy dared touch this evening, looked at him with motherly sobriety. She raised her other hand from his hip and gripped his arm. Rudy didn’t think he’d ever been asked as hard for a promise.
“Obeshchayu.” (The first person verb required four syllables.) “Ksenia will get home safely.”
Yulia’s expression did not change. “And you?”
“Sure. Same road, there and back.”
“No. The road is different when you are alone. You. Will you find your way back?”
“Yulia, I….” Rudy’s voice trailed off. Yulia’s eyes fixed him, dug into him for an answer deeper than he felt he could give.
Yulia studied his face in the uneven light. “You look like… no. Never mind me. I’m drinking too much.” Her steady eyes said the contrary. She leaned close, drew him down to kiss his cheek. “You have promised,” she whispered.
In an instant she stepped back, took a quick swig from the bottle, and transformed from that sobering, demanding gaze to the light dreaming revelry. She skipped away to the group at the fire.
I have promised, Rudy thought… and his euphoria surged again, driving out any doubt he might have entertained over his inability to answer Yulia’s second inquiry. His promise, his friends—new friends, so suddenly made—the stars, the fire… what doubt could there be? He paced the perimeter of the hilltop, hearing the voices from the fire, certain this moment and all to follow were sublime.
It didn’t strike him as odd that he should be feeling this way and not be right at the fire, next to Ken and Lily, Ksenia and Yulia. It seemed perfectly natural that he be here, that he be moving, tracing this separate path.
He slowly worked his way full circle around the group, measuring the hill and the sky, following the silky change in the color of the sky along the northwest horizon, where the Arctic twilight still faintly played. He could have stayed there all night… longer… but he had a trip, a promise….
He thought about simply slipping back to the dorm, checking his gear one more time, then getting to sleep. He did not feel tired right now, but he thought that when he finally hit the sack, he would sleep deeply, right through the noisiest American’s return, whenever that happened. Some of their happy crew might not even come back until he was up and out in the morning. But a good night to his traveling partner seemed appropriate.
As he approached the group, there was a surge of laughter. Carter had retrieved a potato from the fire, peeled off the foil, and immediately dropped the steaming potato in the dirt. Instinctively he’d picked it up again and dropped it just as quickly again, this time on his pants leg, the denim of which was not quite thick enough to prevent him from jumping backward from the heat. He wasn’t on fire, so watching him bested by a literal hot potato provoked great hilarity around the fire.
The potato rolled to Rudy’s boots. He picked it up with his bandana, but that thin cotton and his thick calluses didn’t spare him a little sting. To continuing laughter, he hooted and juggled the potato from bandana’d hand to bare hand, back and forth. Carter watched and laughed, too, even over the sore right hand that he shook and tried to soothe with his lips. Miraslava, another of the Russian girls, offered first aid in the form of the cool, moist glass of another bottle of beer.
Still juggling, Rudy looked Carter in the eye: “You ready now?”
Carter flicked the bottle cap off with his thumb and took a drink. Then he lowered the bottle and raised his big left paw à la catcher’s mitt.
“Careful, now, it’s hot!”
“No shit, Rudy. I’m hungry!”
Rudy converted his last juggle into a lazy forward lob. Carter’s eyes followed it sharply in the firelight—Carter was a big man, a wrestler, and it apparently took a while for pivo to work its way into his system—and let the potato plop right into his big left paw. It had cooled off just enough that Carter could bounce it gently in one hand without much distress.
Hot potato gone warm, Rudy was about to speak to the ladies, but he noticed Brad by the fire, eagerly conjugating some verb with Vika. They were the leading grammar nerds/passionate linguists of their respective nationalities, and even here, work done, beer in their hands, roasted potatoes at their feet, stars above, they put their heads together to plumb mysteries of each other’s mother tongues. But hey, it was Brad’s birthday, his 21st, at a party convened in part in his special honor (the Russian girls had presented him with a paper angel festooned with pink and red paper hearts, each inked with a different and, to Brad, thrillingly novel idiomatic Cyrillic inscriptions of love, admiration, and comic commentary on the strength he found in his wiry distance runner’s frame to wield a wrecking bar) on a hilltop in the heart of Russia.
Let him celebrate however he sees fit.
Rudy crouched in the dirt next to Brad. “Hey, buddy, don’t want to interrupt. Just want to make sure I say… s dnyom rozhdeniya.” Happy birthday.
Brad smiled and raised his beer bottle (still half full, and Rudy was pretty sure that was the same bottle Brad had started the festivities with). “Spasibo, brat.” (There it was again—brother.) “You too!”
Rudy snorted and grinned back, talking just inches from Brad’s face, to be heard above the surge in laughter and conversation provoked by the hot potato. “Hey, thanks, but it’s not my birthday, just yours.”
Brad clapped a hand on Rudy’s knee, a gesture Rudy would have found mildly provocative back home but which here, just like sitting by a river in the sun in his briefs with a bunch of other near-skinny-dipping Americans he’d known for only two weeks, felt entirely ordinary. “Man,” Brad drawled, looking around the entire campfire site, “Russia feels like everybody’s birthday.” Brad’s eyes finally returned to Rudy’s. “Maybe especially yours. You have a good trip tomorrow.”
And just like that, Brad was back to questioning Vika’s assertions about her own language, interrogating her as to why such-and-such verb didn’t follow the same pattern as thus-and-so verb, and she was dismissing his postulated alignment of the two verbs as radical nonsense.
Rudy returned finally to Ksenia and Yulia. He leaned in close, and they brought their faces within inches of his, so they could all whisper. Ashley remained near Ksenia’s side, but he was leaning away, concentrating on the beer Ksenia had declined.
“Devushki“—girls, Rudy said—”you throw a fine party. Brad will remember this birthday forever.”
Yulia had said all she felt necessary, but she kept her eyes fixed on Rudy as Ksenia spoke. “Brad’s a good guy. He’s worked hard. He deserves to do more on his birthday than go to bed sore from swinging hammer all week.”
“Well, I’ve got to get to bed so I can drive safely tomorrow.” Ksenia and Yulia were close enough—their foreheads were touching, Yulia leaning for support—that he could look them both in the eye. Yulia nodded gravely, while Ksenia’s eyes sparkled with hostess’s merriment.
“We should toast you before you go.”
“No, don’t distract from Brad’s party. I don’t want anyone to feel obliged to leave early with me.”
“You can find your way back on your own?”
Yulia lurched forward, bringing Ksenia with, as if they were attached. “O-o-o-ah!” she uttered, finishing the fourth syllable of that single vowel as all three of their noggins touched. Rudy heard again what she’d demanded of him, his promise, and he knew that, even a bit tongue-tied now from the pivo and vodka soaking in, Yulia was thinking very clearly of those words and reminding Rudy of them.
“Yeah. I won’t fall in the river.”
Yulia stayed all vodka-serious, but Ksenia giggled. “Are you sure you won’t stay to protect me from Ashley?”
Rudy felt a quick wave of embarrassment… but it was hard to be anything but open with two Russian girls literally head-to-head with him, glimmering in the firelight. “I’m not worried, and neither are you. You know whom to trust.” His eyes turned wholly to Yulia… and he saw her eyes welling up a the same time as his… again his heart surprised him, and he didn’t have beer or vodka as an excuse.
Yulia saved him; she clapped her arms around him and Ksenia, drew their knot of three more tightly together, and managed the last sober words of her night. “Zvezda Zvezda! Druzya!” she gasped. “Druzya!” Friends!