Chapter 32: Craneworks Catalog
The catalog came to Goryachiy Klyuch mid-August in a manila pouch, clasped and taped, no names but “Foreman, Particle Collider Construction” and the Institute address inked with heavy marker, the return address typed on a white label: Craneworks of Galich. Inside Rudy found a catalog, three sets of stapled documents, and a cover letter, typed on thin company letterhead:
Respected Foreman of Particle Collider Construction, Irkutsk Scientific and Technological Institute, warmest greetings from Craneworks of Galich!
We have received your inquiry of 21 June pertaining to 50-ton-plus all-terrain crane trucks. We enclose specifications for three of our products most suitable to your objectives, and a complete catalog…
Craneworks of Galich—Rudy had made no such inquiry. The Institute wasn’t bidding cranes. Their excavation required no such equipment, and they would not need that sort of lifting capacity for any of the construction later.
Rudy might have tossed the packet as junk mail, an increasing manifestation of Russian capitalism’s effort to catch up with the worst of the West. But 21 June was the date he sent the letter to Ksenia’s parents. Coincidence? Joke?
Rudy skimmed another couple paragraphs of marketing boilerplate down to the signature line, which carried no name, just Marketing Department, CG. Then he flipped through the catalog. At page 92 he found a return envelope for orders. But his name was handwritten on the envelope, in blue ink, and the envelope was sealed. Inside Rudy found a handwritten letter, two thin lined sheets with blue flowers in each corner, folded inside a blank sheet of office paper. The letter was inked mostly with patient, rounded script, Anna Nikolayevna’s hand:
Rudy,
We thought the end of the Soviet Union would bring freedom to communicate. But the state and others still watch. We must be careful. Please destroy this letter when you are done reading.
We received your letter. We remember you, the American gentleman who brought our daughter home from Suzdal. The two of you appearing like a summer mirage, riders from the wilderness, our Ksenia, aglow with adventure and triumph, and you, young man, polite, gentle, protecting Ksenia, protected by Ksenia.
Our hearts broke for you when we heard about your friends. Surely it is strange, uncomfortable, perhaps unwelcome to receive condolences when you have had ten years to grieve and move on, but your letter brought that time back like yesterday. We did not have the chance then; we do so now. We are so sorry. We wish we could have helped you through what you had to face alone.
We write to help you now. We write against our daughter’s wishes.
Ksenia told us she met you in Astrakhan. She told us you stayed in Russia, found good work. (We are not entirely surprised—we saw the look in your eyes and the skill in your hands.)
You asked if Ksenia is all right. You stayed, so you know Russia is a complicated place. You know we may fairly ask if any of us here are all right.
Do not worry: our Ksenia is well, as well as a young woman with her talents and responsibilities can be here and now. She is strong and clever. She navigates complications well. We worry for her, but let us bear that worry, as parents must.
We cannot tell you much more, but know this, Rudy: she was happy to see you, beyond words. She wishes she could see you again, but she insists she cannot, for your good and hers. She says she is responsible for this choice. She says it is not your fault. She cried when she told us this, and our Ksenia does not cry.
Ksenia said we must not communicate with you. We will not speculate. Ksenia generally makes good decisions, as her current success attests. But on this one point, we quietly disagree. If her objective really is to prevent you from connecting with her, we believe one letter, from us, at least, if not from her, is better than no letter.
You have suffered before, and your letter shows you suffer now. Knowing that Ksenia’s decision is not your fault will not erase your suffering, but knowing these few facts may ease your suffering. And we cannot leave you to suffer without knowing.
Ksenia cares about you. Always has. Always will. She walked out of that restaurant because she cares about you. We think that is foolish, but we all live with our own foolishnesses… like hopping on a motorbike in Suzdal and riding with a stranger through the countryside. Sometimes foolishness sustains us as well as reason.
Maybe, if circumstances change… but no, we cannot tie you down with maybes. Ksenia says this course is best. We shall respect that. We hope you can as well. Please do not tell Ksenia, or anyone else, that we have written you. Live well. Live fully. Live knowing that you have done good for our daughter and that she knows that as well.
With sincere respect,
Anna Nikolayevna and Pavel Pavlovich.
One line at the end appeared in swift, sharp strokes, a post-script from Pavel Pavlovich:
p.s.: My Ural runs like a champion, but Annushka says I mustn’t ride to Siberia. —P.P.
Rudy laughed until he wept.
Several minutes later, Rudy set the catalog and spec sheets on a shelf over his drafting table. For the entire workday, he carried the letter around the Ring base and into the tunnel in his jacket pocket. But he did not read it again until he got home from work. Then he read Anna Nikolayevna and Pavel Pavlovich’s letter at his kitchen table, several times, before, during, and after his toast and chicken soup.
He sat silently, listening to Ksenia’s parents say the same thing Vitaly had said on the train. Ksenia left because she cares about you.
Why hide this letter? he wondered. It wasn’t as if Ksenia would stop by the trailer and see their letter by his computer. “The state and others still watch”—what others? What would the state or anyone else care about his broken heart? (The phrase popped into his head unbidden—broken heart—and several weeks of hard work and country air had restored his good humor enough that he could laugh at the words as histrionics.) Why would this letter matter so much that Ksenia’s parents had to hide it and ask him to destroy it?
The letter was odd behavior from sensible people. But those sensible people had been unexpectedly good to him, then and now, ten years later, when Pavel Pavlovich and Anna Nikolayevna perceived risk in this favor. (Favor? Rudy didn’t quite laugh inside, but he knew that term would provoke further inner argument.) To question their reasons or demand more from them would be ungrateful and disrespectful.
Rudy would like to have kept that letter. He had so few mementos of Ksenia: her scarf, her address, the page of Pushkin she recited.
But he held onto her parents’ letter for just 12 more hours. He read it twice more before falling asleep, then once more in the morning, to assure himself he hadn’t dreamt the words. Then he tucked the letter in his trash and threw the bag in the incinerator downstairs on his way to work.
Rudy stopped at the Institute first, to check the new automated payroll database and consult with Vitaly on processors for the Ring labs before riding out to Goryachiy Klyuch. Vitaly, on foot this cool August morning, strolled up to Fizika at the same time that Rudy hung his helmet on his handlebars. “Hey,” Vitaly said without prologue, “have you gotten any answer to that letter to Galich?”
Mindreaders, Rudy thought again, shaking his head. What was this wavelength of nationwide telepathy that he had not yet tapped?
Please do not tell Ksenia, or anyone else….
Rudy looked intently at his friend’s face. “No word from Ksenia,” Rudy said slowly, “nothing to resolve this situation. But… I keep thinking I’m not going to resolve this. Best I’ll get is accepting it.”
Vitaly narrowed his eyes and nodded. “Spoken like a good Russian.” He put an arm over Rudy’s shoulders and pulled him through the gate. “Come! We have things to build for Galina Filipovna!”