Spi, Mladenets

“Spi, Mladenets”1

The restaurant bustled with the clang of fork against knife and the fluttering of nimble waiters about the large room, balancing trays that bore soup and bread. The pale amber light of the antiqued gold chandeliers emitted an amiable glow that reflected softly from the clean white china. The polished mahogany bar cast an elongated shadow that splayed haphazardly across the heavily polished tile of the floor in varying shades of black and crimson. An elderly woman sat upon a too-tall stool fiddling with the gin-soaked olive of her emptied martini. The olive slid lazily down the angled glass as the old woman (slightly inebriated) attempted futilely to ease it out with a splintered toothpick. Her wrinkled brow furrowed, doubling the lines upon her already heavily crumpled skin. With a disgruntled sigh she stabbed the olive with the toothpick and popped the offending morsel into her mouth. She lifted her chin and stared down at the toothpick high-handedly in her triumph. Her hollow cheeks stretched and contracted as she chewed the olive, flicking it to and fro inside her mouth with her tongue and sucking on the scarlet pimento. Her eyes fluttered shut as she swallowed the processed olive.
"Would you like another martini, Miss Petrov?"
The elderly woman's eyes flickered open as the young bartender addressed her, revealing foggy brown eyes. Her dark, silver streaked hair and strong jaw suggested that she was once a beautiful, dark young woman—maybe foreign? She twisted the garnet ring on her finger out of habit as she looked up at him with challenging eyes. He threw his towel over his shoulder haughtily and raised his fair eyebrows at the old woman. His high cheekbones, hollow cheeks and porcelain complexion gave him the look of a painted young seventeenth century duke or earl, though, he most likely made barely more than minimum wage. Miss Petrov sighed and nodded. With a swirl of vermouth and a flick of gin he refilled her glass. As he reached for the canister of olives she waved her hand impatiently. She did not want another olive.
Miss. Petrov shuddered and pulled her powder blue shawl tauter about her shoulders as a frigid winter breeze slipped passed the doors and into the warm oasis that was the restaurant. The entryway bell chimed playfully as the doors were pushed open. Miss. Petrov craned her head toward the doors at the noise to see a small gray woman with a mouse's eyes and a kitten's mouth walk into the restaurant. Finely arched eyebrows framed her brilliant black eyes and a square jaw cradled lips that looked as though she had to keep them closed, for fear they would slip off. She smiled timidly as the doorman offered to relieve her of her taupe raincoat and hat. With a small shake of her head and a second timid smile, she declined and kept her coat and hat snug against her small, frail frame.
The small gray woman bit her lip and scanned the restaurant. When her eyes fell on Miss Petrov at the bar, she smiled. Tidying her coat and hat, she ambled slowly--painfully over to the bar. When she reached her destination, she looked glaringly at the high bar stool. Miss Petrov snapped at the bartender to "give her a leg up" which he did. She blushed and muttered, “Dziękuję” out of reflex. She corrected herself by saying, “thank you.”
“The usual Mrs. Petrov?” The small gray woman shifted uncomfortably on the stool as she asked the bartender for a Manhattan.
The women in the blue shawl quirked her brow, “You don’t drink, Lydia.”
The small woman straightened herself indignantly and said with a mild eastern European accent, “I do now, Evie.”
Evie looked startled. The small lines emanating from her chapped lips elongated when she pursed her lips in disappointment. “You order a cranberry juice on the rocks—we come here and you order a—“
“’A cranberry juice on the rocks’, I know. But tonight I am ordering a Manhattan.” She smiled at the bartender as he slid the little old woman her amber drink. Evie stared at the woman beside her doubtfully. She had known her forever, and never once, had she seen her elder cousin take a sip of alcohol.
Lydia closed her eyes and tilted up her chin as she sipped carefully at the drink, her face disappearing beneath her rain hat. She tipped the glass cautiously toward her closed mouth, until the cold liquid splashed upon her pursed lips. Then, placing the glass on the bar, she licked her lips, sampling the warming elixir.
“How is it?” asked Evie.
Lydia smacked her loose lips and nodded slowly. “Dobrze. Dobrze.” She pulled her little purse to her and snapped it open, her nimble fingers searching for a handkerchief. She wiped her crinkled face for no reason in particular, and replaced the neat white length of cotton into her purse.
“What have you done with your other purse, Lydia? The big white one?”
“I don’t need it anymore.” She responded softly, smiling at her folded hands.
“You can’t possibly fit all your things in that little bag—it can barely hold a nickel, let alone all of your medicines.” Evie watched intently as Lydia took a more daring swig of alcohol.
Lydia coughed, a sharp, hacking cough into the crook of her elbow. She smiled and said, “Went down the wrong tube.”
“Like Hell it did! You haven’t been taking any of your medicines, have you? What’s wrong with you? Do you want to die?” Evie all but shouted.
Lydia merely smiled and asked, “How is that woman you’ve been living with—Grace—I heard about her son, Christian, that’s unfortunate.”
Evie calmed considerably as she watched Lydia take another sip with no consequence. “Yes… I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a child—and so suddenly, without warning.”
“I can’t imagine why he would do that—he wasn’t even thirty—the prime of his life, so much to live for.” Her eyes drifted over to the bartender who was wiping glasses clean, his eyes averted though he was listening intently. Without looking away, Lydia said, “Evie, I was thinking of taking a vacation.”
Evie smiled and patted her cousin lightly on the back. “That’s great, dear, you really do need a break from all the nurses and honks and beeps.” She drained the last of her martini and nodded to the man behind the brilliantly shining (it was not actually shining brilliantly, she just perceived it as such in her state of mild inebriation) mahogany bar for another. The young man sighed tiredly and moved his hair away from his eyes with a turn of his head. He refilled her glass, forgetting the vermouth, with a determined look on his face—as though there was someone staring at him from behind—someone he longed to see, but did not dare turn around to look for fear that they would fade away into nothingness if he did.
The sandy-haired man wiped the bar with a towel before placing Evie’s drink before her and nodded curtly.
The old woman eyed him suspiciously, as though her drink were tampered with, and turned back to her cousin. “Where were you thinking of going, dear?”
Lydia sighed contentedly and said, “I’m not sure where it is…” she looked up dreamily at the ceiling and added, “But I know it’s warm.”
“Maybe Florida?”
“Maybe. Could you watch my cats for me while I’m away?”
Evie rolled her eyes, “How many cats do you have, Lydia?”
The older woman laughed and said, “ I’m sorry, Evie, I didn’t know you hated cats so much!”
“I don’t, I just think that more than 12 is a little excessive.” She took a long draught of her martini, looking at Lydia with her peripheral vision. She saw that she was looking at her in eager anticipation and sighed in resignation. “Of course I’ll take care of your cats and apartment while you’re gone—I’m just pleased that you’re going to be doing something for yourself for once—you deserve to be happy.”
“That’s good to know, Evie.” She smiled as she watched her companion take another sip of alcohol. “I’m in a lot of pain, Evie.”
“I know that dear, that’s why you need your medicines—and a vacation.” She responded with a dry laugh. Lydia’s mouth straightened and her eyes sobered as she said, “It’s not worth it, Evie.”
“Taking your medicine’s isn’t worth it? If you’re in as much pain as you say you’re in, I’d say that your medicines are worth that and more.”
“No, I mean this;” she waved her frail arm over the bar, as though it were the microcosm of existence, “this isn’t worth it; worth the pain.”
Evie paled (though it may have been the alcohol). “What are you on about?”
Lydia looked at her and smiled, “Do you remember what you said to me—before you got on that train?”
Evie’s throat constricted, making speech difficult. “Yes. I asked you to come with me—but you said you couldn’t—that Paris was too big for you—“
“You promised me, that no matter what, if I needed you, all I need do is ask, and you would help me no matter what.”
“Lydia, I don’t understand—“
“I. Want. To. Die.” She emphasized each word. “There is no life for me here anymore. I have to take more pills than I can count—it hurts—every thing hurts. It hurts to move. It hurts to sit still. My children don’t need me anymore, Fred is gone, and it’s cold.” Lydia stared off into the distance as she took another sip of her drink. “Always cold.”
“That’s not true, Lydia.” She said, placing her olive hand over Lydia’s sallow one.
“Yes it is!” she snapped, harshly pulling her hand away from her friend’s. “I was never the strong one, you were! You were the one who papa liked, like his son, you were the one who left—I didn’t work up the courage to do it for fifty years.”
“But you did, Lydia, you live alone in a big city—“
“ Yes, I am alone. I am going to kill myself. I am going to end my life, my way, and I want you to be there with me. I don’t want to be alone, and you’re all I have left.”
Evie’s mouth opened and closed, silent.
“Evie?” Lydia spoke softly, replacing her hand under Evie’s. “Please, please help me.”
“Lydia, how can you say that?”
“I am dieing, Evie. I am dieing in more ways than I can count on my arthritic hand.” She added glaringly. “I’m eighty. I probably won’t last for more than a year, even if I do take all of my medicines.” She swirled the liquid in her glass and watched it funnel to the bottom. “I want to go on my own terms. I haven’t had control over my life for years. I think it only right that I be allowed to have control over my death.” Lydia smiled softly. “For the first time in a long time, I feel happy for myself.”
“Do you?” Evie asked hurriedly, her voice cracking. “Are you really in so much pain that you have to—?”
“I am.” She cut her off. “You know I am. Proszę, Evie. Proszę, Proszę.” She whimpered softly, as she did when they were young.
Evie sighed and rubbed Lydia’s cold hands in her own. “Alright, Lydia, alright. I’ll…I’ll think about it.”
“Serdecznie dziękuję, Evie. You truly are my dearest friend.” She smiled and said, “Take a cab, Evie, you’re drunker than drunk.”
“I am not drunk.”
“Then what’s my middle name?”
“I don’t remember.” She said, her words slurring slightly. Lydia rolled her eyes and asked the bartender to kindly call a cab for her companion.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
Cars, building and lights flashed by in the night. It had rained earlier that morning, and the air was filled with the scent of clean, moist earth and dew. Fog hovered over the roads, like a blanket to scare away the chill of the March night. Ignoring the beeps and honks of the streets of Manhattan, Evie’s mind buzzed confusedly like a hive of bees, stripped from their tree by a marauding bear.
I said I want to die. There is no life for me here anymore… I was never the strong one, you were! You were the one who papa liked, like his son, you were the one who left—I didn’t work up the courage to do it for fifty years… it’s cold…Always cold.
Lydia’s words tickled her brain. Was it true? Evie had never thought of herself as the stronger of them. She remembered living with her mother, father, uncle, Nana and Lydia in their squalid building on the outskirts of Olsztyn. Lydia was her senior by five years—she always admired her: her dainty way of walking, genuinely kind demeanor, soft voice that was nearly a whisper. She was always the proper one, the one who never got in trouble, who always stayed inside. She was the only one Nana would let tend to her in her last months, other than mother. Lydia was the best cook and seamstress, the one who never hesitated to help her mother sew or clean.
She had resented Lydia, then. Evie was a taller, awkward girl with knobby knees, a crooked nose and thick, overbearing eyebrows. Her hair was a dark, thick matted mess that Nana would spend hours clawing at ruthlessly with a comb, remarking on her hair’s hopelessness when the teeth would snap off, hiding beneath the freshly teased locks.
She was loud, and always said the wrong thing at the wrong time. She did not know how to be quiet—it was alien to her.
Evie would often tramp through the house after helping her father chop wood (or some other boy’s chore), leaving a muddy trail, dirt caught beneath her fingernails. She was the only one who could help her father—her uncle had a bad back and could not work—what else was she supposed to do? Lydia was always sick and was often kept inside. Evie could not sew. She could not cook. Nana would not let her tend to her with her “rough ways”.
“Lydia, come—the boys down the street built a tree house! They say girls aren’t allowed—we’ll show them!” Evie called from outside the door to the bedroom she and her cousin shared.
“Leave her be, you filthy child!” her nana shouted. A hacking cough of a young girl sounded from the small dingy room. ‘She must be sick again,’ Lydia had thought to herself. She crept along the wall and pressed her ear to the door, listening more closely to the sounds coming from the room. The chalky voice of nana began singing an old lullaby, “Spi, malutka, bud' spokoen, baushki-bau, Sam uznaesh', budet vremya, baushki-bau…”Evie risked the wrath of her grandmother and entered the room, smoothing her skirt self-consciously as she walked.
“Evie?” Lydia ran over to the bed when she saw how pale her cousin looked; purple rings ran beneath her dark eyes and her shyly pursed lips were chapped and bleeding.
Nana sighed and stood with a crack of her spine. “I’ll bring you some more broth, dear—you need something in your stomach.” Lydia nodded gratefully to her grandmother before turning to her young cousin. “Evie? Can you bring me Sezja? She must be lonely without me.” Evie nodded and brought her the wooden doll that rested by the door. “Anything else you would like, Lydia?”
“Can you sing me a lullaby—like nana does?”
Evie smiled and sat on the pallet beside her cousin. She pulled her thin body into her arms and began to sing her favorite lullaby. Lydia smiled and closed her eyes, snuggling into the familiar warmth. 2

“Evie! You’ll miss your train!” Lydia said smiling, tears brimming in her eyes. Evie rolled her eyes and said, “Nonsense—if it won’t let me give a proper goodbye to my cousin then let it leave!” Evie joked. She was twenty-one and had saved enough money from work to get a train to France, from where she would take a boat to New York (that was if finances allowed).
Evie pulled Lydia to her, and clutched at her tattered wool coat. “Lydia, please, please come with me!” Lydia sniffled and cupped Evie’s cheek in her small, gloved hand. “No matter what happens, we’ll always be cousins—sisters: I promise.” She pulled away and slipped a ragged glove from her hand revealing a garnet ring. “Here,” she said as she twisted off the ring which glided easily from her finger, because of the cold. “I want you to take my ring so you’ll never forget me.”
“Lydia, I can’t take that! Nana gave it to you!” Evie’s eyes stung as she watched her cousin slip the ring onto her cold finger.
“I want you to have it.” Lydia said, smiling sadly. She coughed in surprise as Evie through her arms around her neck and began sobbing hysterically. Lydia merely smiled; tears rolling gently down her chapped cheeks and returned the embrace.
“Lydia,” Evie whispered urgently into her cousin’s scarf as the whistle of the train blew, “If you ever need me, for anything—anything—all you have to do is ask—I’ll always be there for you no matter what happens!”
A sound like dull, rhythmic thunder sounded as the train began to heave itself along the tracks.
“Evie, your train!” Lydia pushed her cousin away and shoved her single suitcase into her arms. “Go!”
Evie kissed the smaller girl on the cheek and ran after the moving train. An old man in a gray coat helped her onboard and she turned to see Lydia running alongside the hissing train. “Anything, Lydia—anything!” she yelled.
Evie cried as she watched Lydia’s steps falter as she coughed, her asthma taking over. The train turned out of the station and she fell out of sight.

“Twelve fifty.” Said the gruff man in the driver’s seat, his fingers tapping on the wheel impatiently. Evie gave the man a seething glare for tearing her out of her dream world before shuffling in her large leather bag for her money purse. She sighed as she snapped it open, and counted off the bills. She hated money and she hated counting, needless to say, she hated counting money.
The man burped slightly as he took the bills from her, slipping them into his faded, too tight around the waist jeans. Evie nodded curtly and shuffled out of the cab with some difficulty. The exhaust of the rusting yellow taxi belched smoke onto her long pink calico skirt. She huffed indignantly as she watched him speed away, in a speed zone.
The light of the car having disappeared, Evie made extra care not to step on anything unpleasant, such as broken glass, mud, or any other foul things that might pop up in such a street. She straightened her long raincoat and made her way up the narrow path that led to her friend’s apartment.
Evie opened the metal door with considerable difficulty, and blinked several times as her old eyes adjusted to the sudden onslaught of light. She looked up in dismay at the multiple stories of stairs, suddenly aware of the sharp pain in her hip.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted an old-fashioned elevator. Sighing in relief, she walked unevenly towards it. She slid open the gate only to be found with a small sign on the back that read: OUT OF SERVICE. PLEASE USE STAIRS.
“Oh, for the love of God!” Evie shrieked as she made her way to the first flight of stairs. She grumbled something indistinct with every step, each one sharpening the pain in her left hip.
After many steps, and many rests, Evie slumped toward the peeling yellow door of Lydia’s apartment on the ninth floor. She knocked sharply, causing the golden three of the thirteen nailed on the wood to swing to an E. Evie sighed as she heard eager footsteps making their way over a creaking wood floor.
The sound of several locks being undone reached her hearing aid before the door swung open revealing a smiling Lydia.
“Hello, Evie, I’m glad you came.”
“I’m not promising anything,” Evie grumbled as she walked past her friend. She removed her coat and hung it on the cherry hat rack by the door.
“Please, have a seat.” Lydia said, gesturing toward a plush pink couch. Evie nodded and edged around a large glass cabinet of porcelain dolls and antique music boxes. Evie sat and watched as Lydia shuffled in her blue cotton nightgown with a glass of water and an amber bottle of pills to sit beside her. She smiled as she placed the glass and pills on the wooden coffee table, and folded her wrinkled hands in her lap.
They sat in silence for a few moments before Evie said, “You are sure you want to do this? That I can’t stop you otherwise?”
Lydia smiled and said, “I could do this without you, Evie, but I want you here with me. Will you stay? Will you hold my hand?”
Evie choked, “Yes. I’ve thought about it all week and I…yes, I’ll do it.”
“Thank you.”
Lydia worked in silence as she opened the bottle of pills (struggling momentarily with the childproof cap) and took them, three at a time with a small sip of water. Evie watched her friend’s shaking hand tip the bottle onto her crinkled palm, and pop them into her mouth, every now and then dropping a few, but ignoring it. What did it matter? By the time Lydia had drained the glass she had taken forty-two pills. Her heavily lidded eyes began to mist over and her shoulders slumped into the cushions behind her.
Evie’s eyes stung and she could feel her throat constricting as she attempted to hold back tears. She watched as Lydia sank further into the cushions, her eyes closing and her mouth hanging open, raspy breaths escaping her mouth. Evie took her friend’s hand in hers and squeezed it reassuringly. Lydia let out a ragged breath, breathing becoming increasingly difficult.
Evie shook her head furiously. “I’m calling 911, Lydia,” She stood from the couch and ran toward the table by the glass cabinet, where the phone rested. I can’t let you do this, I—“
“Evie.” A barely audible whisper escaped Lydia’s drooping lips.
Lydia spun around to see Evie reaching toward her with one hand, obviously straining with the effort. She ran toward her dieing friend and clasped her hands in her own. “Yes, Lydia? What is it? Are you going to be—“
“Evie,” she silenced her with a whisper as she closed her eyes. “Do…some…thing…for me…” she wheezed.
“Anything, love, anything!” she whispered hurriedly, replacing Lydia’s head on the pillow as it fell every now and then.
“My music box….the…the gold one…in the cabinet…and my dollie…Sezja….the one…the one…with the green shawl…”
Evie ran quickly to the cabinet, breaking it open. Her eyes grazed hurriedly over the various dolls and trinkets when they rested on a wooden doll with a faded painted face, wearing a green shawl. She reached for it as though it were made of glass, as well as a little porcelain music box with the initials, CMP inscribed on the face.
“Here, sweetie, here!” She placed the doll in the crook of her shaking arm. Evie felt the tears well up in her eyes as she struggled with the key. When it tightened, she opened the lid to let the music play, and placed it on Lydia’s lap. It chimed a sweet tune that pained her heart to hear.
Evie sat and pulled Lydia’s cold and sweating form into her arms.
“Sing it to me Evie…sing it to me like my…like my nana…”
Evie choked as she tried to remember the words, “Spi, mladenets moi prekrasnij…” she began to sing, her voice rising an octave at the end of each line as she cried, going out of tune with the little box’s accompaniment. “baushki-bau, Tiho smotrit mesyats yasnij, baushki-bau,”
Lydia closed her mouse’s eyes and smiled her kitten’s smile and began to move her lips to the words she knew so well. Evie smiled and nearly sobbed the remainder of the song. “Spi, malutka, bud' spokoen, baushki-bau, Sam uznaesh', budet vremya, baushki-bau…” she paused when she felt the weight of Lydia’s body sink in her arms. She shook her cold arms and received no response.
Hysterical sobs filled the room, echoing off of the antique furniture and peeling cream walls. The dolls stared down at the scene, unmoving, from their place in the corner.
Sleep my baby, my beautiful baby.
The beautiful moon is looking down on you.
Sleep little one, don't worry about anything.
When the time comes you will know.
~fin~
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