Zoya

 

Zoya

     (Eternal Questions)

Our neighbor Zoya has passed away. She lived in a shabby old wooden house beyond the fence we shared. At ninety-four, she’d lived a long and respectable life — hardly the kind of loss people mourn too deeply.

But her son, Kirill, took it hard. Early that morning, he knocked on my gate and, in keeping with Russian tradition, handed me a bottle of vodka to honor his mother’s memory. Through his tears, he rasped, “Here… drink to my mom, remember her.”

Life won’t be easy for Kirill now. In fact, it’ll be tough, because he has no job. About eight years ago, he was laid off from his poorly paid but steady job as a warehouse guard. Since then, despite half-hearted attempts to find something, Kirill hasn’t managed to land even a crappy job or scrape together a stable income. And what can he offer an employer? He has no real skills, just a high school diploma he barely earned ages ago.

He lived with his mother. Zoya had worked nearly seventy years as a machinist at a machine building plant and retired with a halfway decent pension — enough for the two of them to live on. They also had a small backyard business going. Kirill had rigged up a greenhouse — just some plastic sheeting stretched over wooden poles — where he grew cucumbers and tomatoes. Zoya sold the extras at the market. His father had left them some chicken coops in a shed where Kirill kept a few laying hens. Occasionally, he’d let them wander around the yard. The rooster’s crowing in the morning was proof that Zoya and Kirill’s poultry business was thriving. They lived simply — maybe even happily.

One of their silly chickens would occasionally find a hole in our shared fence and wander into my yard. When that happened, Zoya would ring the bell on my gate, announce the border breach, and we’d team up to catch the illegal immigrant.

There was one occasion when our dog Rada — who knows what got into her —tore up some pumpkin vines that had wrapped themselves around the fence poles. Zoya grew amazing pumpkins, some weighing over thirty pounds. She got really upset over losing some of those future giants and didn’t hold back when she told me about it.

“Sergei, why don’t you keep an eye on your dog? Are you trying to ruin me?”

I felt terrible. I went to the store, bought the biggest box of chocolates I could find, and gave it to her. “Auntie Zoya,” I said, “please forgive me. It’s my fault — I wasn’t watching the dog. I hope these chocolates will make you feel better.”

Zoya absolutely refused the chocolates. “Oh, it’s no big deal,” she said. “Don’t you dare punish the dog. Give the chocolates to your wife instead.”

One day, I was walking to the market, and who do I see coming toward me with an empty bag but Zoya.

“Hi, Sergei! Happy birthday!”

Well, what do you know? I’d almost forgotten my own birthday, and here was my neighbor congratulating me as if she’d been living just for this moment, counting down the days.

Around noon, Kirill came over with a bag. Inside were about a dozen eggs and a few big, ripe tomatoes.

“These are from Mom,” he said. “Here’s hoping you have many more good years, neighbor!”

“Thank you. Would you like to come in for a drink?”

“Thanks, but maybe another time.”

How’s Kirill going to live — or rather, survive — without Zoya now? She was like his fortress. But everyone has their own worries and problems.

One day, Kirill stopped me in the street to vent about a new issue. Apparently, some neighbors had moved in next door to him — folks from one of the sunnier republics. Kirill wasn’t thrilled about it and had taken to calling them by a rather offensive term. What kind of neighbors were they? In just a few weeks, they’d thrown up a two-story brick mansion on their little plot of land. Everything was done quickly and properly — except there was one big problem. The sewage from their household — urine and feces — was being dumped right past Kirill’s greenhouse into a nearby pond, the same pond he used to water his plants. The pond was big and deep, almost like a miniature Azov Sea. It was a large body of water, sure, but Kirill wasn’t keen on using his neighbors’ crap as fertilizer for his tomatoes — or seasoning for his meals. Zoya wasn’t happy about it either. She kept urging Kirill to do something.

Kirill approached the neighbors and even threatened to take them to court. They, in turn, asked him if anything hard and heavy had ever fallen on his head — or if his house had ever mysteriously caught on fire. Kirill got the message. He dropped the issue and told Zoya not to stir the pot either.

“Tyu-ka-tyu-ka-tyu-ka!” she’d call her chickens on the other side of the fence. It reminded me of my childhood in the village, where my grandmother used the same call at feeding time. Sounds like that are especially pleasant when you live in a city.

Somehow, I found out when Kirill’s birthday was. One year, at noon on that day, I knocked on his gate (he didn’t have a bell). I had a gift under my arm — a box with a wall clock in it. Its face was decorated with pictures of vegetables and fruits — perfect for a kitchen.

I knocked for a long time before the gate finally creaked open. It wasn’t Kirill who greeted me but Zoya.

“Tell Kirill I said happy birthday,” I said, handing her the box.

“Oh, thanks, Sergei. Thanks,” she replied. “But he’s already… taking a nap.”

“Well, that’s understandable. It’s a special day. Please give it to him.”

“I will,” she said. Her eyes, bright and a little glassy, told me she’d been celebrating too.

 I saw her almost every day,. her head wrapped in a colorful scarf, always moving about on the other side of the fence. She was part of the landscape, and it seemed as though she would always be there. But her gait became more unsteady and hesitant with time.

And then… well, the thing that was natural, logical and expected happened. You could even say it had to happen, that it was right it happened. After all, as the saying goes, we’ll all end up there someday.

I’m young enough to be Zoya’s son, yet more than half of my classmates have already crossed over to the other side. With her passing, I found myself pondering once again — just as I did when I was a teenager —why am I here? What have I lived for? What’s the meaning of my life and life in general? Is it just to leave offspring behind? Maybe. But is that all? Or is a person supposed to do something more with their life? And if so, what exactly?

Or maybe it’s better not to think about it at all. Just live your life and don’t clutter up your mind with questions that have no answers.

Translated by James McVay