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Springtime brought with it a balagan fair. They arrived by train on Wednesday morning and set up at the edge of town where the station turned into steppe, just north of Murky's old railcar.
Normally, Artemy would just have given the kids some coins and let them go by themselves, but –
You'd be forgiven for dismissing it as children's entertainment, but once you've actually sat down and seen all it has to offer, such thoughts are sure to dissipate. Just last weekend, I saw the newest film by Yegveni Bauer – a tragedy about a mute woman who, after losing her love, joins a ballet and – I shall not spoil the ending for you, but it makes all the more clear the importance of my ultimate mission. To see a tragedy as this portrayed with such elegance and poise displays the surety that this is an artform that is here to stay.
Artemy walked across the fair twice before finally coming to the conclusion that there was no cinema, only a theatre troupe and a magic lantern show. It's not like he hadn't gone to the cinema while studying in the Capital, but he had done exactly what Dankovsky was warning against – dismissed it as a somewhat amusing, but overall frivolous activity.
Disappointment soured his mood. Artemy hadn't looked forward to the chance of seeing a moving picture show as much as writing about it. For once, Dankovsky could have gotten a letter about something other than his job as a glorified midwife for a backwards little town. It's not that Dankovsky didn't write about his job – Artemy knew all about the new path the Academy had granted him – but he had so much else to write about, too. With the Academy's funding he could once again afford to enjoy everything the Capital had to offer. What did Artemy have? A creaky old theatre and a bi-annual circus train.
Artemy held no illusions about how unappealing his life must be to the esteemed Bachelor, all mud, pus and blood, all bullshit – literally! It didn't stop him from having thoughts sometimes, silly fantasies that would have surely been off-putting to the Bachelor – dangerous thoughts of setting a table for four instead of three.
Why Dankovsky kept up with the correspondence at all, Artemy did not know.
"There's a photography booth," he heard Sticky's voice from behind him. Startled, he turned to face the boy who was stuffing his face with little wrapped candies, holding Murky's little hand in his. Sticky shrugged in the way he did when he didn't really want a grown up to see he actually wanted something. "Could be fun."
Artemy glanced in the direction Sticky was nodding to and realised he had missed the stall due to the crowd around it. The Kains owned a camera but as far as he knew, that was the only one in the Town. With the chance for anyone to get their photograph taken, the size of the crowd made sense.
"Sure," Artemy nodded impulsively, desperate for anything to turn his mood. "A photograph, huh, that'd be nice to have, right, Murky?"
Murky stared at the crowd of people for a beat. "I suppose," she muttered, rocking back on her heels. It had taken all autumn to get her used to wearing shoes – Artemy was dreading the day she realised there was no snow anymore and she could start hiding the damned things again.
Speaking of which, he'd have to make sure the children looked presentable. He spotted a nearby water barrel and washed Murky's hands there – "Cold!" she shrieked. "Cold, cold, cold!" – and straightened the collar on Sticky's shirt. If only he had a comb, he thought, wincing at the mess of hair on top of both their heads. As it was, he had to hope that running his fingers through their hair and attempting to flatten it somewhat was enough. At least they'd all bathed last night.
Mrs. Alipova, whose son's appendectomy Artemy had performed the week before last, tried to give her place in the queue to Artemy but he refused as kindly as he could manage. He immediately regretted his choice when Murky started rocking back on her heels again in her boredom at the wait, somehow getting through the layer of sawdust on the ground and into the mud below.
"Who's next, who's next, oh, a gentleman with such lovely children, please take a seat," the photographer, a wiry man with a rumpled suit and excitable disposition, fussed.
"I'd rather stand," Artemy protested, feeling awkward at having so many eyes on him.
"I'm afraid the camera is set to the eye level of a sitting man, and with your considerable height, sir – "
Artemy took the seat on the ornate chair that had been set in front of the pale blue sheet that served as a backdrop. Murky climbed into his lap, getting the mud from her shoes all over Artemy's shins.
"That's right, and the boy can stand next to you, a little bit closer, please if you will – "
"Remember to stay put," Sticky told Murky.
"That's exactly right!" the photographer agreed, a nervous grin splitting his face. "The photograph will only take a moment, but you must stay as still as you can while it is being taken."
The procedure was strange. It wasn't the first time Artemy had had a photograph taken of him, but never with such an audience and certainly not with a little girl fighting to stay put in his lap. Sticky hovered somewhere to his left, his head higher than Artemy's with the growth spurt he had hit over the winter.
"There we go," the man grinned. "Such a lovely family."
Artemy tried his best not to let his feelings show as Murky hopped off his lap and he got up. Family. He knew that was what they were now, but hearing it from a stranger's mouth – He swallowed around the sudden thickness in his throat.
"Is it possible to get two copies?" he asked on a whim.
It took him a week of opening and closing the envelope, constantly removing and attaching the photo, before he finally mailed it.
-
Spring is here, the last bits of snow around the banks have finally melted. Sticky saw the first lapwings flying home the day before last. A balagan came through town. The kids saw a magic lantern show, but unfortunately there was no cinema.
The next few words had been scribbled out, then: I wouldn't mind seeing a moving pictures show with your insight in mind.
Once again, Daniil cursed the brevity of his companion's wit. Not a single word about the photograph that had been enclosed in the envelope! Only Burakh could send something as precious and intimate with no preamble.
He turned the photo over in his hands. Burakh had his usual furiously severe stare aimed right at the camera. Sticky looked almost a head taller, but serious as ever. Both children were leaned towards Burakh slightly. His arm was gentle around Murky's middle. Despite everything, they looked like a family.
Burakh's life with its simple domesticity was so far removed from anything Daniil had ever known. Daniil was sure his loneliness shone through all the letters he wrote to Burakh. Burakh was out there raising a family and all Daniil had to offer were tiresome stories of work or films he'd seen. Why Burakh kept up with the correspondence at all, he did not know.
Sometimes he got these silly fancies, thoughts of setting the table for four instead of one.