Red Moscow

Act II

An A-line skirt in black chiffon with painted floral motif in burgundy and shades of green, she stitches the top on: soft black tulle over a satin lining to cover her chest and arms. Mama tries on a dress she's making to wear to a dinner party. She turns halfway, studies herself in the dresser mirror with her head tilted back. The dark, wavy bob frames her perfect face. Bright red lipstick, the only makeup she wears.  To the eight-year-old me, Mama is beautiful. 

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“Can’t you do this better?” I hear Papa yell from the bathroom. For whatever reason, he's not happy with the ironing job.

In her gorgeous black dress and patent leather heels, Mama must redo Papa's shirt.

“Why do you always do this?” Mama gripes, rushing from the bedroom to the bathroom, to the kitchen, then to the bedroom again. “Can’t we ever go anywhere without you making me cry?” Tears run down her cheeks. She cries and presses.

I sit by her and don’t know what to say or do other than keep her company. She presses the hot iron down to the collar of Papa’s starched white shirt, sniffles, and dries her tears. 

Papa asks me to put his tie in a knot. He's shown me how to do that. I do it well. Although he doesn't smile or compliment my good work, he has a look of satisfaction on his face. I'm proud of myself. I thought he was angry, but he seems happy, much calmer than Mama. Why is Mama crying? I don’t understand.

I watch them walk to the car from the living room window, Mama’s skirt floating around her knees with every step she takes. She leaves behind a whiff of Krasnaya Moskva, a sweet-smelling perfume in a red box, which she uses for special occasions. Papa - sleek and slender, at least a foot taller than Mama.

The aroma of freshly wrapped grape leaves wafts from the kitchen, mingling with Ne՛ne's cigarette smoke that hangs suspended in the air even as she dozes off in her armchair.

As soon as my parents disappear behind the garage and I hear the motor of Papa’s 1967 Volga 21 start, I run to the kitchen. I fill my plate with sarma and settle down in front of the TV. Ne՛ne՛only occasionally lifts her head, takes a puff of the cigarette smoking on the ashtray, dozes off again.

Sometime later, I am awakened by the poke of Ne՛ne՛s cane on my knee.

"Get up, go to bed. They'll be back soon," she says.

I must've fallen asleep just before the start of The Three Musketeers, since the title is the only thing I remember. If they find me in bed upon return, my parents won’t know I’d been up late.

In the morning, I help Mama clean up in the kitchen. She dries the glasses and hands them to me to place on the shelf in the cabinet.  She shares with me that the wife of the couple they dined with complimented her on her looks. She uses the Russian word simpatichnaya for attractive. This pleases Mama, because Russian-speaking folk are perceived to be more cultured, making the compliment even more valuable for her. Mama hums softly as she dries the glasses, a small smile playing on her lips. I feel a wave of relief, knowing the evening went well for her. I sense Mama’s contentment from the previous evening and feel relieved that things turned out well for her after all.  

A bottle of perfume with an impressive name, such as Red Moscow, and a few Russian words in everyday speech could elevate one's aspirations to a level otherwise unattainable.

My mother was a master of deception. Regardless of what went on at home, she always put on a cheerful front. Her life had to appear "ideal" and enviable.