The Encounter
“Miss! Miss, wait! Oh, do stop!”—Olga turned and saw a young man in a cap running after her. The cap seemed strangely familiar, but where had she seen it before?—”Whew! Finally! Do you run track? I nearly didn’t catch you! Innokenty. Just Kesha for short. Officially, it’s Innokenty Lvovich Solodkin. Distinguished, respectable, quite the intellectual. I—whoo, just a second—” The lad bent over, fists braced on his knees, panting like a winded hound. His cap slid off and hit the pavement. Olga reflexively stooped to pick it up, only to bump heads with the distinguished and respectable Innokenty.
“Ow! Really now!” she huffed, rubbing her bruised forehead, turning to leave—but Kesha caught her wrist.
“Hold on! Sorry, that was an accident. Blimey, what a day! You’re Mikhailov’s sister, aren’t you? Nikolai’s?” he whispered, shoving the cap back on. “I saw you at his place once, only you were about this tall—” He pinched his fingers to show a tiny Olga.
“Have you been out in the sun too long?” Olga eyed him down her nose. “When I was that small, you weren’t even born! What do you want? You’re holding me up!”
“So you’re not Svetlana? Not Svetlana Mikhailova?” The lad deflated, fingers still measuring imaginary childhood Olgas.
“No. I’m Olga Gavrilova. Goodbye!” She strode off toward the Tube, but Kesha dogged her steps—persistent chap, this intellectual.
“Now we’re acquainted! You’re Olya, I’m Kesha—brilliant, eh? Why so glum? And that bag looks fit to burst. Here, let me—” He reached for the woven sack, but Lyolya sidestepped as if he meant to sting or rob her.
“Go your own way! Ah—!” She smirked. “Is this how you meet girls, then? Curious method! But—”
“See, now you’re curious! Hand over the load, I won’t bolt. We’ve plenty of beetroot and onions at home—” He nodded at the vegetables poking from the bag. “I know all sorts of things! Why planes don’t fall, how lightning forms, what perpetuum mobile is, how to remove cherry jam stains at home, how—”
He might’ve prattled on, but Olga burst out laughing, thrust the bag at him, and waved him ahead.
“Read a children’s encyclopedia, did you?” she asked, finally catching her breath.
“Well, that too. I live with my gran, see. Glafira Petrovna, my father’s mum—Lev’s mother—a stickler for education! She ‘invested’ in me.” Kesha mimed knowledge being poured into his head—poorly.
“What’s with the flapping? Signaling? Am I about to be robbed?” Olga eyed him.
“Blast it, no! Just showing how Gran stuffed me full of books, documentaries, lectures, radio plays. She’s in charge of public enlightenment, so naturally, enlightening me was priority one. I could tell you how to hatch a chick at home, propagate a ficus, fix a sink trap—”
“Boring. Fancy an ice cream?” Olga was warming to this cap-wearing, sink-fixing intellectual.
“No, ta. Lactose and I don’t agree. Oxygen enriches the brain.” He waved it off. “But I’ll buy you one.—Miss!” he called to the vendor. “A vanilla cone, please.”
“How’d you guess?” Olga caught his money-hand, paid herself.
“What’s this? My treat!” Kesha ruffled like an indignant sparrow.
“Raised by my gran too. Strict rules, you know! ‘Do for yourself, Olya! Independence is what women fought for!’—that sort of thing. Quotes and all. Point taken. I’m already in your debt with the bag. And—”
“And women must do everything alone, got it.” Kesha nodded, nose twitching. “But you and your gran have it all backwards!” He trotted to keep up.
“Come again?” Olga coughed.
“Just so! Who knows what your gran quoted, but mine said a man without work withers like an ant without a stick. No offense, but Gran and I have you beat. And you women fought independence for nothing. Which way now?”
“That way!” She jabbed right, scowling. “My gran’s respected, mind you! Can’t be wrong. She built the Underground. Medals and all.”
“Underground’s grand,” Kesha conceded, switching tack—grandmother debates led nowhere good. “D’you know why the wind blows? Seems simple, but the answer’ll surprise you!”
“Oh, you! Think you’re clever?” Olga snorted. “Air masses of differing temperatures, moving—”
“No, Olya, you’re off entirely! Let me explain! As my gran told three-year-old me, wind happens because trees sway. Irrefutable fact. You’ll never prove what comes first. Gran couldn’t either. Missed a lecture on it at the community hall—I had tonsillitis. Onward! Snow! Under a microscope, snowflakes are—Olya! Where’d you go?!” Kesha found himself alone. Olga had veered off.—”Olya, wait! Your beetroot! Your onions! I’m meant to walk you home! Blast it!”
He doubled back, cap bouncing, coins jingling in his pocket.
“Where’s that walking encyclopedia?!” Olga called, waving.
“I’m not an encyclopedia! I’m a well of knowledge!” Kesha huffed. “Gran introduces me to her gardening club as ‘my grandson Innokenty, a well of knowledge.’ Then the old dears pepper me with questions! How to save tomato seedlings from frost, grow dahlias better than the neighbor, store gladioli in winter—and half don’t even have gardens! They just collect tips to boast! It’s ghastly.”
“Then don’t answer! Stay mum. This way.” Olga steered him through alleys.
“I can’t! That’s the horror!” Kesha jostled the bag. Wind stole his cap; Olga dusted it off, plopped it back on his head.
“Ta! See, I can’t let Gran down. Her reputation’s at stake. If she says her grandson knows gardening, then by Jove, he must. Aphids, codling moths, mildew, root rot, ash, urea, horse—ahem—manure… I recited it all like prayers.”
Olga grinned. Letting this Glafira-forged intellectual haul her groceries was paying off.
“Did you escape?” She stopped to shake pebbles from her sandals.
“Well… heard of relativity?—Oi, mind the crosswalk!” They dashed across as cars glared.—”Every gran’s friend has grandkids. And great-grandkids! And pets! Hamsters, guinea pigs, parrots, spiders, cats, dogs, grasshoppers, worms, snails, snakes. None of them read a book! Why bother when Glafira’s got a well of knowledge at home? So I became a vet on demand.”
“Lucky you!” Olga nodded.
“Why?”
“Interesting childhood. I was kept inside, learning Pushkin, rewriting Tolstoy. Gran loathes crowds, so we rarely saw theaters or museums. Where’d you holiday? And your parents—or is that rude?”
“Not at all! They’re geologists. Always off surveying. When home, they’d throw parties. Not resentful, but as Gran says, they ‘got me like a puppy’—on a whim. Glafira planned ahead: cotton bonnet, booties… You get the picture.”
“I see… We just moved here. Still trek to the old market out of habit. Silly, but—”
“Not silly. Feet remember. We lived near Shabolovka—still visit sometimes.” Kesha nodded.
“Parents with you?”
“Oh yes. Making vinaigrette tonight.” Olga smiled. “What about summers? Camp? ‘Artek’?”
“Gran shipped me to Grandpa’s dacha.”
“Lives there year-round?”
“Aye. He and Gran rowed ages ago—forgot why. Every summer, Gran took a spa trip, and I’d stay with Grandpa Sasha. He ‘toughened me up’—pull-ups, chopping wood, the Oka River’s currents… I’d forget table manners, polish, eloquence. Gran would ‘refine’ me after. She doesn’t know he let me try shag tobacco. Revolting stuff.”
Olga listened, eyeing the chatty lad.
“I went to camp. Same one every year. Parents insisted. At first I moped—Gran seldom visited, hates long trips. Later, friends made it bearable. Very ‘cultured’ holidays. Can’t even ride a bike—no space to learn.”
Sighing,As they parted ways that evening, their grandmothers—now watching from opposite balconies—shared a knowing glance, realizing their meddling had finally brought two kindred souls together.
