My mother gave birth to me inside Ljerumlup. This might seem like a minuscule detail, hardly worthy of a mention, but to us, to my family and to the Bikjaru, this is a custom which predates our nation. Moreover, it's a custom which sets precedents for life, and thus, it's celebrated as such.
There aren't a lot of photos from that time. The little I've pieced together is from years of retellings from aunts and uncles that have had too many glasses of setvi during the holidays. They say it was a festive night as much as a somber night. A night of long waiting and hushed conversations over glasses of strong liquor. It was a night which favoured the men over the women.
As Bikjaru custom has it, the genders were separated. The men all gathered in the downstairs living room. A hum of background clatter cut through the palpable anticipation in the air. Glasses clinked together and jokes were tossed around. The odour of incense intermingled with the thick cigar smoke, rolling up against the ceiling. Gales of laughter seeped through the walls into the dead-quiet corridors. Their echoes rippled until (somewhere between the two floors) they were greeted by those from my mother's screams.
My nineteen year old mother gave birth in a rarely used room in the west wing. Her groans, and later on screams, carried downstairs where they slowly frayed my father's nerves.
One such time when her grunts had been loud enough to dent the festive mood downstairs, my father flew up from his seat. He didn't care for the barrage of good-humoured insults the men threw his way. He stood and paced the length of the room. No one dared persuade him otherwise. My father's friends and family had all been to at least ten kiil in the pastâenough to understand his frustration and fear. He wasn't allowed so much as a glance at his wife, the soon-to-be mother of his child. His reaction had been like that of all Bikjaru men before him, and this was the source of their amusement. Stefan Konstantin, who was usually so composed, so analytical, was acting out of character.
Some say when my father saw me for the first time, he fell to his knees in relief. Some retellings took it as far as to say that he cried and prayed over me, but I have a hard time believing that. My aunt said that his hands had trembled when he'd held me. She'd described him as a child touching the first snow of the year. She'd been there, in the room that night, together with my mother and a midwife. She witnessed my father as he looked down at my cocooned form and said, - He's a carbon copy of my great-grandfather. I would be blind, if not outright stupid, not to name him Ru. Ru Konstantin.
My mother hadn't objected, nor had my aunt. And why would they? It wasn't their place. It was the father who named the brevidije mal.
Yuri Karamov had little reason to suspect that the rug was anything other than a piece of decoration. He knew nothing of its story, or of the Bikjaru. I don't even think he realised the motifs that were staring back at him. He would eventually tear his eyes away, free himself from its responsibility, whereas I was doomed to look at it every day. The rug was woven into the foundation of my being. I carried the name of my ancestor on my tongue, like a bud waiting to blossom in my mouth.
Something about the sight of him staring so intensely at it made me nervous. The muscles in my hands spasmed. A restless burst of energy fuelled me into action.
- Do you want to see my room or not? I called out to him.
Yuri looked up at me, his eyes reflected an awe that made me queasy.
- Hurry up. Irritation licked my words as they flew out my mouth.
Casting one last glance at the rug, he obediently followed my orders.
My room was three times the size of Yuri's, with ceiling-high windows covering almost an entire side of the room. There were thick, dark, velvet draperies set in place to minimise the cold and light exposure. Together with the heavy mahogany door and the plush carpet, they created the perfect sound isolation.
If the rest of the house was a show of nationalistic pride, refined with culture and history, then my room was a post-soviet dream of globalism. It was as Yuri would later say: something out of a commercial; decked out in the latest decor from overseas. Not Mickey Mouse, not the sort of interior a child like myself would have enjoyed. My room was, and would always be an adult's post-soviet realisation.
The walls were a dark, cherry wood colour, the carpet a deep crimson with swirls and patterns of brown, yellow and white. The eastern wall had a built-in shelf that was lined with books, and compartments of nifty cupboards where most of the clutter in the room disappeared into by daytime.
There were chairs of different sizes and models, and a desk for my school work. Pushed against the western wall was my queen-sized, four-poster bed, complete with canopy and draperies. The mattress was plush and cushioning; on top of which lay a thick bedspread, a duvet, and at least a half a dozen pillows.
Before we went inside, I told Yuri that we should take off our shoes.
- Here? Outside your room? He asked.
I nodded and showed him by example. We stripped off our shoes, down to our socks. Yuri stepped inside first. I was too preoccupied with closing the door behind us to notice Adriana in the chaise lounge. The book she was reading fell to the floor. The thud, cushioned by the carpet, made me swivel around.
- Ru, Adriana greeted. Her straight, ash-blonde hair swayed from the force of her surprise. Her eyes were wide open in alarm. She looked suspiciously like she'd been caught red-handed.
- I...I, she started. Her eyes flicked to Yuri. She straightened her skirt. - I was just waiting for you. What took you so long?
The answer was apparent before her. Yuri Karamov didn't bother bowing. The look in his eyes said that he recognised her.
I didn't like that look. I didn't like it one bit.
His eyes darted back and forth between us. It lingered longer and longer on Adriana. He took her in through bite-sized chunks: her legs, her skirts, the dress, her long straight hair, her flushed cheeks.
My teeth clenched. The anxious jitter from the hallway rushed back into my system, tenfold stronger.
- Get out!
I didn't recognise my voice.
Adriana opened her mouth but Yuri beat her to it.
- She can stay, he said.
- No, she can't.
His eyes burned into mine. I broke eye-contact.
- I have a guest, Adriana, get out.
Adriana's mouth twisted. She picked up her fallen book and walked over to us. We both waited for the moment she passed us. My heart was in my stomach. I already regretted shouting at her. Why had I done that?
She stopped a few polite centimeters away from Yuri.
- I'm Adriana Konstantin Benofs, she said with an outstretched hand. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. She was polite, to the point where she looked like the poster-child for a brainwashing program that turned children into automatons.
Yuri shook her hand. I searched his face. I wasn't sure what I was looking forâaffection? A sign that he would come to like her more than me? Everybody liked Adriana. She was pretty. She was popular. Everyone at school wanted to emulate her. Everyone that had met her liked her. She was constantly complimented on her impeccable manners and affability. I grew exasperated that she never had to put work into winning someone's favour. Everything she pursued she eventually got. It came second nature to her.
- Yuri Karamov.
- I know. Her smile grew wicked as it panned over to me, - Ru's been obsessâ
- Adriana!
I yanked her by the arm, and before either of us could process what was about to transpire, I was pushing her towards the door. She staggered but righted herself. I didn't have time to catch the expression on her face. I opened the door, grabbed her by the forearm, and dragged her over the threshold.
I slammed the door in her shocked face.
We heard her muffled shouts, but they were faint like the ocean through a conch shell.
My heart was pulsating in my ears. The blood rushed to my face and coloured my vision a vibrant red. If life imitated art, then I imagine that in that second, steam would be shooting out from my ears like a locomotive.
My anger gave way to a cold shower of embarrassment.
I didn't dare turn around and face Yuri. My humiliation had no end.
It had no shape. It was a black hole in the corner of my mind that wouldn't stop scraping against my thoughts, tainting them with self-pity.
Had he heard? Did he know?
He must know now.
- You really are just like Anja, Yuri whispered from behind me, breaking the awkward silence.
I rested my forehead against the cold surface of the door. The chill soothing my burning face.
He came to lay a hand on my head. I didn't want to react. Didn't think I could. It was like I was experiencing my body from outside of myself.
Yuri ruffled the hair at the back of my head. He stood close enough that I felt the warmth radiating from his body. His hand rested there. I don't know for how long we stood like that, close together, neither of us breaking the comfortable silence. If time was a measurement of change, then time had ceased to exist altogether.