WINTER
It was quiet enough for Farem to hear the cigarette crackle as he smoked. The window was wide open and snow was falling. Farem was watching flake by flake—so he claimed—the gray-green of his lawn become still white. He had been waiting weeks for it to begin snowing again.
Moira was in the kitchen. Partially deaf, she had not heard Farem struggle with the heavy window frame. Finally feeling the cold, she took careful, quiet steps to their small front room. Farem’s leather reading chair was turned toward the outside, and the rug that lay underneath twisted so that wrinkles radiated out in spiral arms. Moira saw the back of Farem’s head—gray hair surrounding a shiny red bald spot—and his slender right hand lay relaxed on the chair’s armrest. He blew cigarette smoke that disappeared into the white day.
The winter had been mild, two weeks passing without freezing temperatures or snow. The last snowfall had been on Valentine’s Day. That time, with Moira out for a doctor’s appointment, Farem had fallen asleep in front of the open window and was still not completely recovered from the lung infection. Moira wanted to tell him he was killing himself. As much as she wanted to beg him to keep the cold out, she also wanted to scream, “You have a gun. Why don’t you use it? Why don’t you go throw yourself in front of the ‘El’?” But she had not heard Farem struggle with the heavy frame. If she said anything, he’d accuse her of being deaf. She stepped back to the kitchen and burned a strawberry incense stick. Farem hated the smell. Perhaps he’d get up to extinguish it.
But smooth cold air and Turkish tobacco overwhelmed any smell from the kitchen. Farem ignored the sounds of Moira’s kitchen tinkering. Tiny evergreens along the wall of the building were collecting big and light snowflakes among their needles. Soon, Farem thought, they would become baby domes, little igloos. His sidewalk was now whitening along the edge—in time, it would disappear and become part of a wide white space. The cars would disappear, the street’s asphalt, the fire hydrant, the garbage in the gutter. For a short time, the place where he lived would be quiet and beautiful.
When the incense had burned away, Moira admitted it: Farem was never as calm as when he watched it snow. Calm minutes were so rare with him; maybe she should just calm herself and not worry about his health. The snowfall could not last very long, and she was sure tobacco, which he smoked daily, hurt him more than the cold. He’d fall asleep soon, and she’d close the window, cover him in a wool blanket and let him rest. But what a fool he was for smoking! And how stubborn could a man be? He was certainly doing all of it on purpose. Moira made coffee, drank it with heavy cream and ate rum chocolates. She set her cup down heavily against the saucer, dropped a spoon twice, and moved her chair around so that Farem would force himself to ignore her.
He was good at ignoring her. The snow was coming down in larger flakes now, so dense in the air that he couldn’t see across the street anymore. The flakes came straight down, not even a slight breeze to disturb them. Farem looked for another cigarette—where had he placed the pack? Not on the end table, no, the smokes were under his left thigh. He was about to strike a match when a little boy ran across the lawn and left a trail of dark, smeared footprints. Farem leaned forward to look and crushed the paper match between his fingers. It would take another thirty minutes of snowfall to cover the lawn.
The doorbell rang. Moira pretended not to hear the warm series of chimes. She didn’t want to answer any doors.
Farem yelled to her, “You hear it?”
“What? Hear what?”
“The doorbell! Can’t you hear it?”
“Why are you telling me about it if you hear it so well?” Moira put on three gas burners to heat the kitchen. She crackled the plastic wrapping of the rum chocolates.
“You want me to get it?” Farem mumbled, poorly faking amazement. The doorbell rang a second time. “Well, Moira dear, then tell me to get it.”
A short stairwell, off the room where Farem sat, lead to their front door. Chandler, his five-year-old grandson, was rubbing a red mitten into the frost of the front door’s glass. He was pushing his nose up and peeking inside when Farem let him in.
“Grandpa, I can do it. Let me show you! I can do it!” Chandler scampered up the stairs to his grandparents’ apartment and almost tripped. He pulled away his scarf and tore at the buttons of his coat without removing his mittens. The boy had not taken his boots off, and now clumps of dirty snow were melting on the floor. He dropped his coat and left it. “Hi, Grandma!” he said. “Look, I can do it! Let me show you.”
Farem picked up the tiny coat. The red mittens dangled from the sleeves, held together by yarn. The boy struggled with the soaked and dirty shoelaces of his boots.
Moira asked, “Chandler, don’t you know to wipe your feet?” “Sorry. Oh. But wait wait. I have to show you.”
“What is it? What’s all the fuss?” asked Farem.
“I can tie my shoes all by myself!” Chandler finally untied a boot. Moira wiped the dirty puddle with a rag she always seemed to have nearby.
His boots undone, Chandler stood up straight, cheeks still flushed from the cold. “You ready?” he asked. “Are you ready?” “Show us.” Farem said.
“Go ahead,” said Moira.
“Okay.” He asked Farem, “But will you give me a dollar?”
“We’ll see. We’ll see,” Farem said. “You go ahead and tie those boots.”
“Okay.” Chandler got working. He knelt down to tie his right boot, trying hard to remember everything. First you make a knot and then you make one loop. His tiny fingers took both ends of the thick red laces. Chandler crossed them to try the first knot, but one end escaped his grip. He tried again, this time pinching very tightly, but somehow his wrists crossed. “Okay, just wait. Just wait.” He started over, making the knot on the toe of his boot and pulling it tight. Now the hard part, the loops.
“Go on. You can do it,” Moira said.
Chandler’s loop fell apart and the original knot loosened. He had to tighten it. Start over.
“Let me do it for you,” said Farem. “No no. I got it. I can really do it!”
Farem and Moira saw Chandler’s lower lip grow fatter with frustration. But he kept trying and didn’t notice Farem pull a few dollars from his pocket. When the knot fell apart one more time, Chandler took a deep breath and looked up, clenching tiny fists. Farem turned his reading chair around to face the center of the room and sat to watch the little boy give it one last attempt. When Chandler banged his fist against a thigh, Farem finally said, “Why don’t we try at it a little bit later,” and gave Chandler a chance to say something. “Put the boots away, and we’ll try a little bit later.”
“But I can do it!”
“Of course,” said Moira.
“Of course you can,” said Farem. “Of course, we know that. But maybe if we try a little later, it will be easier.”
“But I did it just before I came over. Mom didn’t help me. You can call her.”
“Of course,” said Moira.
“We don’t have to call. We believe you,” said Farem. “Now take a look here. Grandpa’s got something for you.”
Chandler ignored the dollars. He kicked his boots into the corner and ran to the bathroom, his socks slipping around on the waxed hard- wood. Moira only heard the door shut, but Farem could hear Chandler running water, probably to keep his grandparents from hearing him cry. In time, Moira went to knock quietly. She knocked again, this time with a bit more force, but Chandler didn’t stir. She thought she heard some water running, but it was probably just buzzing in her ears.
Gint Aras (Karolis Gintaras Žukauskas) is the author of The Fugue (Tortoise, 2016), finalist for the 2016 Chicago Writers Association’s Book of the Year Award. His prose and translations have appeared in Quarterly West, The St Petersburg Review, Curbside Splendor, STIR Journal and many other publications. He lives in Oak Park with his family. Read his blog and see his photography at www.kgint-aras.com.
